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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4755190 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52060 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52060) diff --git a/old/52060-0.txt b/old/52060-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 91b871f..0000000 --- a/old/52060-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14962 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sorceress (complete), by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress (complete) - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: May 13, 2016 [EBook #52060] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS (COMPLETE) *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - THE SORCERESS - - - - THE SORCERESS - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF - - "THE SON OF HIS FATHER," "THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINFORD," - "THE ROSE IN JUNE," "THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND," - "WHITELADIES," "WITHIN THE PRECINCTS," "IT WAS A - LOVER AND HIS LASS," "ADAM GRAEME," - ETC., ETC. - - NEW YORK - JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY - 119 POTTER BULDING - - - COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY - JOHN A: TAYLOR AND COMPANY - - - - -THE SORCERESS - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -It was the most exciting event which had ever occurred in the family, -and everything was affected by it. - -Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of -life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was -something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was -anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to -one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were -never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said, -experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was twenty-one -and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to -speak, and enjoyed everything together--mamma by no means put aside into -the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything -just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone. - -To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and -had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on -a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days -were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always -been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not -take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in -everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must -not think that these three were all of the family by any means. - -Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many, -who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very -partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a -personage of high authority in the house. Papa had but lately left “the -elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife--and had gone -back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in -some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I -doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the -necessities of description, had been invented in those days. - -Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great -_éclat_ to the little group when he showed himself at their head, -drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went, -which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward -herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was -natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens, -and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among -these officers, red, blue, green, and white--of all the colours in the -rainbow--that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a -proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little -party with excitement. - -A proposal! The first in the family! Mamma’s head was as much turned by -it as Bee’s. She lay on the sofa in her white dressing gown, so flushed -with happiness and amusement and excitement, that you would have -supposed it was she who was to be the bride. - -And then it was so satisfactory a thing all round. If ever Mrs. -Kingsward had held anyone at arm’s length in her life it was a certain -captain of Dragoons who had clanked about everywhere after her daughters -and herself for three weeks past. The moment they had appeared anywhere, -even at the springs, where she went to drink her morning glass of -disagreeable warm water, at the concert in the afternoon, in “the rooms” -at night, not to speak of every picnic and riding party, this tall -figure would jump up like a jack-in-a-box. And there was no doubt that -the girls were rather pleased than otherwise to see him jump up. He was -six foot two at least, with a moustache nearly a yard long, curling in a -tawny and powerful twist over his upper lip. He had half-a-dozen medals -on his breast; his uniform was a compound of white and silver, with a -helmet that literally blazed in the sun, and his spurs clanked louder -than any other spurs in the gardens. The only thing that was wanting to -him was a very little thing--a thing that an uninstructed English person -might not have thought of at all--but which was a painful thing in his -own troubled consciousness, and in that of the regiment, and even was -doubtful to the English friends who had picked up, as was natural, all -the prejudices of the class into which their own position brought them. - -Poor Captain Kreutzner, I blush to say it, had no “Von” to his name. -Nobody could deny that he was a distinguished officer, the hope of the -army in his branch of the service; but when Mrs. Kingsward thought how -the Colonel would look if he heard his daughter announced as Madame -Kreutzner _tout court_ in a London drawing-room, her heart sank within -her, and a cold perspiration came out upon her forehead. “And I don’t -believe Bee would care,” she cried, turning to her son for sympathy. - -Charlie was so well brought up a young man that he cared very much, and -gave his mother all the weight of his support. His office it was to -beguile Captain Kreutzner as to the movements of the party, to keep off -that bold dragoon as much as was possible; when, lo! all their -precautions were rendered unnecessary by the arrival of the real man -from quite another quarter, at once, and in a moment cutting the Captain -out! - -There was one thing Mrs. Kingsward could never be sufficiently thankful -for in the light of after events, and that was, that it was Colonel -Kingsward himself who introduced Mr. Aubrey Leigh to the family. He was -a young man who was travelling for the good of his health, or rather for -the good of his mind, poor fellow, as might be seen at a glance. He was -still in deep mourning when he presented himself at the hotel, and his -countenance was as serious as his hatband. Nevertheless, he had not been -long among them before Bee taught him how to smile, even to laugh, -though at first with many hesitations and rapid resuming of a still -deeper tinge of gravity, as if asking pardon of some beloved object for -whom he would not permit even himself to suppose that he had ceased to -mourn. This way he had of falling into sudden gravity continued with him -even when it was evident that every decorum required from him that he -should cease to mourn. Perhaps it was one of the things that most -attracted Bee, who had a touch of the sentimental in her character, as -all young ladies had in those days, when Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L. were -the favourite poets whom young ladies were expected to read. Well -brought up girls were not permitted, I need not say, to read Byron. -Shelley was a name of fear, and the poems of Mr. Thomas Campbell, not to -say Mr. Thomas Moore (carefully selected) were likely to promote that -quality. - -The pale young man, with his black coat, his hatband, his look of -melancholy, drove out the image of the Captain at once from Bee’s mind. -She had perhaps had enough of captains, fine uniforms, spurs, and all. -They had become what modern levity calls a drug in the market. They made -_Fenster_ parade all day long under her windows; they thronged upon her -steps in the gardens; they tore the flounces from her tarlatan into -pieces at the balls. It was something far more original to sit out in -the moonlight and look at the moon with a sorrowful young hero, who -gradually woke up into life under her hand. Poor, poor boy!--so young -and so melancholy!--who had gone through so much!--who was really so -handsome when the veil of grief began to blow away!--who had such a -pretty name! - -Bee was only nineteen. She had mocked and charmed and laughed at a whole -generation of young officers, thinking of nothing but picnics and dinner -parties and balls. She wanted something new upon which to try her little -hand--and now it was thrown, just when she felt the need, in her way. -She had turned a young fool’s head several times, so that the operation -had lost its charm. But to bring a sad man back to life, to drive away -sorrow, to teach him to hold up his head again, to learn how sweet it -was to live and smile, and ride and run about this beautiful world, and -wake every day to a new pleasure--that was something she felt worthy of -a woman’s powers. And she did it with such effect that Mr. Aubrey Leigh -went on improving for three weeks more, and finally ended up with that -proposal which was to the Kingsward family in general the most amusing, -the most exciting, the most delightful incident in the world. - -And yet, of course, it was attended with a certain amount of anxiety -which in her--temporarily--invalid state was not very good for mamma. -Everybody insisted on all occasions that it was a most temporary state, -and that by the end of the summer she would be all right--the -palpitations quite calmed down, the flush--which made her so pretty--a -little subdued, and herself as strong as ever. But in the meantime this -delightful romantic incident, which certainly acted upon her like a -glass of champagne, raising her spirits, brought her some care as well. -Her first interview was of course with Bee, and took place in the -privacy of her chamber, where she cross-examined her daughter as much as -was compatible with the relations between them--- which indeed were -rather those of companions and comrades than of mother and daughter. - -“Now, Bee, my dear child,” she said, “remember you have always been a -little rover, and Mr. Leigh is so quiet. Do you think you really, -really, can devote yourself to him, and never think of another man all -your life?” - -“Mamma,” said Bee, “if you were not such a dear I should think you were -very insulting. Another man! Why, where should I find another man in the -world that was fit to tie Aubrey’s shoe?” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Kingsward, dubiously; but she added, after a moment, -“You know, darling, that’s not quite the question. If you did find in -the after ages a man that perhaps was--fit to tie Mr. Leigh’s shoe?” - -“Why in all this world, _petite mère_, will you go on calling him Mr. -Leigh?” - -“Well, well,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “but I don’t feel,” she said again, -after a moment’s hesitation, “that I ought to go so far as to call him -Aubrey until we have heard from papa.” - -“What could papa find to object to?” said Bee. “Why, it was he who -introduced him to us! We should not have known Aubrey, and I should -never have been the happiest girl in the world, if it had not been for -papa. Dear papa! I know what he’ll say: ‘I can’t understand, my dear, -why you should hesitate for a moment. Of course, you don’t suppose I -should have introduced Mr. Leigh to my family without first -ascertaining, &c., &c.’ That, of course, is what papa will say.” - -“I dare say you are right, Bee. It is quite what I expect, for, of -course, a man with girls knows what it is, though for my part I confess -I always thought it would be a soldier--Captain Kreutzner or Otto -von----” - -“Mamma!” cried Bee, almost violently, light flashing out of the blue -eyes, which were so bright even on ordinary occasions as to dazzle the -beholder--you may imagine what fire came out of them now--“as if I -should ever have looked twice at one of those big, brainless, clinking -and clanking Germans. (N.B.--Mr. Aubrey Leigh was not tall.) No! Though -I may like foreigners well enough because it’s amusing to talk their -language and to feel that one has such an advantage in knowing German -and all that--yet, when it comes to be a question of spending one’s -life, an Englishman for me!” - -Thus, it will be seen, Bee forestalled the patriotic sentiments of a -later generation by resolving, in spite of all temptations, to belong to -other nations--to select an Englishman for her partner in life. It is -doubtful, however, how far this virtuous resolution had existed in her -mind before the advent of Aubrey Leigh. - -“I am sure I am very glad, Bee,” said her mother, “for I always had a -dread that you would be snatched off somewhere to--Styria or Dalecarlia, -or heaven knows where--(these were the first out-of-the-way names that -came to Mrs. Kingsward’s mind; but I don’t know that they were -altogether without reference or possibilities), where one would have had -no chance of seeing you more than once in two or three years. I am very -thankful it is to be an Englishman--or at least I shall be,” she added, -with a sigh of suspense, “as soon as I have heard from papa----” - -“One would think, _Mütterchen_, that you were frightened for papa.” - -“I shouldn’t like you ever to try and go against him, Bee!” - -“Oh, no,” said Bee, lightly, “of course I shouldn’t think of going -against him--is the inquisition over?--for I promised,” she said, with a -laugh and a blush, “to walk down with Aubrey as far as the river. He -likes that so much better than those noisy blazing gardens, with no -shade except under those stuffy trees--and so do I.” - -“Do you really, Bee? I thought you thought it was so nice sitting under -the trees----” - -“With all the _gnadige_ Fraus knitting, and all the _wohlgeborne_ Herrs -smoking. No, indeed, I always hated it!” said Bee. - -She jumped up from where she had been sitting on a stool by her mother’s -sofa, and took her hat, which she had thrown down on the table. It was a -broad, flexible, Leghorn hat, bought in Florence, with a broad blue -ribbon--the colour of her eyes, as had often been said--floating in two -long streamers behind. She had a sash of the same colour round the -simple waist of her white frock. That is how girls were dressed in the -early days of Victoria. These were the days of simplicity, and people -liked it, seeing it was the fashion, as much as they liked crinolines -and chignons when such ornamental arrangements “came in.” It does not -become one period to boast itself over another, for fashion will still -be lord--or lady--of all. - -Mrs. Kingsward looked with real pleasure at her pretty daughter, -thinking how well she looked. She wore very nearly the same costume -herself, and she knew that it also looked very well on her. Bee’s eyes -were shining, blazing with brightness and happiness and love and fun and -youth. She was not a creature of perfect features, or matchless beauty, -as all the heroines were in the novels of her day, and she was conscious -of a great many shortcomings from that high standard. She was not tall -enough--which, perhaps, however, in view of the defective stature of Mr. -Aubrey Leigh was not so great a disadvantage--and she was neither fair -enough nor dark enough for a Minna or a Brenda, the definite and -distinct blonde and brunette, which were the ideal of the time; and she -was not at all aware that her irregularity, and her mingling of styles, -and her possession of no style in particular, were her great charms. She -was not a great beauty, but she was a very pretty girl with the -additional attraction of those blue diamonds of eyes, the sparkle of -which, when my young lady was angry or when she was excited in any more -pleasurable way, was a sight to see. - -“All that’s very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “but you’ve never -answered my question: and I hope you’ll make quite, quite sure before -it’s all settled that you do like Aubrey Leigh above everybody in the -world.” - -“_A la bonne heure_,” said Bee; “you have called him Aubrey at last, -without waiting to know what papa will say;” with which words she gave -her mother a flying kiss, and was gone in a moment, thinking very -little, it must be allowed, of what papa might say. - -Mrs. Kingsward lay still for a little, and thought it all over after Bee -was gone. She knew a little better than the others what her Colonel was, -and that there were occasions on which he was not so easy to deal with -as all the young ones supposed. She thought it all over from the moment -that young Mr. Leigh had appeared on the scene. What a comfort it was -to think that it was the Colonel himself who had introduced him! Of -course, as Bee said, before presenting anyone to his wife and family, -Colonel Kingsward would have ascertained, &c., &c. It was just how he -would write no doubt. Still, a man may introduce another to his wife and -family without being ready at once to accept him as a son-in-law. On the -other hand, Colonel Kingsward knew well enough what is the possible -penalty of such introductions. Young as Bee was, she had already -attracted a good deal of attention, though this was the first time it -had actually come to an offer. But Edward must surely have thought of -that. She was, though it seemed so absurd, and though Bee had laughed at -it, a little afraid of her husband. He had never had any occasion to be -stern, yet he had it in him to be stern; and he would not hesitate to -quench Bee’s young romance if he thought it right. And, on the other -hand, Bee, though she was such a little thing, such a child, so full of -fun and nonsense, had a spirit which would not yield as her mother’s -did. Mrs. Kingsward drew another long fluttering sigh before she got up -reluctantly in obedience to her maid, who came in with that other white -gown, not unlike Bee’s, over her arm, to dress her mistress. She would -have liked to lie still a little longer, to have finished the book she -was reading, to have thought over the situation--anything, indeed, to -justify her in keeping still upon the couch and being lazy, as she -called it. Poor little mother! She had not been lazy, nor had the chance -of being lazy much in her life. She had not begun to guess why it was -she liked it so much now. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -I have now to explain how it was that Mr. Aubrey Leigh was so -interesting and so melancholy, and thus awoke the friendship and -compassion, and secured the ministrations of the Kingsward family. He -was in deep mourning, for though he was only eight-and-twenty he was -already a widower, and bereaved beside of his only child. Poor young -man! He had married with every appearance of happiness and prosperity, -but his wife had died at the end of the first year, leaving him with a -baby on his inexperienced hands. He was a young man full of feeling, -and, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he had shut himself up -in his house in the country and dedicated himself to his child. -Dedicated himself to a baby two months old! - -There was nobody who did not condemn this unnecessary self-sacrifice. He -should have gone away; he should have left the child in the hands of its -excellent nurse, under the supervision of that charming person who had -been such a devoted nurse to dear Mrs. Leigh, and whom the desolate -young widower had not the courage to send away from his house. Her -presence there was a double reason, people said, why he should have gone -away. For though his sorrow and trouble was so great that nobody for a -moment supposed that he had any idea of such a thing, yet the presence -of a lady, and of a lady still called by courtesy a young lady, though -older than himself, and who could not be treated like a servant in his -house, was embarrassing and not very seemly, everybody said. Suggestions -were made to her that she should go away, but then she answered that she -had nowhere to go to, and that she had promised to dear Amy never to -forsake her child. The country ladies about who took an interest in the -young man thought it was “just like” dear Amy, who had always been a -rather silly young woman, to exact such a promise, but that Miss Lance -would be quite justified in not keeping it, seeing the child had plenty -of people to look after her--her grandmother within reach and her father -dedicating himself to her. - -Miss Lance, however, did not see her duty in the same way; indeed, after -the poor little child died--and there was no doubt she had been -invaluable during its illness, and devoted herself to it as she had done -to its mother--she stayed on still at Leigh Court, though now at last -poor Aubrey was persuaded to go away. The mind of the county was -relieved beyond description when at last he departed on his travels. -These good people did not at all want to get up any scandal in their -midst. They did not very much blame Miss Lance for declining to give up -a comfortable home. They only felt it was dreadfully awkward and that -something should be done about it, though nobody knew what to do. He had -left home nearly six months before he appeared at the Baths with that -letter to Mrs. Kingsward in his pocket, and the change and the travel -had done him good. - -A young man of twenty-eight cannot go mourning all the days of his life -for a baby of eight months old, and he had already begun to “get over” -the death of his wife before the second event occurred. This troublous -beginning of his life had left him very sad, with something of the -feeling of a victim, far more badly treated than most in the beginning -of his career. But this is not like real grief, which holds a man’s -heart with a grip of steel. And he was in the stage when a man is ready -to be consoled when Bee’s blue eyes first flashed upon him. The -Kingswards had received him in these circumstances with more _abandon_ -than they would have done in any other. He was so melancholy; his -confidences, when he began to make them, were so touching; his waking up -to interest and happiness so delightful to see. And thus, before anyone -had thoroughly realized it, the deed was done. They knew nothing about -Miss Lance--as how should they?--and what could she have had to do with -it if they had known? - -So there really was nothing but that doubt of Colonel Kingsward’s -approval to alloy the pleasure of the party, and it was only Mrs. -Kingsward who thought of it. Charlie pooh-poohed the idea altogether. “I -think I should know my father better than anyone,” the young man said, -with much scorn of his mother’s hesitation. He was very fond and very -proud of his mother, but felt that as a man himself, he probably -understood papa better than the ladies could. “Of course he will -approve; why shouldn’t he approve? Leigh is a very decent fellow, though -I don’t think all the world of him, as you girls do. Papa, of course, -knew exactly what sort of a fellow he was; a little too quiet--not Bee’s -sort at all. No, you may clamour as you like, but he’s not in the least -Bee’s sort----” - -“I’m supposed to prefer a noisy trooper, I believe,” said Bee. - -“Well, I should have said that was more like it--but mind you, the -governor would never have sent us out a man here who was not good enough -for anything. Oh, I understand the old boy!” - -“Charlie, how dare you?” cried his mother; but the horror was modified -by a laugh, for anything more unlike an old boy than Colonel Kingsward -it would not have been very easy to conceive. - -“Well, mamma, you wouldn’t have me call him my honoured father, would -you?” the young man said. He was at Oxford, and he thought himself on -the whole not only by far the most solid and serious member of the -present party, but on the whole rather more experienced in the world -than the gentleman whom in the bosom of the family he still condescended -to call “papa.” - -As for little Betty, who up to this time had been Bee’s shadow, and who -had not yet begun to feel herself _de trop_, she, no more than her -sister, was moved by any of these cares. She was wholly occupied in -studying the new thing which had suddenly started into being before her -eyes. Betty was of opinion that it was entirely got up for her amusement -and instruction. When she and Bee were alone, she never ceased in her -interrogatory. “Oh, Bee, when did you first begin to think about him -like that? Oh, Bee, how did you first find out that he was thinking -about you? Oh, Bee, don’t you mind that he was once in love before?” -Such were the questions that poured in an incessant stream into Bee’s -ears. That young lady was equal to them all, and she was not unwilling -to let her sister share more or less in the new enlightenment that had -come to herself. - -“When did I first begin to think of him?” she said. “Oh, Betty, the -first minute I saw him coming through the garden with Charlie to speak -to mamma! There were all those horrid men about, you remember, in those -gaudy uniforms, and their swords and spurs, and so forth--such dreadful -bad taste in foreigners always to be in uniform----” - -“But, Bee,” cried Betty, “why, I’ve heard you say----” - -“Oh, never mind what you’ve heard me say! I’ve been silly, I suppose, in -my day, like almost everybody. Aubrey says he cannot think how they can -live, always done up in those hot, stiff clothes--none of the ease of -Englishmen about them.” - -“Papa says they are such soldier-like men,” says little Betty, who had -not been converted from the _regime_ of the officers, like Bee. - -“Oh, well, papa--he is an officer himself, but he never wears his -uniform when he can help it, you know.” - -“Well,” said Betty, “you may say what you like--for my part, I do love a -nice uniform. I don’t want ever again to dance with a man in a black -coat. But Bee, you’re too bad--you won’t say a word, and I want so to -know how it all came about. What put it into your head? And what did you -say to one another? And was it he that began first--or was it you?” - -“You little dreadful thing,” said Bee; “how could a girl ever begin? It -shows how little you know! Of course he began; but we didn’t begin at -all,” she said, after a pause, “it just came--all in a moment when I -wasn’t thinking, and neither was he.” - -“Do you mean to say that he didn’t intend to propose to you?” said -Betty, growing pale. - -“Oh!” said Bee, impatient, “as if proposing was all! Do you think he -just came out with it point blank--‘Miss Kingsward, will you marry me?’” - -“Well,” said Betty: “what did he say then if he didn’t say that?” - -“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee. - -“I am sure if he had said ‘Oh, you little goose’ to me,” said Betty, “I -should never have spoken a word to him again.” - -“It is no use talking to little girls,” said Bee, with a sigh. “You -don’t understand; and, to be sure, how could you understand--at your age -and all?” - -“Age!” said Betty, indignant, “there is but fifteen months between us, -and I’ve always done everything with you. We’ve always had on new things -together, and gone to the same places and everything. It is you that are -very unkind now you have got engaged; and I do believe you like this big -horrid man better than me.” - -“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee, again. - -“No, it isn’t a big but a little, horrid man. I made a mistake,” said -Betty, “not like Captain Kreutzner that you used to like so much. It’s -small people you care for now; not your own nice people like me and -mamma, but a man that you had never heard the name of when you -first came here, and now you quote and praise him, and make -the most ridiculous fuss about him, even to Charlie, who is far -nicer-looking!--and won’t even tell your sister what he says!” - -This argument came to so high a tone that mamma called out from her room -to know what was amiss. “It does not become you girls to carry on your -old scuffles and quarrels,” she said, “now that one of you, at least, is -so grown up and about to take upon herself the responsibilities of -life.” - -“Is Aubrey a responsibility?” Betty whispered in her sister’s ears. - -“Oh, you little silly thing!” Bee replied; and presently Mrs. -Kingsward’s maid came in to say that Mr. Leigh was in the sitting-room, -and would Miss Bee go to him as her mistress was not ready; for this was -the little fiction that was kept up in those days before Colonel -Kingsward’s letter had been received. It will be seen, however, that it -was but a fiction, and that as a matter of fact there was very little -restraint put on the young people’s intercourse. “You must not consider -that anything is settled; you must not think there’s any engagement,” -Mrs. Kingsward had said. “Indeed, indeed, I cannot take upon me to -sanction anything till I hear from her papa.” But virtually they met as -much as they liked, and even indulged in little talks apart, and -meetings by themselves, before Mrs. Kingsward was ready; so that as a -matter of fact this restriction did very little harm. - -And in due time Colonel Kingsward’s letter was received, and it was not -unfavourable. The Colonel said that, on the whole, he should have -preferred it had Mr. Leigh waited till they had all returned home. It -would have been a seemly forbearance, and saved Mrs. Kingsward a great -deal of anxiety; but as matters stood and as his dear wife approved, and -he heard nothing but good of Mr. Leigh, he would not withdraw the -provisional consent which she seemed to have given. “It will be -expedient in the circumstances that you should all return home as soon -as possible, that I may go into matters with the young man,” the Colonel -added in that part of his letter which was not intended to be read to -Aubrey Leigh. And he added, as Bee had prophesied, “You might have been -sure that I should not introduce a young man to my family, and to -yourself, my dear, without ascertaining previously,” etc., etc., just as -Bee had said. He added, “Of course I never contemplated anything of this -sort: but one can never tell what may happen when young people are -thrown together. The property is a good one, and the young man -unexceptionable, from all I can hear.” Then Mrs. Kingsward’s mind was -set at ease. It seemed to Bee that her father might have said something -on the subject of her happiness, and acknowledged Aubrey to be something -more than an unexceptionable young man. It was inconceivable, she -thought to herself, how cool people are when they come to that age. The -property good, and the young man unexceptionable--was that all? Did papa -take no more interest than that? But at all events the engagement was -now quite permitted and acknowledged, and they might walk out together -all day, and dance together all night, without a word said; for which -Bee forgave and instantly forgot--it was really of so little -importance--the coolness of papa. - -Mrs. Kingsward’s “cure” was over, and by this time most people were -leaving the Bath. Our party made their preparations for leaving too, in -the pleasantest way. It was not to be at all a rapid journey, which -would not have been good for Mrs. Kingsward. They were to make their way -at leisure from one beautiful old city to another across the breadth of -Germany, staying a day here and a day there, travelling for the most -part in a large, old-fashioned carriage, such as was the custom then, -with a wide-hooded seat in front, like the _banquette_ of a French -diligence, in which two people could be extremely happy, seeing the -scenery much better than those inside could do, or perhaps not seeing -the scenery at all, but occupying each other quite as agreeably with the -endless talk of lovers, which is not interesting to anybody but -themselves. Before they set out upon this journey, however, which was to -hold so great a place in Bee’s life, a little incident occurred to her -which did not appear to be of very much consequence, but which made some -impression on her mind at the time, and vaguely appeared afterwards to -throw light on various other events. The German Bath at which the -little story of her love took place is surrounded with woods--woods of a -kind that are never seen anywhere else, though they are the special -feature of German Baths. They are chiefly composed of fir trees, and -they are arranged upon the most strictly mathematical principles, with -that precision which is dear to the German mind, row upon row standing -close together, as if they had been stuck in so at their present height, -with so many cubit feet of air to each, as in the London lodging-houses. -They are traversed by broad roads, with benches at intervals, and at -each corner there is a wooden board on which is painted indications how -to find the nearest _restauration_ where beer is to be had, and the veal -of the country--for the German, in his hours of ease and amusement, has -continual occasion to be “restored.” - -Bee had gone out early in the morning to make a little sketch of an -opening in the trees through which a village spire was visible. There -were not many points for the artist in landscape, especially one of such -moderate powers as Bee, and she was very anxious to finish this to -present it, I need scarcely say, to Aubrey, as a memento of the place. -Probably there was some other sentimental reason--such as that they had -first spoken words of special meaning there, or had first exchanged -looks that were of importance in their idyll, or some other incident of -equal weight. She was seated on one of the benches, with her little -colour box and bottle of water, giving the finishing touches to her -sketch. Sooth to say, Bee was no great performer, and the ranks of the -dark trees standing arithmetically apart to permit of that little -glimpse of distance, were too much for her. They looked in her sketch -like two dark green precipices rather than like trees, and had come to a -very difficult point, when a lady coming along by one of the side walks, -round the corner past the _restauration_, suddenly sat down by Bee’s -side and startled her a little. She was not a girl who was easily -frightened, but the suddenness of the apparition out of the silent -morning when she had thought nobody was in sight was a little startling -and made her hand shake. - -“I hope I am not intruding upon you,” the lady said. - -“Oh, no!” said Bee, looking up with her bright face. She was as fresh as -the morning in her broad Leghorn hat with the blue ribbon, and her eyes -that danced and sparkled. The stranger by her side was much older than -Bee. She was a handsome woman; dark, with fine eyes, too, a sidelong -look in them, and a curious half smile which was like La Gioconda, that -famous picture Bee had seen in the Louvre, as we all have. She thought -of La Gioconda at once, when she looked up into the lady’s face. She was -entirely dressed in black, and there could not have been found anywhere -a more perfect contrast to Bee. - -They got into conversation quite easily, for Bee was a girl who loved to -talk. The lady gave her several hints about her little picture which Bee -knew enough to know were dictated by superior knowledge, and then they -got talking quite naturally about the place and the people who were -there. After they had discussed the society and the number of English -people at the Bath, and Bee had disclosed the hotel at which she was -staying, and many details of her innocent life, which she was not at all -conscious of disclosing--the stranger began to inquire about various -people. It was not by any means at once that she introduced the name of -Leigh; not indeed till she had been over the Reynoldses, and the -Gainsboroughs, and the Collinses, under Bee’s exultant guidance and fine -power of narrative; then she said tentatively, that there was she -believed, at one of the hotels, a family of Leighs. - -“Oh!” cried Bee, her countenance flushing over with a sudden brilliant -delightful blush, which seemed to envelop her from top to toe. She had -been looking up into her companion’s face so that the stranger got the -full benefit of this sudden resplendent change of colour. She then -turned very demurely to her sketch, and said meekly, “I don’t know any -family, but there is a Mr. Leigh at our hotel.” - -“Oh,” said the lady, but in a very different tone from Bee’s startled -“oh!” She said it coldly, as if recording a fact. “I thought,” she said, -“it was the Leighs of Hurstleigh, friends of mine. I may have been -deceived by seeing the name in the lists.” - -“But I think, indeed I am sure, that Mr. Aubrey Leigh is connected with -the Leighs of Hurstleigh,” Bee said. - -“Oh, a young man, a widower, an inconsolable; I think I remember hearing -of him. Is that the man?” - -“I don’t know if he is an inconsolable,” cried Bee, with a quick -movement of anger and then she thought how foolish that was, for of -course a stranger like this could have no unkind meaning. She added with -great gravity, “It is quite true that he has been married before.” - -Poor little Bee, she was not at all aware how she was betraying herself. -She was more vexed and indignant than words can say, when the woman (who -after all could not be a lady) burst into a laugh. “Oh! I think I can -see how matters stand with Aubrey Leigh,” this impertinent intruder -cried. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -It was just two days after the interview in the wood described above, -that the Kingsward party got under weigh for home, accompanied, I need -not say, by Aubrey Leigh. Bee had not told him of that chance meeting, -restrained I do not know by what indefinite feeling that he would not -care to hear of it, and also by the sensation that she had as good as -told the lady, who was so disagreeable and impertinent as to laugh, what -change had taken place in Aubrey’s sentiments, and what she had herself -to do with that change. It was so silly, oh, so silly of her, and yet -she had said nothing, or next to nothing. And there was no reason why -she should not have said whatever she pleased, now that the engagement -was fully acknowledged and known; indeed, if that woman were in any -society at all, she must have heard of it, seeing that, as Bee was -aware, not without pleasure, it had afforded a very agreeable diversion -to the floating community, a pleasant episode in the tittle-tattle of -the gardens and the wells. Bee had no absurd objection to being talked -of. She knew that in her condition of life, which was so entirely -satisfactory as a condition, everything that concerned a family was -talked over and universally known. It was a thing inevitable to a -certain position, and a due homage of society to its members. But -somehow she did not mention it to Aubrey, nor, indeed, to anyone, which -was a very unusual amount of reticence. She did not even give him the -sketch, though it was finished. She had been quite grateful for that -person’s hints at the time, and eagerly had taken advantage of them to -improve her drawing; but it seemed to her, when she looked at it now, -that it was not her own at all, that the other hand was so visible in it -that it would be almost dishonest to call it hers. This, of course, was -wholly fantastic, for even supposing that person to have given valuable -hints, she had never touched the sketch, and Bee alone had carried them -out. But, anyhow, her heart sickened at it, and she thrust it away at -the very bottom of the box that Moulsey was packing. She had no desire -to see the horrid thing again. - -In a day or two, however, Bee had altogether forgotten that interview in -the wood. She had so many things to occupy her mind. There were few -railways in those days, and the party had a long way to travel before -they came to Cologne, where that method of travelling began. They all -felt that common life would re-commence there and their delightful -wandering would be over. In the meantime, there was a long interval of -pleasure before them. The early breakfast at the hotel in the first -hours of the autumnal morning, the fun of packing everyone away in the -big coach, the books to be brought out to fill up corners, both of time -and space, and “Murray” then alone in his glory, with no competitive -American, no Badæker, no Joanne, to share his reign--spread out open at -the right place, so that mamma inside should be able to lay her finger -at once upon any village or castle that struck her--and above all the -contrivances to be carried out for securing the _banquette_, as Bee -said, for “ourselves,” made a lively beginning. Charlie and Betty -sometimes managed to secure this favourite place if the attention of the -others flagged for a moment, and though mamma generally interposed with -a nod or a whisper to restore it to the privileged pair, sometimes she -was mischievous too, and consented to their deprivation, and desired -them for once to keep her company inside. She generally, however, -repented of this before the day was over, and begged that their -favourite seat might be restored to them. - -“For they are really no fun at all,” the poor lady said. “I might as -well have two images from Madame Tussaud’s.” - -“It had been a little hard upon Aubrey at the moment of their departure -to find half the garrison round the carriage, and bouquets enough to -fill a separate vehicle thrust into every corner, the homage of those -warriors to the gracious ladies. He had been very cross, and had made a -great exhibition of himself, especially when Captain Kreutzner’s faggot -of forget-me-nots, tied with a ribbon like that on Bee’s hat, had been -presented with indescribable looks. What did the fellow mean by bringing -forget-me-nots? He wanted to pitch it out of the window as soon as they -were fairly started. - -“What an idiotic custom!” he cried. “What do the fools think you want -with such loads of flowers when you are starting on a journey?” - -“Why, it is just then you do want them,” cried Betty, who had a dozen or -so to her own share, “to smell sweet and show us how much our friends -think of us.” - -“They will not smell sweet very long, and then what will your friends -think of you?” said the angry lover. - -Was it possible that Bee was detaching a little knot of the blue flowers -to put in her waistband? Bee, Bee! his own property, who had no right so -much as to look at another man’s flowers! And what did she do, seeing -the cloud upon his face, but arrange another little bouquet, which, -with her sweetest smile--the little coquette--she endeavoured to put -into his, Aubrey’s, button-hole! He snatched them out of her hand in a -sort of fury. “Do you want me never to forget that heavy brute of a -German?” he cried, in his indignation. “You may put him near your heart, -but I should like to kick him!” These very natural sentiments made Bee -laugh--which was cruel: but then poor Captain Kreutzner had been blotted -out of her life some time ago, and knew his fate, and had really no -right whatever to present her with these particular flowers. His lovely -bouquet with its blue ribbon was given to a girl in the first village, -and awakened the still more furious jealousy of another swain who was -less easily appeased than Aubrey; but this _ricochet_ was not thought of -by the first and principal pair. - -There was not perhaps so many remarkable features in that journey as if -it had been through Italy. There were great plains to traverse, where -the chief sights were cottages and farmhouses, women going by with great -loads of freshly cut grass full of flowers on their heads, fodder for -the home-dwelling cows--or men carrying their hops clinging to the -pole, to be picked at home, or long straggling branches of the tobacco -plant; and in the evening the postillion would whip up his horses, and -Charlie in the _banquette_, or John, the manservant, in the rumble, -would tootle upon a horn which the former had acquired clandestinely -before the party set out--as they dashed through a village or little -town with lighted windows, affording them many a flying peep of the -domestic life of those tranquil places. And in the middle of the day -they stopped to rest somewhere, where the invariable veal was to be -found at some Guest-house a little better than the ordinary, where -perhaps a bigger village stood with all its high peaked stream: and at -night rattled into an old walled town with shadowy high houses which -belonged to the fourteenth century, and had not changed a whit since -that time. There they stayed a day or two, varying the confinement of -the coach by a course through everything that was to be seen, setting -out in a party through the roughly-paved streets, but parting company -before long, so that Aubrey and Bee would find themselves alone in the -shelter of a church or in an insignificant corner by the walls, while -the others pursued their sightseeing conscientiously. - -“As for me, what I like is the general aspect,” said Bee, with an air of -superiority. “I don’t care to poke into every corner, and Aubrey knows -the history, which is the chief thing.” - -“Are they talking all the time of the history?” said Betty, overawed. - -But this perhaps, was not the opinion of Charlie and mamma. No, they did -not care very much for the history. People are bad travellers in that -stage of life. They are too much interested in their own history. They -went about like a pair of Philistines through all these ancient streets, -talking of nothing but the things of to-day. The most serious part of -their talk was about the home in the depths of England in which they -were henceforth to spend their lives. Aubrey had ideas about -re-furnishing--about making everything new. It would be impossible to -tell the reader how bad was the taste of the time, and with what -terrible articles of furniture he proposed to replace the spindle legs -and marquetry of his grandfathers. But then these things were the -fashion, and supposed to be the best things of the time. To hear them -talking of sofas and curtains, and of the colour for the boudoir and the -hangings of the drawing-room in the midst of all those graceful old -places, was inconceivable. You would have said the stupidest, -unimpressionable pair, talking of ugly modern English furniture, when -they should have been noting the old world of Nuremberg--the unchanging -mediæval city. But you must remember that the furniture was only a -symbol of their love and their new life, and all the blessedness of -being together, and the endless delights of every day. The sofas and the -curtains meant the _Vita Nuova_, and the refurnishing of the old house a -beautiful fabric of all the honour and the joy of life. - -Then came the great river, and the progress down its shining stream, and -between those beautiful banks, where again they made several pauses to -enjoy the scenery. The Rhine is not now the river it was then. It was -still the great river of romance in those days--Byron had been there, -and the young people remembered Roland and his tower, with his love in -the white convent opposite, and felt a shudder at the thought of the -Lorelei as they floated under the high and gloomy bank. I doubt, -however, whether the lovers thought much even of these things. They were -busy just now about the gardens, which Bee was fully minded to remodel -and fill with everything that was new and delightful in the way of -flowers. - -“I shall have masses of colour about the terrace, and every spot -covered. I wonder which you like best, majolica vases or rustic -baskets?” Bee was saying, when her mother called her to point out the -Platz and Bishop Hatto’s tower. - -“Oh, yes, mamma, it’s very pretty. But you like clematis, Aubrey, for -the balustrade--to wind in and out of the pillars. Yes, yes, I can see -it well enough. I like every kind of clematis, even the common one, the -traveller’s joy--and it would hang down, you know, over that old bit of -wall you told me of. Do go forward, Aubrey, and let them see you are -taking an interest. I do see it all quite well, and it is very romantic, -and we are quite enjoying it I can assure you, mamma.” - -This was how they made their way down stream; in the moonlight nights -they ceased to talk of practical matters, and went back to the history -of their loves. - -“Do you remember, Bee, that first time in the wood----?” - -“Oh, Aubrey, don’t you recollect that drive coming back in the -dark--before I knew----?” - -“But you always did know from the very beginning, Bee?” - -“Well, perhaps I suspected--and used to think----” - -“You darling, what did you think?--and did you really care--as early as -that?” - -They went on like this whatever happened outside, giving a careless -glance at the heights, at the towers, at the robbers’ castle above and -the little villages below; not so much as looking at them, and yet -remembering them ever after, enclosing the flow of their young lives, as -it were, in that strong flowing of the Rhine, noting nothing and yet -seeing everything with the double sight which people possess at the -highest moment and crisis of their career. They came at length to -Cologne, where this enchanted voyage was more or less to end. To be -sure, they were still to be together; but only in the railway, with all -the others round them, hearing more or less what they said. They said -good-bye to the Rhine with a little sentiment, a delightful little -sadness full of pleasure. - -“Shall we ever be so happy again?” said Bee, with a sigh. - -“Oh, yes, my sweet, a hundred times, and happier, and happier,” said the -young man; and thus they were assured it was to be. - -I don’t think any of them ever forgot that arrival at Cologne. They came -into sight of the town just in the evening, when the last glow of sunset -was still burning upon the great river, but lights beginning to show in -the windows, and glimmering reflected in the water. The Cathedral was -not completed then, and a crane, like some strange weird animal stood -out against the sky upon the top of the tower. The hotel to which they -were going had a covered terrace upon the river with lights gleaming -through the green leaves. They decided they would have their table -there, and dine with all that darkling panorama before their eyes -through the veil of the foliage, the glowing water, the boats moving and -passing, with now and then a raft coming down from the upper stream, and -the bridge of boats opening to give passage to a fuming fretting -steamboat. Aubrey and Bee went hand in hand up the steps; nobody noticed -in the half dark how close they were together. They parted with a close -pressure of warm hands. - -“Don’t be long, darling,” he said, as they parted, only for a moment, -only to prepare a little for the evening, to slip into a fresh dress, to -take out a new ribbon, to make one’s youthful self as fair as such -unnecessary adjuncts permitted. - -But what did Aubrey care for a new ribbon? The only blue he thought of -was that in Bee’s eyes. - -I do not think she was more than ten minutes over these little changes. -She dressed like a flash of lightning, Betty said, who could not find -her own things half so quickly, Moulsey being occupied with mamma. Such -a short moment not worth counting, and yet enough, more than enough, to -change a whole life! - -Bee ran down as light as air to the sitting-room which had been engaged -for the party. She felt sure that Aubrey would hurry, too, so as to have -a word before dinner, before the rest were ready--as if the whole day -had not been one long word, running through everything. She came lightly -to the door of the room in her fresh frock and her blue ribbons, walking -on air, knowing no shadow of any obstacle before her or cloud upon the -joyful triumphant sky. She did not even hear the sound of the subdued -voices, her faint little sob, strangest of all sounds at such a moment, -which seemed to come out to meet her as she opened the door. Bee opened -it wondering only if Aubrey were there, thinking of some jibe to address -to him about the length of time men took to their toilettes, if she -happened to be ready first. - -She was very much startled by what she saw. Her mother, still in her -travelling dress, sat by the table with a letter open in her hands. She -had not made any preparation for dinner--she, usually so dainty, so -anxious to get rid of the cloaks and of the soils of the journey. She -had taken off her hat, which lay on the table, but was still enveloped -in the shawl which she had put on to keep off the evening chills. As for -Aubrey, he was exactly as he had been when they parted with him, except -that all the light had gone out of his face. He was very pale, and he, -too, had a letter in his hand. He uttered a stifled exclamation when he -saw Bee at the door, and, lifting his arms as though in protest against -something intolerable, walked away to the other end of the room. - -“Oh, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “Oh, go away, my dear, go away! I -mean--get something to eat, you and Charlie, and Betty, and then get to -bed. Get to bed! I am too tired to take anything, and I am going -upstairs at once.” - -“I thought you had been upstairs, mamma, half-an-hour ago. What is the -matter? You look like a ghost, and so does Aubrey. Has anything -happened? Mamma, you won’t look at me, and Aubrey turns his back. What -have I done? Is it anything about me?” - -“What nonsense, child!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a pretence at a smile. -“What could you have to do with it? We have both--Mr. Leigh and -myself--found letters, and we are busy reading them. I am sure the -dinner must be served. We ordered it in the balcony, don’t you remember? -Run away and make Charlie and Betty sit down at once. I am too tired. -Moulsey will run down in a little and get something for me.” - -“Mamma,” said Bee, “you cannot make up a story. Something has happened, -I am sure of it; and it is something about me.” - -“Nonsense, child! Go away and have your dinner. I would come if I could. -Don’t you see what a budget of letters I have got? And some of them I -must answer to-night.” - -“Have you letters, too, Aubrey?” said Bee, in her amazement, standing -still as she had paused, arrested by the sight of them, just within the -door. - -“Bee, I must beg you will not put any questions; go and do what I tell -you; your brother and sister will be coming downstairs. Yes, of course, -you can see that Mr. Leigh has his letters to read as well as I.” - -“Mr. Leigh! I wonder if we have all gone mad, or what is the matter? -Aubrey! tell me--you, at least, if mamma won’t. You must have had a -quarrel. Mamma, why do you call him Mr. Leigh?” - -“Oh, for goodness sake, Bee, go away.” - -“I am not going away,” cried the girl. “You have had a quarrel about -something. Come, mamma, you must not quarrel with Aubrey--if he has done -something wrong or said something silly, I will answer for him, he never -intended it. Aubrey, what do you mean, sir, turning your back both on -mamma and me? Come here, quick, and ask her pardon, and say you will -never do it again.” - -Poor little Bee’s heart was fluttering, but she would not allow herself -to believe there was anything really wrong. She went close up to her -mother and stood by her, with a hand upon her shoulder. “Aubrey!” she -said, “never mind if you are wrong or not, come and beg mamma’s pardon, -and she will forgive you. There must not--there must not--oh, it is too -ridiculous!--be anything wrong between mamma and you. Aubrey!” - -He turned round slowly and faced them both with a face so pale that Bee -stopped short with a gasp, and could not say a word more. Mrs. Kingsward -had buried her face in her hands. Bee looked from one to the other with -a dismay which she could not explain to herself. “Oh, what is the -matter? What is the matter?” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -There was no merry dinner that night in the verandah of the hotel under -the clinging wreaths of green. Mrs. Kingsward went up to her room still -with her heavy shawl about her shoulders which she had forgotten, though -it added something to her discomfort--followed by Bee, pale and rigid, -offering no help, following her mother like an angry shadow. Charlie and -Betty met them on the stairs and stood aside in consternation, unable to -conceive what had happened. Mrs. Kingsward gave them a sort of troubled -smile and said: “Get your dinner, dears; don’t wait for us. I am too -tired to come down to-night.” - -“But, mamma----” they both began in remonstrance. - -“Go down and get your dinner,” said Mrs. Kingsward, peremptorily. - -As for Bee, she did not look at them at all. Her eyes were fierce with -some sentiment which Betty could not divine, and angry, blazing, as if -they might have set light to the hotel. - -Little Betty pressed against Charlie’s side as they went down, startled -and alarmed. “Bee has had a quarrel with mamma,” she whispered, in tones -of awe. - -“That’s impossible,” said Charlie. - -“Oh, no, it’s not impossible. There was once----” - -It comforted them both a little in the awful circumstances that such a -thing had perhaps happened before. They went very silently and much cast -down to that table in the verandah, whither obsequious waiters beckoned -them, and contemplated with dismay all the plates laid, all the glitter -of the lamps and the glasses. - -“I suppose we must not wait for them as they said so,” said Charlie, -sitting down in his place at the bottom of the table. “Tell Mr. -Leigh--that is the other gentleman--that we are ready.” - -“The other gentleman, sir,” said the waiter, who was the pride of the -establishment for his English, “has gone out.” - -“Gone out!” said Charlie. He could only stare at Betty and she at him, -not knowing what to think. - -“He has had his letters, too, sir,” said the waiter in a significant -tone. - -His letters! What could that have to do with it? Charlie also had had -his letters, one of them a bill which he did not view with any -satisfaction; but even at twenty-one a man already learns to disguise -his feelings, and sits down to dinner cheerfully though he has received -a bill by the post. Charlie’s mind at first could not perceive any -connection between Bee’s withdrawal upstairs and Aubrey’s disappearance. -It was Betty who suggested, sitting down very close to him, that it -looked as if Aubrey and Bee had quarrelled too. - -“Perhaps that is what it is,” she said, as if she had found out a -satisfactory reason. “Lovers always quarrel; and mamma will have taken -Aubrey’s part, and Bee will be so angry, and feel as if she could never -forgive him. There, that is what it must be.” - -“A man may quarrel with his sweetheart,” said Charlie, severely, “but he -needn’t spoil other people’s dinner for that;” however, they comforted -themselves that this was the most likely explanation, and that all would -come right in the morning. And they were very young and hungry, having -eaten nothing since the veal at one o’clock. And these two made on the -whole a very satisfactory meal. - -The scene upstairs was very different. Mrs. Kingsward sent Moulsey away -on pretence of getting her some tea, and then turned to her daughter who -stood by the dressing-table and stared blankly, without seeing anything, -into those mysterious depths of the glass which are so suggestive to -people in trouble. She said, faintly, “Bee, I would so much rather you -would not ask me any more questions to-night.” - -“That is,” said Bee, “you would like to send me away to be miserable by -myself without even knowing what it is, while you will take your -sleeping draught and forget it. How can you be so selfish, mamma? And -you have made my Aubrey join in the conspiracy against me--my Aubrey -who belongs to me as papa does to you. If you are against us it is all -very well, though I can’t imagine why you should be against us--but at -least you need not interfere between Aubrey and me.” - -“Oh, my dear child, my poor darling!” said Mrs. Kingsward, wringing her -hands. - -“It is all very well to call me your poor child, when it is you that are -making me poor,” said Bee. - -She kept moving a little, first on one foot then on the other, but -always gazing into the glass which presented the image of an excited -girl, very pale, but lit up with a sort of blaze of indignation, and -unable to keep still. It was not that girl’s face, however, that Bee was -gazing at, but at the dim world of space beyond in which there were -faint far-away reflections of the light and the world. “And if you think -you will get rid of me like this, and hang me up till to-morrow without -knowing what it is, you are mistaken, mamma. I will not leave you until -you have told me. What is it? What has papa got in his head? What does -he say in that horrid--horrid letter? I wish I had known when I gave it -to you I should have thrown it into the river instead of ever letting it -come into your hands.” - -“Bee, you must know that this passion is very wrong and very improper. -You ought not to face me like that, and demand an answer. I am your -mother,” said Mrs. Kingsward, but with a falter which was all unlike -that assumption of authority, “and I have no need to tell you anything -more than I think is for your good.” - -“Ah! I know where that comes from,” cried Bee; “that’s papa’s thunder! -that’s what he has told you to say! You don’t believe, yourself, that -you have a right to hang up a poor girl over some dreadful, dreadful -abyss, when she was so happy and never suspected anything.” Here Bee’s -voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered herself. “And to -drag her away from the one person that could support her, and to cut the -ground from under her feet, and never to tell her what it means!” - -It was at this point that Moulsey, with a little discreet cough to -herald her approach, came into the room, bearing a tray with tea, and a -little cover from which came a faint but agreeable odour. Mrs. Kingsward -was in great trouble about her child, but she was much exhausted and in -want of physical support, and it did seem to her hard that she might not -be permitted to eat the smallest of cutlets before embarking on a scene -such as she knew this would be. Oh, why didn’t papa come and say it -himself, when there was so much that was dreadful to say? - -“Shall I fetch something for Miss Bee, too?” said Moulsey. “It ain’t a -good thing for a young creature to go without her dinner. If she’s not -going down, ma’am, as would be much the best, I’ll just run and fetch a -little something for Miss Bee too.” - -“Indeed, indeed, Bee, Moulsey is right. Think how miserable the others -will feel all alone, and thinking something has happened. Do go down, -darling, and strengthen yourself with a little food, and take a glass of -wine just for once to please me. And after that you shall be told -everything--all that I know.” - -Bee grew paler and paler, standing there before the glass, and her eyes -blazed more and more. “It is as bad as that, then!” she said under her -breath to herself, and then went away from where she was standing to the -further end of the room. “I shall wait here, mamma, till you have had -your tea. I know you want it. Oh, go away Moulsey! Let me alone! No, you -shall not bring me anything! or, if you do, I will throw it out of the -window,” she said, stamping her foot. The dark end of the room seemed -suddenly lighted up by a sort of aurora borealis, with the fire of poor -Bee’s burning eyes and the flashes here and there of her white -frock--oh, poor white frock! put on in the sunshine of life and -happiness to please her love, and now turned into a sort of sacrificial -robe. - -“Take it away, Moulsey; I can’t eat anything--I can’t, indeed--no more -than Miss Bee--” - -“But you must, ma’am,” said Moulsey. “Miss Bee’s young; she’s had -nothing to drain away her strength. But it’s far different with you, -after all your family and so weak as you are. If Miss Bee were a real -good girl, as I always thought her, she’d go away and get something -herself just for her poor mamma’s sake, and leave you alone for a moment -to get a little peace and rest.” - -“There is no rest for me,” murmured the poor lady. “Oh, papa, papa, why -didn’t you come and tell them yourself?” - -These piteous tones went to Bee’s heart. They moved her half with -contempt, half with compassion--with something of that high indignant -toleration of weakness which is one kind of pity. If mamma could eat and -drink at such a moment, why shouldn’t she be left to do it? The girl -started up and left the room in the quick flashing impulse of her -passion. She walked up and down in the corridor outside, her arms folded -over her high-beating, tumultuous heart. Yes, no doubt she was going to -be miserable, all her happiness was cut down and withered away, but in -her present passionate impulse of resistance and gathering of all her -forces to resist the catastrophe, which she did not understand, it could -scarcely be said that she was wretched yet. What was it--what was it? -she was saying to herself. It might still be something that would pass -away, which would be overcome by the determined, impassioned stand -against it, which Bee felt that it was in her to make. The thing that -was worst of all, that stole away her courage, was that Aubrey had -failed her. He should have been there by her side whatever happened. He -ought not to have abandoned her. No doubt he thought it was more -delicate, more honourable, more something or other; and that it was his -duty to leave her to brave it alone. It must have been one of those -high-flown notions of honour that men have. Honour! to leave a girl to -fight for herself and him, alone--but, no doubt, that was what had -seemed right in his eyes. Bee walked up and down in the half-lighted -passage, sometimes almost pushing against someone going up or down, -waiters or chambermaids or surprised guests, who looked after her when -she had passed; but she did not take any notice of them, and she heard -as she passed her mother’s door little sounds of tea-cups and dishes, -and Moulsey’s voice saying “A little more,” and her mother’s faint -replies. Poor mamma! After all, what ever it was, it could not be her -affair as it was Bee’s. She would be unhappy about it, but not all -unhappy. She had the others, who were all right. She had papa. It would -not shatter her to pieces even if one of the children was to be -shipwrecked. It was the shipwrecked one only who would be broken to -pieces. For the first time in her life Bee felt the poignant sensation, -the jealous pride, the high, desolate satisfaction of suffering. The -others could all eat and do the ordinary things. She was elevated over -all that, silent as on a Peak in Darien. She felt almost a kind of -dreadful pleasure in the situation, smiling to herself at the sounds of -her mother’s little meal. She could dine while Bee was miserable. They -could all dine--Charlie (which was natural), Betty, even Aubrey. She had -no doubt that he, too, must be seated, feeling as a man does that dinner -must go on whatever happens, at the table downstairs. - -After a while, which seemed a long time to Bee, Moulsey came out with -the tray. She was startled, and exclaimed under her breath at the -appearance of the girl walking up and down in the corridor: “I did -think you would have had the sense to go and join the others, Miss -Bee.” Bee was too much uplifted, too distant on her high pinnacle of -martyrdom, to make any reply, but when Moulsey ventured to add a word of -advice, to the effect that she must be careful of her mamma and not -weary her with questions and she so tired and so weak, the girl flashed -forth all her heart of indignation. “She has eaten her cutlet, it -appears,” cried Bee. “I should think she may answer my questions.” - -“Oh!” cried the maid, who had the privileges of an old servant, “you -have got a heart without pity. You are just like your papa!” - -Bee swept past her into the room, where poor Mrs. Kingsward, who after -all had eaten but a morsel, sat lying back in an easy chair awaiting the -dreadful conflict which she knew was coming. Poor lady, she had lost all -her brightness, that pretty grace of the young mother among her grown up -children, which prompted so many compliments. She lay back in her easy -chair, feeling as she said “any age”--as old as any woman on the edge of -the grave, not knowing how she was to bear the onslaught that was -coming, and how she was to say what had to be said. He had borne it far -better than Bee--poor Aubrey, poor Aubrey! whom she must not call Aubrey -any more. He had not denied anything, he had fallen as it were at her -feet, like a house that had been undermined and had no sound -foundations, but Bee was different. Bee was a tower that had -foundations--a girl that was able to stand up even to papa, and why--why -had he not come to give forth his sentence in his own way? - -Bee came forward flashing into the light, in that white frock which -shone, and with those eyes that blazed through all the neutral tints in -the room. She did not sit down, which would have been a little relief, -but seized a chair and stood with her hand upon the back, leaning upon -it. - -“I hope, mamma,” she said, pitiless, “that you liked your tea, and ate -something--and that you are better now.” - -“Oh, Bee!” cried the poor lady; “if there is one reproach more dreadful -than another it is this of being able to eat when you ought to be -overwhelmed with trouble.” Mrs. Kingsward could scarcely keep from -crying at the imputation. And Bee, I fear, knew that it was the -unkindest thing that could be said. - -“Now, mamma,” she resumed, almost stonily, “it is time that you should -tell me what has happened. We arrived here all quite happy--it is just -an hour ago----” here Bee’s voice shook a little, but she commanded it -with an effort--“I ran up to dress for dinner, and when I came back in -about ten minutes I found you and Aubrey--with your letters--looking as -if you had both been dead and buried while I was away. You wouldn’t -answer me, and he never said a word. You had done something to him in -that little time to make him turn away from me, and yet you will not -tell me what it is. Here I am alone,” said Bee, once more with a quiver -in her voice. “Aubrey ought to be standing by me. I suppose he is having -his dinner downstairs, too, and thinking no more of me. I just stand -alone, nobody caring in all the world. What is the meaning of it, -mamma?” - -“Bee, you are very hard upon me. And poor Aubrey, he is having no -dinner--of that I am sure.” - -“You called him Mr. Leigh downstairs.” - -“So I did, and so I must, and all of us; but I cannot have you speaking -of him like that, poor, poor fellow; and just for this once---- Oh, Bee, -my darling, don’t stand and look at me so! I would rather have died than -say it either to him or to you. Your papa has been hearing I don’t know -what, and he has changed his mind about Mr. Leigh altogether, and says -it must not be.” - -“What must not be?” - -“Oh, Bee! Oh, don’t take it so hard! Don’t look like that! -Your--your--engagement, my darling. Have patience; oh, have patience! He -has heard something. Men hear things that we would never hear. And he -doesn’t deny it. Oh! he doesn’t deny it. I had a hope that he would -contradict it at once, and flare up in a rage like you, and say it -wasn’t true. But he doesn’t deny it--poor boy, poor boy! And after that, -how can I say one word to papa?” - -“My engagement?” said Bee, in a hoarse voice. She had been staring at -her mother as in a dream--only partially hearing, not understanding at -all the rest that was said. “My engagement? He gave his consent. It was -all settled. You would not allow us till the letter came, but then it -was consent.” - -“Yes, yes, dear. That was at first. He consented at first because--and -now it appears he has heard something--someone has called upon him--he -has discovered--and he writes to me that it must be broken off. Oh, Bee, -don’t think my heart doesn’t bleed for you. I think it will kill me. He -says it must be broken off at once.” - -“Who says so?” said Bee, in her passion. “He! One would think you were -speaking of God--that can say ‘Yes’ to-day and ‘No’ to-morrow, and build -things up and then snatch them down. But I will not have it! I am not a -doll, to be put in one position and then in another, as anybody pleases. -My engagement! It is mine; it is not his.” - -“Bee, think; it is papa you are speaking of. Dear, I feel for you--I -feel for you! but so does he. Oh, my darling, you don’t know what you -are saying. Do you think he would do anything to make you unhappy if he -could help it--your papa, Bee, who has been so good to you all your -life?” - -“I do not care how good he has been. He is not good now. How will it -harm him? He sits at home, and he thinks he can do as he pleases. But -not with me. It is my affair more than it is his. He thinks he can break -his word and it doesn’t matter--but I have given my word, and it does -matter. Break my engagement!” cried Bee, her young bosom swelling, the -sob rising in her throat that would soon choke her voice. “It is mine -and not his; and nobody in the world shall break it. You can tell him -so, mamma, or I will write myself and tell him so. I am not a wax image -to take any shape he pleases. Who is he? He is not God----” - -“Bee--he is your father----” - -“Oh, my father! Yes, I do whatever he tells me. If he says I am to fetch -anything I run like a little dog. I have never been disobedient. But -this--this is different. I am not a child any longer. And, mamma, not -for him nor for anyone--not even for you will I take back my word.” - -“Bee! You make me say a great deal more than I meant to say. I thought -you would have been a good child and seen that papa must know best. My -poor, poor little girl, there is worse behind. Mr. Leigh, whom we all -thought so much of----” - -“Aubrey,” Bee managed to say, though for no other word could she command -her voice. - -“Darling, he has deceived us. He is not what he seems. He has done, oh, -so wrong--there have been things--that you ought never to hear----” - -“Stop!” said Bee. She had to speak in monosyllables with her labouring -breath. “Wait!--not behind his back.” She rushed to the bell and rung it -so wildly that both waiter and chambermaid appeared in alarm, with -Moulsey rushing in calling for a doctor, and saying that her lady was -going to faint. Bee pushed the woman aside and turned to the waiter, who -stood anxious at the door. “Mr. Leigh!” she cried, impatiently; “the -gentleman--who was with us: tell him--to come here.” - -“The tall young gentleman?” said the waiter. - -“No--the other: tell him he is to come here--instantly--this moment.” - -“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the man. “The other gentleman? He have -been gone away this half-hour.” - -“Gone away!” she cried. And it seemed to Bee that the blackness of -darkness closed over her and the room and everything in it. She did not -faint, oh no, no such happiness--but everything grew dark, and through -the dark she heard her own voice speaking--speaking, and did not know -what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -But Aubrey had not gone away. He had gone out in the dizziness of a -great downfall, scarcely knowing how to keep his feet steady as he -wandered along the dark street, not knowing where he went. The landscape -that had charmed them all so much--was it scarcely an hour ago?--the -lamps reflected in the water; the verandah, with its wreaths of green; -the brilliant yet mysterious glimmer of the moon, made his heart sink to -look at them now. He strayed off into the darkest of the narrow streets, -into the great gloom of the cathedral shadow, where he could see nothing -but a poor light twinkling here and there, making the darkness visible. -Oh! how certain it is that, however sweet they may seem, your sins will -find you out! Oh! how more than certain if you have let yourself be -dragged down once, only once, in a spotless life, that the one fault -will be made into the central fact of your whole existence. If he had -been a bad, dissipated man, it would have been only fair. But this poor -young fellow was like the young man whom our Lord loved though he went -away. All good things he had kept from his youth up--but once, only -once, half distracted by grief, and by the desire which is so natural to -escape from grief, and by infernal temptation, he had fallen--oh, there -was no need to tell him how he had fallen! Had it not been the canker in -his soul ever since? And now this one thing, this miserable, -much-repented fault, which revolted, disgusted, horrified himself, was -brought up against him as if it were the pattern upon which he had -shaped his life. - -And now, what was left for him but to fall down, down into the -unfathomable abyss? The distracted feelings with which he had broken -away from home, the horror and dismay that at once belonged to his -natural grief and made the burden of it a thousand times harder to bear, -all rushed back upon him, whirling him down and down to dimmer and more -awful depths. He had partially healed himself in the intolerableness of -his trouble by travel and change, and the arbitrary forgetfulness which -comes from absence and the want of any association which could call back -to him what was past; and then the touch of Bee’s soft, girlish hand, -the sound of her voice, had suddenly called him back into an enchanted -land where everything had again become possible. He had hesitated for -some time, wondering if he might dare--he who had a secret smirch upon -him which nobody suspected--to avail himself of this way of salvation. -The reader will think that he had not hesitated very long--poor -Aubrey--seeing that the introduction, the acquaintance, the love, the -engagement had all occurred within the small space of one month; but to -the brooding spirit the hours of one interminable day are long enough -for a chronicle. Something like the phenomena of love at first sight had -occurred in the bleeding yet young heart, which had felt itself cut -loose from all the best associations of life. Deliverance, recreation, -the new beginning of life and all its possibilities had gleamed upon him -in Bee’s blue eyes. Her appearance swept away everything that was dark -and ominous in his life. Did he dare to ask for her hand, to set out -again to make himself a new career? He had worked at that question -almost from the first day, discussing it with himself for the three -weeks preceding their engagement, waking and sleeping, almost without -intermission; and then in a moment he had forgotten all controversy, and -let forth without intention the words that had been lying, so to speak, -on the threshold of his lips--and in that moment all the clouds had been -swept away. He was only eight and twenty after all--so young to have -such a past behind him, and what so natural as that his life should -begin again--begin now as for the first time? He had hesitated in the -first fervour of his betrothal whether he should not tell all his story. -But there was no one to tell it to but Mrs. Kingsward--a lady, even a -young lady, not looking much older than Bee herself. That is one of the -drawbacks of a young mother. She was still in the sphere of the girls, -not in that of the old ladies whom Heaven has ordained to represent the -mothers of the race. How could he tell to her the story of that -entanglement? If Colonel Kingsward had been there, Aubrey was of opinion -that he would have made a clean breast of everything to him. But I think -it very likely that he might not have done so. He would have intended -it, and he would have put it off from day to day; and then he knew how -lightly men of the world look upon such matters. What would have -horrified Mrs. Kingsward would probably call forth nothing but a -pooh-pooh from her husband. Aubrey, as it proved, was mistaken there, -for Colonel Kingsward had ideas of his own, not always corresponding to -those of the ordinary man of the world; but no doubt had he heard the -story from that side and not from the other, he would have regarded it -in a very different light. - -But it was too late--too late for these reflections now. The fiat had -gone forth, the sentence had been pronounced beyond appeal. Oh, Bee, -Bee, she was too good for him; too fresh, too bright, unsullied by the -world, for a man who had gone through so much already although he was -still young enough. He who had loved and married--though, oh, how -differently!--poor little Amy, who was nobody, whom he had liked for her -yielding sweetness, sweetness which had cost him so dear--he who had -been a father, who had lost his way in life amid the fogs of death and -grief--how had he now dared to think that such a girl as Bee should -dedicate her fresh young life to restore him again to the lost -possibilities of his? It seemed to him the greatest presumption, the -most dreadful, cynical, almost blasphemous attempt. It was the way of -the world--to think that any woman, however good, might be sacrificed to -the necessities of a man’s restoration whatever he had done; everybody -thought so, his own mother even. But he, Aubrey, should have known -better--he should have known that even at his best he could never have -been good enough for Bee, and to think that he had dared now when he was -no longer at his best! What a fool, what a fool he had been! He had come -to be able to endure the daylight and “get on” well enough when he had -arrived at the Bath and seen her first. Why had he not contented himself -with that, knowing that he had no right to expect more? And now there -was nothing--nothing before him but a plunge into the unutterable -darkness--darker than ever, without any hope--worse almost, if worse -were possible, than when he had fled from his home. - -He did not know how long he had been roaming about the dark town -pondering all these dreadful thoughts. When he went back to the hotel, -which he finally did, worn out, not knowing where else to go, one -reproachful waiter, with eyes that said he ought to have been in bed -long ago, was waiting for him with a curt demand what he would have to -eat, and all the house, except that deserted eating-room, where one -light twinkled--reproachful, like the waiter--was shut up. He went to -his room when he had swallowed some brandy, which was the only thing he -could find to put a little warmth into his chilled limbs and despairing -heart, and threw himself miserable upon his bed, where I have no doubt -he slept, though he was not aware of it--as Bee did, though she had no -intention of doing so. - -The only one who was really a sufferer in this respect was poor Mrs. -Kingsward, who was ill, and who had been far more agitated than her -feeble strength could bear. She it was who lay and wondered all through -the night what she must do. Was he really gone without a word, thus -proving how much he was in the wrong, and how right the Colonel was? It -would have saved her from a great deal of embarrassment, but I do not -think Mrs. Kingsward wished that Aubrey might have really gone. It was -too summary, it was not natural, it would show Colonel Kingsward to have -been too right. Oh! she believed he was right! She did not doubt that -his decision was for the best any more than she doubted that it was -inexorable: but still the heart revolted a little, and she hoped that he -might not be proved so unutterably right as that. And poor Bee--poor -little Bee! She did not know, poor child, that there were bitters in the -sweetest cup--that if she had twenty years of Aubrey she would not -probably have thought quite so much of him as now--that nobody was -perfect, which was a conviction that had been forced upon Mrs. -Kingsward’s own mind, though it was not a strong one, by the passage of -the years. And then the poor lady went off into perplexed considerations -of what she personally must do. Must he leave them all at once, travel -home in a different carriage, avoid them at the stations, not venture to -come near their table when they dined on the way? It would seem so -ridiculous, and it would be so embarrassing after their very close -intercourse. But men never thought of these little things. She felt sure -that the Colonel would expect her never to let the two meet again. And -how could she do that when they were both travelling the same way? -Besides, was it fair, was it just, would Bee endure it--never to see him -again? - -Bee woke up in all the energy of despair. It burst upon her in the first -moment of her waking that he had gone away, that it was all over; but -her mind, when it had time to think, rejected that idea; he would not, -could not have gone without a word, without even saying farewell, -without asking her--anything, anything--to forgive him or to forget him, -or to be faithful to him, or not to believe what was said against him. -One or other of these things Aubrey must say to her before he went away. -Therefore, he could not have gone away, and everything was still -possible. In her passion and pride she had refused last night to let her -mother tell her what it was. She had resolved that Aubrey should be -present, that he should hear the accusation against him, that he should -give his own explanation--that was only just, she said to herself--the -poorest criminal had a right to that! And Aubrey should have it. He -should not, whatever papa said and whatever mamma said, be condemned -unheard. She dressed in great haste and rang the bell energetically to -ascertain if he had come back. But the chambermaid who answered Bee’s -bell was stupid and could not understand what Herr it was about whom the -young lady questioned her so closely. Had he come back? Oh, yes, she -believed all the Herren had come back; there was not a bed to be had in -the house. But what Herr was it whom the gracious young lady sought. -The old gentleman in the next room, who was so ill? She heard that he -was a little better this morning--or the young Herr in number ten, or -the Herr whose eyes were so bad, who was going to the great doctor at -Dusseldorf? Perhaps poor Bee’s German was at fault. She was still -attempting to make the matter clear when Moulsey came in with the news -that Mrs. Kingsward was very poorly, and had not slept at all, a -statement which Betty, rushing in half-dressed, confirmed anxiously. -“Mamma has had a very bad night; and what is the matter, Bee, that we -are all at sixes and sevens, and why did you lock your door? I came up -as soon as I could--as soon as Charlie would let me. He said it was -dreadful, nobody coming down; and that we must eat through the dinner -for the sake of appearances. And Aubrey never showing neither, and me -obliged to sleep in mamma’s room because you had locked the door.” - -“I want to know,” said Bee, “whether Aubrey came back last night.” - -“Oh, how should I know?” said Betty, “and why shouldn’t he come back? -Of course he must have come back. Is he going anywhere else but home? I -wish people would not get letters,” said the girl. “You are all so -ridiculous since those letters came last night. Letters are nice when -they are nice. But, oh! how much nicer it was yesterday morning when you -had none, and we were all quite happy, and mamma well, and Aubrey and -you as funny as you could be!” - -There flashed upon Bee as she spoke the whole bright panorama of -yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky nor a trouble in the world. Mamma as -fresh as the morning, the river shining, the steamboat thrilling through -the water with a shiver of pleasure in its wooden sides, every group -adding amusement, and they themselves affording it, no doubt, to the -rest. How conscious they had been when they laughed under their breath -at the young German pairs, that they themselves were lovers too, quite -as happy, if not so demonstrative. Oh! yesterday--yesterday! You might -as well say last century for anything that resembled it now. Bee turned -almost fiercely to Moulsey, who stood looking on with that air of -knowing all about it which so often exasperated the girls, and requested -her to go downstairs immediately and ask if Mr. Leigh had come back. -Moulsey hesitated and protested that the chambermaid would know. “And -you that know the language, Miss Bee.” - -“Go down directly and inquire if Mr. Leigh has come back. You know the -waiter that speaks such good English as well as I do,” said Bee, -peremptorily. And Moulsey could do nothing but obey. - -Yes, Mr. Leigh had come back; he had occupied his room, but was not yet -up so far as the attendants knew. There came such a change on Bee’s face -at this news as startled both the curious observers. The light grew less -fierce, more like the usual sunny brightness in her eyes. A softening -came over her face. Her colour flashed back. “I want to know when mamma -is coming downstairs,” she said. “Moulsey--or no, stop. I’ll go myself -and see.” - -Moulsey was so roused that she caught the young lady by the arm. “If it -was your papa himself, my lady shan’t be disturbed,” she said. “And not -by you, Miss Bee, as are the cause of it all; not if you should put a -knife into me afore her door.” - -“How dare you say I am the cause of it all?” - -“Because it’s the truth,” said the enraged maid. “She was worrited -enough before by those letters, and you coming in like the wind, like -your papa himself, as I always said you were his living image; and -stopping her in the middle of her little bit of cutlet that would have -given her strength, and questioning of her like a drum-major, and pacing -up and down outside the door like a wild beast. Mind my words: you don’t -know, none of you, how little strength my poor lady’s got. And you’re -all so masterful, every one, with mamma here and mamma there, and you’ll -not find out till it’s too late----” - -“But mamma’s better,” cried Betty. “She has taken her cure, and she’s -all right till next year.” - -“I only wish as you may all find it so, miss,” said Moulsey, folding her -arms across her broad chest and shaking her head. - -Bee was awe-struck for a moment by this speech, but she knew that -Moulsey was always a croaker, and it was quite true about the cure. She -paused a little uncertain, and then she resumed in a subdued voice-- - -“I never want to disturb mamma. But Moulsey, we’ve got to leave here -to-day.” - -“That can’t be,” said Moulsey, decisively. “My lady is not fit to travel -after such a bad night, and I won’t have it,” she said. “The doctor has -put my lady into my hands, and he says ‘She’s not to be overtired. Mind, -I don’t respond for nothing if she’s overtired.’ And she just shan’t -go--that’s flat. And you may all say what you like, and your papa, too.” - -“Not to-day?” said Bee, with another change of countenance. It flashed -upon her that another day’s delay would give time for all the -explanations in which she could not help hoping. Her excited pulses -calmed down a little. She was not alarmed about her mother. Had she been -so, it would no doubt have given her thoughts another direction. But Bee -knew nothing of illness, much less anything of death. She was not -afraid of them. In her experience people might be ill occasionally, but -they always got better. Mamma, too, would be better presently, when she -got up; and then they could all meet, and the letters and the whole -matter could be discussed. And it seemed to be impossible--impossible -that from this some better conclusion could be arrived at. There had -been so much confusion last night, when it burst upon them like a -thunderstroke. When looked at calmly, without flurry or haste, the -better moment would bring better views, and who could say that all might -not yet be well? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Emboldened by this thought Bee went downstairs to breakfast, which was -spread again in the verandah in the warm sunshine of the autumnal -morning. The new hope, though it were a forlorn one, restored her -youthful appetite as well as her courage, and her coffee and roll were a -real restorative after the long fast and agitated night. But there was -no appearance of Aubrey, neither at the table nor in the passages, nor -anywhere about. He seemed to have disappeared as if he had never been. -When Charlie came down from his mother’s room, where he had been shut up -with her for some time, Bee, who had no particular respect for Charlie’s -opinion or inclination to allow him any authority over herself, such as -an elder brother is sometimes supposed to have, began at once to -question him. “Where is Aubrey?” she said. “Why doesn’t he come to -breakfast? Will you go and look for Aubrey, Charlie?” - -“Indeed, I will do no such thing,” said Charlie, almost roughly. “I hope -he has had the sense to go away. I should just like to see him come -calmly down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. If he came, then I -can answer for it, you should not be allowed to say a word to him, Bee.” - -“Who should prevent me?” cried Bee, looking up with her eyes on fire and -her nostrils dilating. She had not noticed before what a cloud was upon -Charlie’s face and how heavy and scowling were his brows. She added, -springing up, “We shall soon see about that. If you think I shall do -what you tell me, or condemn any man unheard----” - -“The cad! He never denied it. You can ask mamma.” - -“I will not ask anyone but Mr. Leigh,” said Bee, throwing back her head; -“and I advise you to mind your own business, and not to call names that -may come back upon yourself.” - -“Stop where you are, Bee. I never went out into the world under false -pretences. A man is a cad when he does that.” - -“I shall not stop for you, nor anyone but my parents,” said Bee, in a -splendid flush of anger, her countenance glowing, her eyes blazing. -“Stand out of my way. Oh, if that is all, and you want to make a scene -for the edification of the tourists, I can go in by the other door.” - -And she did so, leaving Charlie standing flushed and angry, but quite -unable, it need scarcely be said, to coerce his sister. To make an -attempt of this kind, which comes to nothing, is confusing and -humiliating. He looked round angrily for a moment to see if it were -possible to intercept her, then, yielding to necessity, sat down where -Betty, eager and full of a thousand questions, sat calling for -explanations. That is the good of a family party, there is always -someone ready to hear what you have to say. - -Bee went at once to the English-speaking waiter, and asked for Mr. -Leigh, whom the man, curious as all lookers-on are at a social drama -going on under their eyes, declared to be still in his room. She sent -him off instantly with a message, and stood in the hall awaiting his -return, angry and brave, like the rose in George Herbert’s poem, yet -soon getting shamefaced and troubled, as the people coming and going, -travellers, visitors, attendants, stared at her and brushed against her -as they passed. Bee never forgot all her life the gleam of the river at -the foot of the steps, of which she had a glimpse through the -doorway--the Rhine barges slowly crossing that little space of vision, -the little boats flitting across the gleam of the rosy morning, and the -strong flowing tide, the figures going up and down breaking the -prospect. - -The man came back to her after a time, looking half sympathetic, half -malicious, with the message that the gentleman was just going out. - -“Just going out!” She repeated the words half-consciously. “Was it -Aubrey that sent her that message? Aubrey--who yesterday would not let -her out of his sight, who followed her everywhere, saw every sign she -made, heard every word almost before it was spoken!” The surprise and -the pang together made her heart sick. She could not rush upstairs and -knock at his door and call him out imperatively, to tell her immediately -what it all meant--at least, though it occurred to her that this would -be the most natural thing to do, she did not. Intimidated by the -circumstances, by the half impertinence of the waiter, by the stare of -the people about, she reflected for a moment breathlessly that he must -come out this way, and that if she remained there she must see him. But -Bee’s instinct of a young woman, now for the first time awakened, made -her shrink from this. When she was only a little girl, so very short a -time ago, she did not mind who looked at her, who pushed past her. But -now everything was different! - -She went away, still holding her head high that nobody (above all not -Charlie, who was watching her through the glass of the verandah) should -guess that her courage was drooping, and going into the deserted -sitting-room, where last night that blow had fallen upon her, sat down -and wrote to her lover a hurried little note: - - - “Oh, Aubrey, what is the matter? Have you deserted me without a - word? Do you think I am like them, to take up any report? I don’t - know what report there is--I don’t know what it is, this terrible - thing that has come between us. What is it? I will take your word - and nobody else’s. I don’t believe you have done anything that is - wrong. Aubrey! come and tell me out of your own mouth. I told mamma - last night I would hear nothing unless you were there; but you were - gone away, they said. And now you send me word that you are going - out and can’t see me. Going out and can’t see _me_! What does it - all mean? - - “If it is some fad of honour, of not seeing me against _their_ - will--though I do think your first duty is to me, Aubrey, before - anyone else in the world--but if it should be so, mamma will be - down here at twelve o’clock--and I invite you to meet her, to hear - what is said, to answer for yourself and for me. If you have done - anything wrong, what does that matter? Don’t we all do wrong? And - why should it come between you and me? Am I without sin that I - should throw stones at you? Aubrey, you can’t throw everything away - without a word. You can’t desert me without a word. I can bear - anything--anything, rather than this. - -“Your BEE----.” - - - -Bee, poor child, shrank from intrusting this to the impertinent waiter, -who had a leer in his eye as if he were defending his own side from the -importunities of the other. She went out furtively into the hall and -studied the numbers of the rooms and the names of the tenants upon the -board, necessity quickening her perceptions, and then she stole -upstairs and gave her poor little appeal into the hands of the stout -chambermaid who watched over that part of the hotel. It was for the Herr -in No. 10, and the answer was to be brought immediately to the little -salon No. 20 downstairs. “Eine Antwort,” she said over and over again in -her imperfect speech. “Schnell, schnell!” This, with the aid of a -thaler--for it was before the days of the mark--produced perfect -understanding in the mind of the maid, who with becks and wreathed -smiles accepted the commission, and in a short time brought her back the -answer for which she waited with feverish anxiety. It was very much -shorter than her own. - - “I am not worthy to stand before you. I cannot and I must not take - advantage of your innocence; better I should disappear altogether - than wound your ears with what they say. But I will not since you - will it so. At twelve o’clock then, Bee, my darling, I will stand - up before your mother, and say what I can for myself. Bee, my own - dearest, my only hope!” - -This last was scrawled across the paper as if he had put it in after the -despair of the former part. It was this that the poor little girl fixed -upon--the sweet words to which she had been accustomed, which her heart -was fainting for. It was not, one would have said, a very cheerful note -for a love-letter. But Bee was ridiculously cheered by it. So long as -she was his own dearest, his hope, his darling--so long as there was no -change in his love for her--why then, in the long run, whatever was -said, everything must come right. - -I need not follow Bee to her mother’s bedside, when Mrs. Kingsward woke -and for the first moment did not remember what had happened. - -“Is that you, Bee?” she said, smiling, not thinking. - -“Are you better, mamma?” - -“Oh, yes, just in my usual----,” said Mrs. Kingsward. And then she -caught a fuller sight of her daughter’s face. Bee had none of her usual -pretty colour, the light in her eyes was like fire. The mother gave a -little feeble cry, and in a moment was no longer in her usual, but lost -in the feverish mists of a trouble far too great for her to bear. “Oh, -Bee! Oh, Bee!” - -“We had better not say anything about it, mamma, to agitate you. I have -told him you will be ready at twelve o’clock, that I may know what the -story is, and what he has to say.” - -Mrs. Kingsward struggled up to a sitting position. “At twelve o’clock? -No! I cannot, I cannot!” Then she dropped back upon her pillows sobbing, -“Oh, Bee, spare me; I am not equal to it. There is Charlie can read your -papa’s letter. Bee! Bee!” - -“Charlie!” cried Bee, with a flash of fury. “Who is Charlie, that he -should sit in judgment on Aubrey and me? If he has anything to do with -it, I tell you, mamma, I will go away. I will go with Aubrey. I will not -hear a word.” - -“Oh, Bee,” cried Mrs. Kingsward, holding out her hot, feverish hands, “I -am not fit for it! I am not fit for it! If I am to travel to-morrow--ask -Moulsey--I ought to stop in bed and be quiet all day.” - -“I don’t see that it matters,” said Bee, sternly, “whether we travel -to-morrow or in a week. To go home will be no pleasure to me.” - -“If we were there, then papa could manage it all himself; he is the -proper person. On a journey is not the time to settle things so -important. I will write and tell him I have put it all off, and have not -said anything, till he could do it himself.” - -“But that will not be true,” cried the young Rhadamanthus, inexorable, -with her blazing eyes. - -“O Bee! you are dreadfully, dreadfully hard upon me!” the poor young -mother said. This is the drawback of being so young a mother, just as -young as your grown-up children. It is very delightful, when all is -sunny and bright, but in a great emergency like this it is trying for -all parties when a girl’s mother is only, so to speak, a girl like -herself. Bee lifted up her absolute young head, and gave forth her -ultimatum unmoved. - -“Well, mamma, it must be as you choose. If you think my happiness is of -less consequence than the chance of a headache to yourself, I have -naturally nothing more to say.” - -A headache! That was all she knew. - -Mrs. Kingsward was ready by twelve o’clock, much against Moulsey’s will, -who dressed her mistress under protest. “I ain’t one to interfere with -what’s going on in a family,” said Moulsey, as she combed out the long -locks, tangled with the restlessness of a troubled night, which were as -silky and as smooth as Bee’s. “I’m only a servant, and I knows my place; -but you’re not fit to struggle among them young ones. The nursery -children, it’s all very well; if they’re naughty you whip them, or you -put them in a corner, and there’s a good cry and all right again. But -when it comes to a business with a young lady and a gentlemen, the -Colonel ought to have come himself, or he ought to have put it off till -we all got home.” - -“Oh, I wish, I wish he had!” Mrs. Kingsward said, sighing. “I am not in -the least what I used to be, Moulsey; don’t you think I am very -different from what I used to be? I have not half the strength.” - -“There often is,” said Moulsey, “a time when a lady isn’t so strong, -after all these children and everything. It takes a deal out of you, it -do. And I don’t hold much with them foreign cures. I’m one that stands -for home. And there’s where you ought to be, ma’am, whatever anyone may -say.” - -“I am sure it is where I wish to be,” said the poor lady, “but we must -not be unjust, Moulsey. My cure did me a great deal of good, and I liked -being out and seeing everything just as much as the girls.” - -“That is just it, ma’am,” said Moulsey; “you’re a deal too much the same -as the young ladies, and can’t make up your mind as you haven’t the -strength for it. I’m not one to ask any questions, but I can’t help -seeing there’s something wrong. Don’t you give in to Miss Bee in -everything. I wouldn’t go down to make up the quarrel if I was you. -Leave ’em to themselves, and it’ll all come right. Bless us, lovers’ -quarrels is nothing--it wouldn’t be half the fun if it wasn’t for that.” - -Moulsey knew very well this was no lovers’ quarrel; but it seemed to her -a good way of satisfying herself what it was. - -“Oh, if that were all!” sighed the poor lady. “Moulsey, you are an old -friend, and take an interest in the family. You have known Miss Bee -since ever she was born. I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. It is -no quarrel; it’s something the Colonel has heard about Mr. Leigh.” - -“All lies, ma’am, I don’t make no manner of doubt.” - -“Do you think so, Moulsey; oh, do you think so? Have you heard anything? -You often know more, hearing the servants speak, than we do. If you have -any light to throw on the subject, oh, do so, do! I shall be grateful to -you all my life.” - -“I don’t know as I have any light to throw. I knew as there was some -trouble at the time the poor young lady died--some friend of hers, as -Mr. Leigh, being a kind-hearted gentleman, couldn’t turn out of the -house--and it made a talk. But if there was anything wrong, you take my -word, ma’am, it was none of his fault.” - -“Ah, it’s so easy to say that, Moulsey; but the man must bear the -blame.” - -“I’ve always heard, ma’am, as it was the woman that got the blame; and -right enough, for they often deserve it the most,” Moulsey said. - -“Oh, I wish--I wish, whoever was to blame, that it was not I that had -to clear it up,” poor Mrs. Kingsward said. - - “Oh, cursed spite, - That ever I was born to set it right.” - -She would not have said this, poor lady. She would have thought it -swearing and unbecoming for a woman’s lips; still, Hamlet’s sentiment -was hers, with much stronger reason. She looked like anything but a -strong representative of justice as she went downstairs. Charlie had -come to give her his arm, and though he was very tender to her, Charlie -had no idea of sparing her any more than Bee. He, too, thought that it -was only the risk of a headache, and that a headache was no such great -matter. Charlie’s idea was, however, that what the governor said was, of -all things on earth, the most important to be carried out--especially -when it did not concern himself. - -Bee was sitting at the window looking out upon the river, seeing the -reflections flash and the boats pass. The steamer had just started with -its lively freight--the steamboat which had brought them down the stream -yesterday, with all its changing groups, and the pairs of German lovers -with their arms about each other in the beatitude of the betrothal. All -just the same, but how different, how different! She did not rise, but -only turned her head when her mother came in. She was on the other side. -She did not see, with so many other things in her head, how fragile Mrs. -Kingsward looked. Betty was the only one who perceived at all that mamma -was less strong than usual, and even Betty took no notice, for she, too, -was on the other side. As for Charlie, he stood behind her, a sort of -representative of executive force at the back of Justice, backing her -authority up. It was he who arranged her chair, her footstool, the shawl -Moulsey had insisted she should wear, and which Charlie, who knew -nothing about shawls, huddled up about her neck, not unlike the judge’s -ermine. He did it all, not with sympathetic touches as the girls would -have done had they not been on the other side, but rather with an eye to -her dignity as a representative of the law. - -And then, just as the hour of noon sounded from all the church clocks, -Aubrey came in. He was very pale, but dressed with care, no symptoms of -neglect about him, with an air of preparation which became a man who was -going to stand his trial. Bee jumped up from her seat and went up to -him, putting her hand through his arm, and Betty, half-frightened, with -a glance at her mother, offered him a timid hand. She sat down behind -them, on a chair that was ranged against the wall. The defendant’s side -was her side. She wanted to show that, and yet not to go against mamma. -Charlie took no notice at all of the new comer, but stood scowling, -looking at nobody, behind his mother’s chair. - -Mrs. Kingsward, frightened at her own dignity and breathless with -agitation, cried, “Oh, Mr. Leigh!” which was a kind of salutation. She -had some papers in her lap, over which her hands fluttered restlessly, -her husband’s letter, and something else beside, and she looked at the -group before her with a little dubious smile, asking pardon of the -culprit whom she had come here--oh, so much against her will--to try for -his life. - -“Now, mamma,” said Bee, in a cheerful voice, “we are quite ready, Aubrey -and I--” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Mrs. Kingsward’s opening speech was a wonder to hear. She sat and looked -at them all for a moment, trying to steady herself, but there was -nothing to steady her in what she saw before her--Aubrey and Bee, the -pair who had been so sweet to see, such a diversion in all -circumstances, so amusing in their mutual absorption, so delightful in -their romance. It all flashed back to her mind; the excitement of Bee’s -first proposal, the pleasure of seeing “her bairn respected like the -lave,” though Mrs. Kingsward might not have understood what these words -meant, the little triumph it was to see her child engaged at nineteen, -when everybody said there was nobody for the girls to marry--and now to -have that triumph turned into humiliation and dismay! And to think of -Bee’s bright face overcast, and her happiness over, and poor Aubrey -thrown out into the uttermost darkness. Had she seen Charlie it might -have given her some support, for Charlie was the impersonation of -immovable severity; but Betty’s wistful little face behind the other -pair, coming out from Aubrey’s shadow by moments to fix an appealing -look upon her mother, was not calculated to make her any stronger. She -cleared her throat--she tried hard to steady her voice. She said, “Oh, -my dear children,” faltering, and then the poor lady ended in a burst of -sobbing and tears. It gave her a little sting and stimulant to see -through her weeping that though little Betty ran towards her with kisses -and soothing, Bee took no notice, but stood hard and unaffected in her -opposition, holding close to Aubrey’s arm. Mrs. Kingsward indeed got no -sympathy except from little Betty. Charlie put his hand imperatively -upon her shoulder, recalling her to herself, and Bee never moved, -standing by the side of Aubrey Leigh. The mother, thus deserted, -plucked up a little spirit in the midst of her weakness. - -“Bee,” she said, “I do not think it is quite nice of you to stand there -as if your own people were against you. We are not against you. There -has been, I fear, a great mistake made, which Colonel Kingsward”--here -she turned her eyes to Aubrey--“has found out in--in time; though it is -a pity, a sad pity, that it was not found out before. If Mr. Aubrey had -only been frank and said at once--but I don’t see what difference that -would have made. Papa says that from what he has heard and discovered -things must not go any further. He is sorry, and so am I, that they have -gone so far, and the engagement must be broken off at once. You hear -what I say, Bee?” - -“I heard you say so last night, mamma, but I say it is my engagement, -and I have a right to know why. I do not mean to break it off----” - -“Oh, how can I make explanations--how can I enter into such a question? -I appeal to you, Mr. Aubrey--tell her.” - -“She ought not to ask any explanations. She is a minor, under age. My -father has a right to do whatever he pleases--and she has none to ask -why.” - -This was how Charlie reasoned on the height of his one-and-twenty years. -Charlie was the intolerable element in all this question. Aubrey cast a -look at him, and forcibly closed his own lips to keep in something that -was bursting forth. Bee defied him, as was natural, on the spot. “I will -not have Charlie put in his opinion,” she cried. “He has nothing to do -with me. Even if I obeyed papa, I certainly should not obey him.” - -“Let Aubrey say, himself,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “whether you ought to be -told everything, Bee.” - -“It is cruel to ask me,” said Aubrey, speaking for the first time. “If -Bee could know all--if you could know all, Mrs. Kingsward! But how could -I tell you all? Part of this is true, and part is not true. I could -speak to Colonel Kingsward more freely. I am going off to-night to -London to see him. It will free you from embarrassment, and it will give -me perhaps a chance. I did not want to put you to this trial. I am ready -to put myself unreservedly in Colonel Kingsward’s hands.” - -“Then,” said Bee, hastily, “it seems I am of no sort of importance at -all to anyone. I am told my engagement is broken off, and then I am told -I am not to know why, and then----. Go, then, Aubrey, as that is your -choice, and fight it out with papa, if you please.” She loosed her arm -from his, with a slight impulse, pushing him away. “But just mind -this--everybody,” she cried; “you may think little of Bee--but my -engagement shall not be broken by anybody but me, and it shall not be -kept on by anybody but me; and I will neither give it up nor will I hold -to it, neither one nor the other, until I know why.” - -Then the judge and the defendant looked each other in the face. They -were, as may be supposed, on opposite sides, but they were the only two -to consult each other in this emergency. Aubrey responded by a movement -of his head, by a slight throwing up of his hand, to the question in -Mrs. Kingsward’s eyes. - -“Then you shall know as much as I can tell you, Bee. Your father had a -letter last week, from a lady, telling him that she had a revelation to -make. The letter alarmed your father. He felt that he must know what it -meant. He could not go himself, but he sent Mr. Passavant, the lawyer. -The lady said that she had lived in Mr. Leigh’s house for years, in the -time of his late wife. She said Mr. Leigh had--had behaved very badly to -her.” - -“That I do not believe,” said Bee. - -The words flashed out like a knife. They made a stir in the air, as if a -sudden gleam had come into it. And then all was still again, a strange -dead quiet coming after, in which Bee perceived Aubrey silent, covering -his face with his hand. It came across her with a sudden pang that she -had heard somebody say this morning or last night--“He did not deny it.” - -“And that he had promised her--marriage--that he was engaged to her, as -good as--as good as married to her--when he had the cruelty--oh, my dear -child, my dear child!--to come to you.” - -Aubrey took his hand away from his white face. “That,” he said, in a -strange, dead, tuneless voice, “is not true.” - -“Oh, more shame to you, Aubrey, more shame to you,” cried Mrs. -Kingsward, forgetting her judicial character in her indignation as a -woman, “if it is not true!--” She paused a moment to draw her breath, -then added, “But indeed you were not so wicked as you say, for it is -true. And here is the evidence. Oh!” she cried, with tears in her eyes, -“it makes your conduct to my child worse; but it shows that you were not -then, not then, as bad as you say.” - -Bee had dropped into the chair that was next to her, and there sat, for -her limbs had so trembled that she could not stand, watching him, never -taking her eyes from him, as if he were a book in which the -interpretation of this mystery was---- - -“Never mind about me,” he said, hoarsely. “I say nothing for myself. -Allow me to be as bad as a man can be, but that is not true. And what is -the evidence? You never told me there was any evidence.” - -“Sir,” said Mrs. Kingsward, fully roused, “I told you all that was in my -husband’s letter last night.” - -“Yes--that she,” a sort of shudder seemed to run over him, to the keen -sight of the watchers--“that she--said so. You don’t know, as I do, that -_that_ is no evidence. But you speak now as if there was something -more.” - -She took a piece of folded paper from her lap. “There is this,” she -said, “a letter you wrote to her the morning you went away.” - -“I did write her a letter,” he said. - -Mrs. Kingsward held it out to him, but was stopped by Charlie, who put -his hand on her arm. “Keep this document, mother. Don’t put the evidence -against him into a man’s power. I’ll read it if Mr. Leigh thinks -proper.” - -Once more Aubrey and Bee together, with a simultaneous impulse, looked -at this intruder into their story. - -“Mamma! send him away. I should like to kill him!” said Bee within her -clenched teeth. - -“Be quiet, Charlie. Mr. Leigh, I am ready to put this or any other -evidence against you into your hands.” - -He bowed very gravely, and then stood once more as if he were made of -stone. Mrs. Kingsward faltered very much, her agitated face flushed. “It -begins,” she said, in a low fluttering voice, “My dear little wife----” - -Then there came a very strange sound into the agitated silence, for -Aubrey Leigh, on trial for more than his life, here laughed. “What more, -what more?” he said. - -“No, it is not that. It is--‘I don’t want my dear little wife to be -troubled about anything. It can all be done quite easily and quietly, -without giving an occasion for people to talk; a settlement made and -everything you could desire. I shall make arrangements about everything -to-day.’ It is signed A. L., and it is in your handwriting. Bee, you can -see it is in his handwriting; look for yourself.” - -Bee would not turn her head. She thought she saw the writing written in -fire upon the air--all his familiar turns in it. How well she knew the -A. L.; but she did not look at it--would not look. She had enough to do -looking at his face, which was the letter--the book she was studying -now. - -“No doubt it is my handwriting,” he said, “only it was addressed not to -any other woman, but to my wife.” - -“Your wife died two years ago, Mr. Leigh; and that is dated -Christmas--this year.” - -“That is a lie!” he cried; then restrained himself painfully. “You know -I don’t mean you--but the date and the assumption is entirely a lie. -Give me time, and I will tell you exactly when it was written. I -remember the letter. It was when I had promised Amy to provide for her -friend on condition that she should be sent away--for she made my house -miserable.” - -“And yet--and yet, Mr. Leigh----. Oh, don’t you see how things -contradict each other? She made your house miserable, and yet---- when -your wife was dead, and you were free----” - -He looked at her, growing paler and paler. “And yet!” he said. “I know -what you mean. That is the infernal art of it. My own folly has cut the -ground from beneath my feet, and put weapons into every hand against me. -I know--I know.” - -Again there came into Bee’s mind the words she had heard last night--“He -does not deny it.” And yet he was denying it with all his might! -Denying, and not denying--what? The girl’s brain was all in a maze, and -she could not tell. - -“You see?” said Mrs. Kingsward, gently. “Oh, I am sorry for you in my -heart. Perhaps you were led into--a connection that you feel not to -be--desirable. That I can understand. But that you should think you -could save yourself by means of an innocent girl, almost a child, and -impose yourself on a family that had no suspicions!--oh, Mr. Leigh, Mr. -Leigh! you ought to have died sooner than have done that!” - -He looked at her piteously for a moment, and then a dreadful sort of -smile came upon his face. “I allow,” he said, “that that would have been -the best.” - -And there fell a silence upon the room. The sun was shining outside, and -the sound of the water gurgling against the sides of boats, and of all -the commotion of the landing place, and of the hundreds of voices in the -air, and of the chiming of the clocks, came in and filled the place. -And just then there burst out a carillon from one of the steeples -setting the whole to music, harmonising all the discords, and sweeping -into this silence with a sudden rush of sound as if some bodily presence -had come in. It was the touch too much for all these excited and -troubled people. Mrs. Kingsward lay back in her chair and began to weep -silently. Aubrey Leigh turned away from where he was standing and leant -his head against the wall. As for Bee, she sat quite still, dazed, not -able to understand, but crushed out of all her youthful self-assertion -and determination to clear it all up. She to clear it up!--who did not -even understand it, who could not fathom what was meant. That there was -something more than met the eye, something that was not put into words, -seemed to show vaguely through the words that were said. But what it was -Bee could not tell. She could not understand it all. And yet that there -was a fatal obstacle rising up between her and her lover, something -which no one could disperse or clear away, not a mistake, not a -falsehood, not a thing that could be passed over triumphantly and -forgotten--not as youth is so quick to believe a mere severity, tyranny, -arbitrary conclusion of papa--she felt in every fibre of her frame. She -could not deny it or struggle against it; her very being seemed -paralysed. The meaning went out of her face, the absolute, certain, -imperious youthfulness died out of her. She who loved to have her own -way, who had just protested that she would neither give up nor hold fast -except by her own will and understanding, now sat dumb, vaguely staring, -seeing shadows pass before her and hearing of things which were -undeniable, mighty things, far more powerful than her little hot -resolutions and determinations. Bee had never yet come face to face with -any trouble which could not be smoothed away. There was her own -naughtiness, there were Charlie’s escapades at school and college--some -of which she had known were serious. But in a little while they had been -passed over and forgotten, and everything had been as before. One time -she remembered papa had threatened not to let Charlie go back to Harrow, -which was a dreadful thing, exposing him and his naughtiness to all the -world. But after a while papa had changed his mind, and everything had -gone smoothly as before. Could papa change his mind now? Would time make -it, even if he did, as it was before? Bee had not mental power enough to -think these things, or ask these questions of her own will. But they -went through her mind as people come in and go out by an open door. - -It was Aubrey who was the first to speak. The carillon stopped, or else -they got used to the sound and took no further notice of it, and he -collected himself and came forward again to the middle of the room. He -said, “I know it will be a relief that I should go away. There is an -afternoon train which I shall take. It is slow, but it does not matter. -I shall be as well there as anywhere--or as ill. I shall go direct to -Colonel Kingsward and lay my whole case before him. He will perhaps -confront me with my accuser--I hope so--if not, he will at least hear -what I have to say for myself.” - -“Oh, Mr. Leigh! Oh, Aubrey! I can’t wish you anything but well, -whatever--whatever may be done!” - -“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsward, I looked for nothing less from your kind -heart. Will you give me that letter?” - -She put it into his hands without the least hesitation, and he examined -it--with a sort of strained smile upon his face. “I should like to take -this back to Colonel Kingsward,” he said. Then added quickly with a -short laugh, “No, I forgot; there might be suspicions. Send it back to -him, please, by the first post, that he may have it when I get there.” -He gave the letter back, and then he looked round wistfully. “May I say -good-bye to Bee?” - -She got up at the words, feeling herself vaguely called upon--yet quite -dull, dumb, with all sorts of thoughts going and coming through those -wide-open doors of her mind--thoughts like strays which she seemed to -see as they passed. Even Aubrey himself appeared a ghost. She got up and -stood awaiting him when he approached her, not putting out a finger. -Nobody interfered, not even Charlie, who was fuming internally yet -somehow did not move. Aubrey went up to her and put his hands upon her -shoulders. Her unresponsiveness sent a chill to his heart. - -“Have you given me up, Bee?” he cried, “Already, already!” with anguish -in his voice. - -She could not say a word. She shook her head like a mute, looking at him -with her dazed eyes. - -“She does not understand it--not a word!” he said. - -Bee shook her head again. It was all she could do. No, she did not -understand, except that it was a kind of dying, something against which -nobody could struggle. And then he kissed her on her forehead as gravely -as though he had been her father; and the next moment was gone--was it -only out of the room, or out of the world, out of life? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -It was a slow train. The slowest train that there is, is, of course, -far, far quicker than any other mode of conveyance practicable in a land -journey, but it does not seem so. It seems as if it were delay -personified to the eager traveller, especially on the Continent. In -England, when it stops at a multiplicity of stations at which there is -nothing to do, it at least goes on again in most cases after it has -dropped its half-passenger or taken in its empty bag of letters. But -this can never be said of a German or even of a brisker Belgian train. -The one in which Aubrey was meandered about Liege, for instance, till he -had mastered every aspect of that smoky but interesting place. It -stopped for what looked like an hour at every little roadside station, -in order, apparently, that the guard might hold a long and excited -conversation about nothing at all with the head man of the place. And -all the while the little electric bell would go tingling, tingling upon -his very brain. Thus he made his slow and weary progress through the -afternoon and evening, stopping long at last at a midnight station -(where everything was wrapped in sleep and darkness) for the arrival of -the express, in which the latter portion of the journey was to be -accomplished more quickly. If there had been anything wanted to complete -the entire overthrow of a spirit in pain it was such an experience. All -was dismal beyond words at the place where he had to wait--one poor -light showing through the great universe of darkness, the dark big world -that encompassed it around--one or two belated porters wandering through -the blackness doing mysterious pieces of business, or pretending to do -them. A poor little wailing family--a mother and two children, put out -there upon a bench from some other train, one of the babies wailing -vaguely into the dark, the other calling upon “mamma, mamma,” driving -the poor mother frantic--were waiting like himself. It gave Aubrey a -momentary consolation to see something that appeared at least to the -external eye more forlorn than he. He remembered, too, that there had -once been a baby cry that went to his heart, and though all the -associations connected with that had now turned into gall and -bitterness, so that the sound seemed like a spear penetrating his very -being, and he walked away as far as the bounds of the station would -allow, to get, if possible, out of hearing of it--yet pity, a better -inspiration, at last gained the day. He went up and spoke to the woman, -and found that she was an English workman’s wife making her way home -with her children to a mother who was dying. They had turned her out -here, with her babies, to wait--ah, not for the express train which was -to carry on the gentleman, but for the slow, slow-creeping third-class -which only started in the morning, and which would, after other long -waits at other places, reach England sometime, but she could scarcely -tell when. - -“And must you pass the night here out in the cold?” said Aubrey. - -“It isn’t not to call a cold night, sir,” said the woman, meekly, “and -they’ve got plenty on to keep them warm.” - -“I’ll try and get them to open the waiting-room for you,” said Aubrey. - -“Oh, no, sir; thank you kindly, but don’t take the trouble--the rooms -are that stuffy. It’s better for them in the open air, and they’ll go to -sleep in a little while. Baby will be quite warm on my lap, and Johnny’s -lying against me.” - -“And what is to become of you in this arrangement?” said Aubrey, looking -pitifully, with eyes that had known the experiences both of husband and -father, upon this little plump human bed, which was to stand in the -place of down pillows for the children. - -“Oh, I’ll do very well, sir, when they go to sleep,” she said, looking -up at him with a smile. - -“And when does your train go?” - -“Not till six in the morning,” she replied; “but perhaps that’s all the -better, for I’ll be able to get them some bread and milk, and a good -wash before we start.” - -Well, it was not much of an indulgence for a man who was well off. He -might have thrown it away on any trifle, and nobody would have wasted a -thought on the subject. He got hold of one of the wandering ghosts of -porters, and got him, with a douceur, to change the poor woman’s cheap -ticket for her into one for the express, and commissioned him, if -possible, to get her a place in a sleeping carriage, where, I fear, she -was not likely to be at all a warmly welcomed addition to the luxurious -young men or delicate ladies in these conveyances. He saw that there was -one found for her which was almost empty when the train came up. He -scarcely knew if she were young or old--though indeed, as a matter of -fact, the poor little mother, bewildered by her sudden elevation among -the gentlefolks, and not quite sure that she would not have preferred to -remain where she was and pick up in the morning her natural third-class -train, was both young and pretty, a fact that was remarked by the one -young lady in the carriage, who saw the young man through the window at -her side, and recognised him in a flash of the guard’s lantern, with -deep astonishment to see him handing in such a woman and such children -to the privileged places. He disappeared himself into the dark, and -indeed took his place in the corner of a smoking carriage, where his -cigar was a faint soother of pain. In his human short-sightedness, poor -Aubrey also was consoled a little, I think, by the thought that this -poor fellow-passenger was comfortable--she and her children--and that -instead of slumbering uneasily on a bench, she was able to lay the -little things in a bed. It seemed to him a good omen, a little -relaxation of the bonds of fate, and he went away cheered a little and -encouraged by this simple incident and by the warmth of the kindness -that was in his heart. - -He spoke to them again on one or two occasions on the way, sent the poor -woman some tea in the morning, bought some fruit for the children, and -again on the steamboat crossing, when he listened to the account of how -they were going on, from Dover, with a certain interest. When they -parted at the train he shook hands with the mother, hoping she would -find her relation better, and put a sovereign into Johnny’s little fat -hand. The lady who had been in the sleeping carriage kept her eye upon -him all the time. She was not by any means a malicious or bad woman, but -she did not believe the poor woman’s story of the gentleman’s kindness. -She was, I am sorry to say, a lady who was apt to take the worst view of -every transaction, especially between men and women. People who do so -are bound in many cases to be right, and so are confirmed in their -odious opinion; but in many cases they are wrong, yet always hold to it -with a faith which would do credit to a better inspiration. “I thought -young Mr. Leigh was going to marry again,” she said to a friend whom she -met going up to town. - -“Oh, so he is! To the nicest girl--Bee Kingsward, the daughter of one of -my dearest friends--such a satisfactory thing in every way.” - -“Wasn’t there something,” said the lady of the sleeping carriage, “about -a woman, down at his place in the country?” - -“Oh, I don’t think there was ever anything against him. There was a -woman who was a great friend of his poor wife, and lived with them. The -wife was a goose, don’t you know, and could not be made to see what a -foolish thing it was. My opinion is that he never could abide the woman, -and I am sure she made mischief between them. But I believe that silly -little Mrs. Leigh--poor thing, we should not speak ill of those that are -gone--made him promise on her deathbed that this Miss Something-or-other -should not be sent away from the house. It was a ridiculous arrangement, -and no woman that respected herself would have done it. But she was -poor, and it’s a comfortable place, and, perhaps, as there was no -friendship between them she may have thought it was no harm.” - -“Perhaps she thought she would get over him in time and make him marry -her.” - -“Oh, I can’t tell what she thought! He rushed off in a hurry at a -moment’s notice, nobody knowing what he intended, after the poor baby -died, the very day of its funeral. Not much to be wondered at, poor -young man, after all he had gone through. I don’t know how things were -settled with Miss Lance, but I believe that she has gone at last. And I -am delighted to hear of his engagement. So will all his neighbours in -the county be.” - -“I should not like a daughter of mine to marry a man like that.” - -“Why? I wish a daughter of mine could have the chance. Everybody likes -him at home. Do you know anything of Aubrey Leigh?” - -He did not know in the least that this talk was going on as the train -went rushing on to town; his ears did not tingle. He was in the next -carriage, divided only by a plank from these two ladies in their -compartment. The woman who took the bad view of everything did not wish -him any harm. She did not even think badly of him. She thought it was -only human nature, and that young men will do that sort of thing, -however nice they may be, and whatever you may say of morals and so -forth. I do not think, though she had made that little conventional -speech, that she would at all have hesitated to give her own daughter to -Aubrey, provided that she had a daughter. His advantages were so -evident, and the disadvantages, after all, had so little to do with -actual life. - -Aubrey did not present himself before Colonel Kingsward that night. He -did not propose to follow him to Kingswarden, the old house in Kent, -which was the sole remnant of territorial property belonging to the -family. He wanted to have all his wits about him, to be cool and -self-possessed, and able to remember everything, when he saw the man who -had given him Bee and then had withdrawn her from his arms. He already -knew Colonel Kingsward a little, and knew him as a man full of -_bonhommie_, popular everywhere--a man of experience, who had been about -the world, who knew men. By this time Aubrey had recovered his spirits a -little. He thought it impossible that such a man, when a younger than -himself laid bare his heart to him, could fail to understand. It was -true that the Colonel was probably a martinet in morals as he was in his -profession, and Aubrey had that behind him which he could not deny. He -would not attempt to gloss it over, to make excuses for it. He would lay -his life in this man’s hand as if he had been his confessor. And -surely, surely the acknowledged sin would find absolution, the -extenuating circumstances would be considered, the lie with which that -accusation was accompanied would recoil upon the accuser. The young man -buoyed himself up with these thoughts through the long evening. He did -not go out or to his club, or anywhere where he was known. In September -there are not so many inducements to stray about London. He sat in his -room and thought of Bee, and wrote little letters to her, which were a -relief to his mind though he knew he could not send them. By this time -he reflected they must have started. They were beginning their journey -as he ended his. He hoped that Charlie, that lout, would have the sense -to take care of his mother, to see that she suffered as little as -possible, to prevent her from having any trouble--which I fear was not -the view at all that Charlie took of his duty to his mother. Aubrey, -like all outsiders, had a clearer view of Mrs. Kingsward’s condition -than her family had arrived at. He was very sorry for her, poor, -delicate, tender woman--and grieved to the bottom of his heart that this -trouble should have come upon her through him. Bee was different. There -would be so many ways, please God, if all went well--and he could not -bring himself to think that all would not go well--in which he could -make it up to his Bee. Finally, he permitted himself to write a little -letter to meet his darling on her return, and enclosed in it another to -Mrs. Kingsward, directed to Kingswarden. They would receive it when they -entered their house--and by that time, surely by that time, his letters -would not be any longer a forbidden thing. - -That morning it rained, and the London skies hung very low. The world -had the effect of a room with a low roof, stifling and without air. He -set out to walk to Colonel Kingsward’s office. I forget whether the -Intelligence Department of the War Office was in existence at that time, -or if it has always been in existence only not so much heard of as in -our vociferous days. If it did exist then, it was, of course, in Pall -Mall, as we all know. Aubrey set out to walk, but soon recollected that -muddy boots detracted from a man’s appearance, especially in the eyes of -a spick and span person like Colonel Kingsward, who never had a speck -upon any garment, and accordingly he got into a hansom. It did not go -any faster than the beating of his heart, and yet he could have wished -that it should only creep along like the heavier cabs. He would have put -off this interview now had he been able. To think that you are within an -hour at most of the moment when your life shall be settled for you -absolutely by another person’s will, and that your happiness or -unhappiness rest upon the manner in which he will look at the question, -the perception he will have of your difficulties, the insight into your -heart, is a terrible thing--especially if you know little of the person -who has thus become endowed, as it were, with the power of life and -death over you--do not know if his understanding is a large or limited -one, if he has any human nature in him, or only mere conventionality and -the shell of human nature. It is seldom, perhaps, that one man is thus -consciously in the power of another--and yet it must come to that more -or less, every day. - -Colonel Kingsward was in his room, seated at his writing table with -piles of books and maps, and masses of newspapers all round him. He was -an excellent linguist, and there were French papers and German papers, -Russian, Scandinavian--all kinds of strange languages and strange little -broadsheets, badly printed, black with excessive ink, or pale with -imperfect impression, on the floor and the table. He had a large paper -knife at his hand in ivory, with the natural brown upon it, looking like -a weapon which could cut a man, not to say a book, in pieces. He looked -up with an aspect which Aubrey, whose heart was in his mouth, could not -read--whether it was mere politeness or something more--and bade Mr. -Leigh be seated, putting aside deliberately as he did so the papers with -which he was engaged. And then he turned round with the air of a man who -says: Now you have my entire attention--and looked Aubrey in the face. -The young man was facing the light which came in from a large high -window reaching nearly to the roof. The elder man had his back half -turned from it, so that his regard was less easy to read. It was not -quite fair. Aubrey had everything against him; his agitation, his -anxiety, an expressive tell-tale face, and the light searching every -change that took place in it; whilst his opponent was calm as his own -paper knife, impassive, with a countenance formed to conceal his -emotions, and the light behind him. It was not an equal match in any -way. - -“I have come direct from Cologne,” Aubrey said. - -“Ah, yes. I believe my wife says so in her letter.” - -“You have news from them to-day? I hope that Mrs. Kingsward is better.” - -“My wife never at any time speaks much of her health. She was a little -fatigued and remained another day to rest.” - -“She is very delicate, sir,” said Aubrey. He did not know why, unless it -was reluctance to begin what he had to say. - -“I am perfectly acquainted with Mrs. Kingsward’s condition,” said the -Colonel, in a tone which was not encouraging. He added, “I don’t suppose -you took the trouble to come here, Mr. Leigh, in order to speak to me -about my wife’s health.” - -“No. It is true. I ought not to waste the time you have accorded me. I -do not need to tell you, Colonel Kingsward, what I have come about.” - -“I think you do,” said the Colonel, calmly. “My letter to my wife, which -I believe she communicated to you, conveyed all I had to say on the -matter. It was not written without reflection, nor without every -possible effort to arrive at the truth. Consequently, I have no desire -to re-open the subject. It is in my mind concluded and put aside.” - -“But you will hear me?” said Aubrey. “You have heard one statement, -surely you will hear the other. No man is condemned unheard. I have come -here to throw myself upon your mercy--to tell you my story. However -prejudiced you may be against me----” - -“A moment, Mr. Leigh. I have no prejudice against you. I am not the -judge of your conduct. I claim the right to decide for my daughter--that -is all. I have no prejudice or feeling against you.” - -“Colonel Kingsward,” cried Aubrey, “for God’s sake listen! Hear what I -have to say!” - -The Colonel looked at him again. Perhaps it was the passion of -earnestness in the young man’s face that touched him. Perhaps he felt -that it was unwise to leave it to be said that he had not heard both -sides. The end was that he waved his hand and said: - -“My time is not my own. I have no right to spend it on merely private -interests; but if you will make your story as short as possible I will -hear what you have to say.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -The story which Aubrey Leigh had to tell was indeed made as short as -possible. To describe the most painful crisis in your life, the moment -which you yourself shudder to look back at, which awakens in you that -fury of self-surprise, horror and wonder which a sudden departure from -all the habits of your life brings after it when it is guilt, is not an -easy thing; but it supplies terse expressions and rapidity of narration. -There is no desire to dwell upon the details, and to tell a story so -deeply affecting one’s self to a politely unsympathetic listener who -does not affect to be much interested or at all moved by the subtle -self-defence which runs through every such statement, is still more -conducive to brevity. Aubrey laid bare the tempest that had swept over -him with a breathless voice and broken words. He could not preserve his -equanimity, or look as if it were an easy thing for him to do. He made -the most hurried description of the visitor who had taken possession of -his house, saying not a word beyond the bare fact. It had been deeply -embarrassing that she should be there, though at first in the melancholy -of his widowerhood he had not thought of it, or cared who was in the -house. Afterwards he was prevented from doing anything to disturb her by -his promise to his dying wife. Then had come the anxiety about the baby, -the wavering of that little life in which the forlorn young father had -come to take a little pleasure. She had been very kind to the child, -watching over it, and when the little thing died, when the misery of the -fresh desolation, and the pity of it, and the overwhelming oppression of -the sad house had quite overcome the spirit of its young master, then -she had thrown herself upon him, with all the signs of a sudden passion -of sympathy and tenderness. Had any confessor skilled in the accounts of -human suffering heard Aubrey’s broken tale he could have found nothing -but truth in it, and would have recognised the subtle sequence of events -which had led to that downfall. But Colonel Kingsward, though not -unlearned in men, listened like a man of wood, playing with the large -paper-knife, and never looking towards the penitent, who told his story -with such a strain of the labouring breast and agonised spirit. Had a -young officer in whom he had no particular interest thus explained and -accounted for some dereliction of duty he might have understood or -sympathised. But he had no wish to understand Aubrey; his only desire -was to brush him off as quickly as possible, to be done with his -ridiculous story, to hear of him no more. He might be as little guilty -as he described himself. What then? Aubrey’s character was nothing to -Colonel Kingsward, except as it affected his daughter. He had cut him -off from all connection with his daughter, and it was now quite -immaterial to him whether the man was a weak fool or a deceiver. -Probably from as much as he heard while thus listening as little as he -could, Leigh was in the former class, and certainly he did not intend -to take a weak fool, who had shown himself to be at the mercy of any -designing woman, into his family as the husband of Bee. Give him the -benefit of the doubt, and allow that it had happened so, that the woman -was much more to blame than the man, and what then? A sturdy sinner on -the whole was not less but more easily pardoned than a weak fool. - -“This is all very well, Mr. Leigh,” Colonel Kingsward said, “and I am -sorry that you have thought it necessary to enter into these painful -details. They may be quite true. I will not offend you by doubting that -you believe them to be quite true. But how, then, do you account for the -letter which my wife, I believe, showed you, and which came direct from -the lady’s own hand to mine?” - -“The letter was a letter which I wrote to my wife two years ago. There -had been discussions between us on this very subject. I promised, on -condition that Miss Lance should leave us, to make such arrangements for -her comfort as were possible to me--to settle a yearly income on her, -enough to live on.” - -“Was that arrangement ever carried out?” - -“No; my wife became ill immediately after. I found her on my return in -Miss Lance’s arms, imploring that so long as she lived her friend should -not be taken from her. What could I do? And that prayer was changed on -my poor Amy’s deathbed to another--that I would never send Miss Lance -away; that she should always have a home at Forest-leigh and watch over -the child.” - -“I don’t wish to arouse any such painful recollections--especially as -they can be of no advantage to anyone--but how does this letter come to -have the date of last Christmas, more than a year after Mrs. Leigh’s -death?” - -“How can I tell that, sir? How can I tell how the devilish web was woven -at all? The note had no date, I suppose, and the person who could use it -for this purpose would not hesitate at such a trifle as to add a date.” - -“Mr. Leigh, I repeat the whole matter is too painful to be treated by -me. But how is it, if you regarded this lady with those sentiments, -that you should have in a moment changed them, and, to put the mildest -interpretation upon your proceedings, thus put yourself in her power?” - -The young man’s flushed and anxious face grew deadly pale. He turned his -eyes from the inquisitor to the high blank light pouring in from the -large window. “God knows,” he said, “that is what I cannot explain--or -rather, I should say, the devil knows!” he cried with vehemence. “I was -entirely off my guard--thinking, heaven knows, of nothing less.” - -“The devil is a safe sort of agency to put the blame on. We cannot in -ordinary affairs accept him as the scapegoat, Mr. Leigh--excuse me for -saying so. I will not refuse to say that I allow there may be excuses -for you, with a woman much alive to her own interests and ready for any -venture. You did write to her, however, on the day you left?” - -“I wrote to her, telling her the arrangement I had proposed to my wife, -in the very letter which she has sent to you--that I would carry it out -at once, and that I hoped she would perceive, as I did, that it was -impossible we should remain under the same roof, or, indeed, meet -again.” - -“That was on what date?” - -“The evening before my child’s funeral. Next day, as soon as it was -over, I left the house, and have never set foot in it again.” - -“Yet this lady, to whom you had, you say, sent such a letter, was at the -funeral, and stood at the child’s grave leaning on your arm.” - -“More than that,” cried Aubrey, with a gasp of his labouring breath, -“she came up to me as I stood there and put her arm, as if to support -me, within mine.” - -The Colonel could not restrain an exclamation. “By Jove,” he said, “she -is a strong-minded woman, if that is true. Do you mean to say that this -was after she had your letter?” - -“I suppose so. I sent it to her in the morning. I was anxious to avoid -any scene.” - -“And then, on your way to London, on that day, you went to your -solicitors, and gave instructions in respect to Miss Lance’s -annuity--which you say now had been determined on long before?” - -“It was determined on long before.” - -“But never mentioned to any one until that time.” - -“I beg your pardon; on the day on which I wrote that letter to my -wife I went direct to my lawyer and talked the matter over freely -with Mr. Morell, who had known me all my life, and knew all the -circumstances--and approved my resolution, as the best of two evils, he -said.” - -“This is the most favourable thing I have heard, Mr. Leigh. He will, of -course, be able to back you up in what you say?” - -“Mr. Morell!” Aubrey sprang to his feet with a start of dismay. “I -think,” he cried, “all the powers of hell must be against me. Mr. Morell -is dead.” - -They looked at each other for a moment in silence. A half smile came -upon the Colonel’s face, though even he was a little overawed by the -despair in the countenance of the young man. - -“I don’t know that it matters very much,” he said, “for, after all, Mr. -Leigh, your anxiety to get rid of your wife’s companion might have two -interpretations. You might have been sincerely desirous to free yourself -from a temptation towards another woman, which would have given Mrs. -Leigh pain. A man does not sacrifice two hundred a year without a strong -motive. And subsequent events make this a far more likely reason than -the desire to get rid of an unwelcome inmate.” - -“I cannot tell whether my motive was likely or not. I tell you, sir, -what it was.” - -“Ah, yes--but unfortunately without any corroboration--and the story is -very different from the other side. It appears from that that you wished -to establish relationship during your poor wife’s life, and that it was -the lady who was moved by pity for you in a moment of weakness--which is -much more according to the rule in such matters.” - -“It is a lie!” Aubrey cried. “Colonel Kingsward, you are a man--and an -honourable man. Can you imagine another man, with the same principles as -yourself, guilty of such villainy as that? Can you believe----” - -“Mr. Leigh,” said the other, “it is unnecessary to ask me what I can -believe; nor can I argue, from what I would do, as to what you would do. -That may be of good Christianity, you know, but it is not tenable in -life. Many men are capable enough of what I say; and, indeed, I do you -the credit to believe that you were willing to keep the temptation at a -distance--to make a sacrifice in order to ease the mind of your wife. I -show a great deal of faith in you when I say that. Another man might say -that Mrs. Leigh had exacted it from you as a thing necessary to her -peace.” - -Aubrey Leigh rose up again, and began to pace the room from one side to -the other. He could not keep still in his intolerable impatience and -scorn of the net which was tightening about his feet. Anger rose up like -a whirlwind in his mind; but to indulge it was to lose for ever the -cause which, indeed, was already lost. When he had gained control over -himself and his voice, he said, “We had neighbours; we had friends; our -life was not lived in a corner unknown to the world. There is my mother; -ask them--they all know----.” - -“Does anyone outside know what goes on between a husband and wife?” said -Colonel Kingsward. “Such discussions do not go on before witnesses. If -poor Mrs. Leigh----” - -“Sir,” cried Aubrey, stung beyond hearing, “I will not permit any man to -pity my wife.” - -“It was beyond my province I allow, but one uses the word for those who -die young. I don’t know why, for if all is true that we profess to -believe they certainly have the best of it. Well, if Mrs. Leigh, to -speak by the book, had any such burden on her mind, and really felt her -happiness to depend on the banishment of that dangerous companion, it is -not likely that she would speak of it either to your neighbours or to -your mother.” - -“Why not? My mother was of that mind, though not for that villainous -reason; my mother knew, everybody knew--everybody agreed with me in -wishing her gone. I appeal to all who knew us, Colonel Kingsward! There -is not a friend I have who did not compassionate me for Amy’s insensate -affection. God forgive me that I should say a word against my poor -little girl, but it was an infatuation--as all her friends knew.” - -“Don’t you think we are now getting into the region of the extravagant?” -Colonel Kingsward said. “I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.” - -Aubrey had to pause again to master himself. If this man, with his -contemptuous accents, his cool disdain, were not Bee’s father!---- but -he was so, and, therefore, must not be defied. He answered after a time -in a subdued voice. “Will you allow me--to send one or two of them to -tell you what they know. There is Fairfield, with whom you are -acquainted already, there is Lord Langtry, there is Vavasour, who was -with us constantly----” - -“To none of these gentlemen, I presume, would Mrs. Leigh be likely to -unfold her most intimate sentiments.” - -“Two of them have wives,” said Aubrey, determined to hold fast, “whom -she saw familiarly daily--country neighbours.” - -“I must repeat, Mr. Leigh, I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.” - -“Do you mean that you will not hear any evidence, Colonel -Kingsward?--that I am condemned already?--that it does not matter what I -have in my favour?” - -Colonel Kingsward rose to dismiss his suitor. “I have already said, Mr. -Leigh, that I am not your judge. I have no right to condemn you. Your -account may be all true; your earnestness and air of sincerity, I allow, -in a case in which I was not personally involved, would go far to making -me believe it was true. But what then? The matter is this: Will I allow -my daughter to marry a man of whom such a question has been raised? I -say no: and there I am within my clear rights. You may be able to clear -yourself, making out the lady to be a sort of demon in human shape. My -friend, who saw her, said she was a very attractive woman. But really -this is not the question. I am not a censor of public morals, and on the -whole it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are guiltless or -not. The sole thing is that I will not permit my daughter to put her -foot where such a scandal has been. I have nothing to do with you but -everything with her. And I think now that all has been said.” - -“That is, you will not hear anything more?” - -“Well--if you like to put it so--I prefer not to hear any more.” - -“Not if Bee’s happiness should be involved?” - -“My daughter’s happiness, I hope, does not depend upon a man whom she -has known only for a month. She may think so now. But she will soon know -better. That is a question into which I decline to enter with you.” - -“Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,” said -Aubrey, with a coarse laugh. He turned as if to go away. “But you do not -mean that this is final, Colonel Kingsward---- not final? Not for ever? -Never to be revised or reconsidered---- even if I were as bad as you -think me?” - -“How needless is all this! I have told you your character does not -concern me--and I do not say that you are bad--or think so. I am sorry -for you. You have got into a rather dreadful position, Mr. Leigh, for a -young man of your age.” - -“And yet at my age you think I should be cut off for ever from every -hope of salvation!” - -“Not so; this is all extravagant--ridiculous! And if you will excuse me, -I am particularly busy this morning, with a hundred things to do.” - -Poor Aubrey would have killed with pleasure, knocked down and trampled -upon, the immovable man of the world who thus dismissed him; but to be -humble, even abject, was his only hope. “I will try, then, to find some -moment of leisure another time.” - -“It is unnecessary, Mr. Leigh. I shall not change my mind; surely you -must see that it is better for all parties to give it up at once.” - -“I shall never give it up.” - -“Pooh! one nail drives out another. You don’t seem to have been a -miracle of constancy in your previous relationships. Good morning. I -trust to hear soon that you have made as satisfactory a settlement of -other claims.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Other claims! What other claims? Aubrey Leigh went out of the office in -Pall Mall with these words circling through his mind. They seemed to -have nothing to do with that which occupied him, which filled every -thought. His dazed memory and imagination caught them up as he went -forth in the fury of suppressed anger, and the dizzy, stifled sensation -of complete failure. He had felt sure, even when he felt least sure, -that when it was possible to tell his tale fully, miserable story as it -was, the man to whom he humbled himself thus, not being a recluse or a -mere formalist--a man of the world--would at least, to some degree, -understand and perceive how little real guilt there might be even in -such a fault as he had committed. It was not a story which could be -repeated in a woman’s ears; but a man, who knew more or less what was in -man--the momentary lapses, the sudden impulses, the aberrations of -intolerable trouble, sorrow, and despair----. Aubrey did not take into -account the fact that there are some men to whom such a condition as -that into which he himself had fallen in the desolation of his silent -house--when death came a second time within the sad year, and his young -soul felt in the first sensation of despair that he could not bear it; -that he was a man signalled out by fate, to whom it was vain to -struggle, to whom life was a waste and heaven a mockery--was -inconceivable. Colonel Kingsward was certainly not a man like that. He -would have said to himself that the mother being gone it was only a -blessing and advantage that the child should go too, and he would have -withdrawn himself decorously to his London lodgings and his club, and -his friends would all have said that it was on the whole a good thing -for him, and that he was young, and his life still before him. So, -indeed, they had said of Aubrey, and so poor Aubrey had proved for -himself. Had there not been that terrible moment behind him, that -intolerable blackness and midnight of despair, in which any hand that -gripped his could lead him till the light of morning burst upon him, and -showed him whither in his misery he had been led! - -Satisfy other claims? The words blew like a noxious wind through his -brain. He laughed to himself softly as he went along. What claims had he -to satisfy? He had done all that honour and scorn could do to satisfy -the harpy who had dug her claws into his life. Should he try to -propitiate her with other gifts? No, no! That would be but to prolong -the scandal, to give her a motive for continuance, to make it appear -that he was in her power. He was in her power, alas, fatally as it -proved, if it should be so that she had made an end of the happiness of -his life. She had blighted the former chapter of that existence, -bringing out all that was petty in the poor little bride over whom she -had gained so complete an ascendancy, showing her husband Amy’s -worst side, the aspect of her which he might never have known but -for that fatal companion ever near. And now she had ruined him -altogether--ruined him as in old stories the Pamelas of the village were -ruined by a villain who took advantage of their simplicity. What lovely -woman who had stooped to folly could be more ruined than this unhappy -young man? He laughed to himself at this horrible travesty of that old -familiar eighteenth century tale. This was the _fin de siecle_ version -of it, he supposed--the version in which it was the designing woman who -seized upon the moment of weakness and the man who suffered shipwreck of -everything in consequence. There was a horrible sort of ridicule in it -which wrought poor Aubrey almost to madness. When the woman is the -victim, however sorely she may be to blame for her own disgrace, a sort -of pathos and romance is about her, and pity is winged with indignation -against the man who is supposed to have taken advantage of her weakness. -But when it is a man who is the victim! Then the mildest condemnation he -can look for is the coarse laugh of contempt, the inextinguishable -ridicule, to which even in fiction it is too great a risk to expose a -hero. He was no hero--but an unhappy young man fallen into the most -dreadful position in which man could be, shut out of all hope of ever -recovering himself, marked by the common scorn--no ordinary sinner, a -man who had profaned his own home, and all the most sacred prejudices of -humanity. He had felt all that deeply when he rushed from his house, a -man distraught not knowing where he went. And then morning and evening, -and the dews and the calm, and the freshness and elasticity inalienable -from youth had driven despair and horror away. He had felt it at last -impossible that all his life--a life which he desired to live out in -duty and kindness, and devotion to God and man--should be spoiled for -ever by his momentary yielding to a horrible temptation. He had thought -at first that he never could hold up his head again. But gradually the -impression had been soothed away, and he had vainly hoped that such a -thing might be left behind him and might be heard of no more. - -Now he was undeceived--now he was convinced that for what a man does he -must answer, not only at the bar of God, where all the secrets of the -heart are revealed, but also before men. There are times in which the -former judgment is more easy to think of than the latter--for God knows -all, everything that is in favour of the culprit, while men only know -what is against him. A man with sorrow in his heart for all his -shortcomings, can endure, upon his knees, that all-embracing gaze of -infinite understanding and pity. But to stand before men who -misconstrue, mis-see, misapprehend, how different a thing it is--who do -not know the end from the beginning, to whom the true balance and -perfect poise of justice is almost impossible--who can judge only as -they know, and who can know only the husk and shell of fact, the -external aspect of affairs by the side which is visible to them. All -these thoughts went through Aubrey’s mind as he went listlessly about -those familiar streets in their autumnal quiet, no crowd about, nothing -to interrupt the progress of the wayfarer. He went across the Green -Park, which is brown in the decadence of summer, almost as solitary as -if he had been in his own desolate glades at home. London has a -soothing effect sometimes on such a still, sunny autumn day, when it -seems to rest after the worry and heat and strain of all its frivolity -and folly. The soft haze blurs all the outlines, makes the trees too -dark and the sky too pale; yet it is sunshine and not fog which wraps -the landscape, even that landscape which lies between Pall Mall and -Piccadilly. It soothed our young man a little in the despair of his -thoughts. Surely, surely at eight-and-twenty everything could not be -over. Bee would in a year or two be the mistress of her own actions. She -was not a meek girl, to be coerced by her father. She would judge for -herself in such a dreadful emergency. After all that had passed, the -whole facts of the case would have to be submitted to her, which was a -thought that enveloped him as in flames of shame. Yet she would judge -for herself, and her judgment would be more like that of heaven than -like that of earth. A kind of celestial ray gleamed upon him in this -thought. - -And as for these other claims--well, if any claim were put forth he -would not shrink--would not try to compromise, would not try to hide -his shame under piles of gold. Now he had no motive for concealment, he -would face it out and have the question set straight in the eye of day. -To be sure, for a man to accuse a woman is against the whole -conventional code of honour. To accuse all women is the commonplace of -every day; but to put the blame of seduction upon one is what a man dare -not do save in the solitude of his chamber--or in such a private -inquisition as Aubrey had gone through that day. This is one of the -proofs that there is much to be said on both sides, and that it is the -unscrupulous of either side who has the most power to humble and to -destroy. But the bravado did him good for the moment--let her make her -claim, whatever that claim was, and he would meet it in the face of day! - -Other ideas came rapidly into Aubrey’s mind when he strolled listlessly -into his club, and almost ran against the friend in whose house he had -first met Colonel Kingsward, and through whom consequently all that had -afterwards happened had come about. “Fairfield!” he cried, with a gleam -of sudden hope in his eyes. - -“Leigh! You here?--I thought you were philandering on the banks of--some -German river or other. Well! and so I hear I have to congratulate you, -my boy--and I’m sure I do so with all my heart----” - -“You might have done so a week ago, and I should have responded with all -mine. But you see me fallen again on darker days. Fate’s against me, it -seems, in every way.” - -“Why, what’s the matter?” cried his friend. “I expected to see you -triumphant. What has gone wrong? Not settlements already, eh?” - -“Settlements! They are free to make what settlements they like so far as -I am concerned.” - -“Kingsward’s a very cool hand, Aubrey. You may lose your head if you -like, but he always knows what he is about. You are an excellent -match----” - -“You think so,” said poor Aubrey, with a laugh. “Not badly off; a mild, -domestic fellow, with no devil in me at all. - -“I should not exactly say that. A man is no man without a spice of the -devil. Why, what’s the matter? Now I look at you, instead of a -victorious lover, you have the most miserable hang-dog----” - -“Hang-dog, that is it--a rope’s end, and all over. Hang it, no! I am not -going to give in. Fairfield, I don’t want to speak disrespectfully of -any woman.” - -“Is it Mrs. Kingsward who is too young, herself, to think of enacting -the part of mother-in-law so soon as this?” - -“Mrs. Kingsward is a sort of an angel, Fairfield, if it were not -old-fashioned to say so--and, alas, I fear, she will not enact any part -long, which is so much the worse for me.” - -“You don’t say so! That pretty creature, with all her pretty ways, and -her daughter just the same age as she! Poor Kingsward. Aubrey, if a man -shows a little impatience with your raptures in such circumstances, I -don’t think you ought to be hard upon him.” - -“I don’t believe he knows what are the circumstances, nor any of them. -It is not from that cause, Fairfield. You know Miss Lance, poor Amy’s -friend----” - -Once more he grew hot all over as he named her name, and turned his face -from his friend’s gaze. - -“Remember her! I should think so, and all you had to bear on that point, -old man. We have often said, Mary and I, that if ever there was a -hero----” - -“Fairfield! they have got up a tale that it was I who kept her at -Forest-leigh against poor Amy’s will, and that my poor wife’s life was -made miserable by my attentions to that fi----.” Fiend he would have -said, but he changed it to “woman,” which meant to him at that moment -the same thing. - -Fairfield stared for a moment--was he taking a new idea into his -commonplace mind? Then he burst into a loud laugh. “You can call the -whole county to bear witness to that,” he cried. “Attentions! Well, I -suppose you were civil, which was really more than anyone expected from -you.” - -“You know, and everybody knows, what a thorn in the flesh it was. My -poor Amy! Without that, there would have been no cloud on our life, and -it all arose from her best qualities, her tender heart, her -faithfulness----” - -A dubious shade came over Fairfield’s face. “Yes, no doubt; and Miss -Lance’s flattery and blandishments. Aubrey, I don’t mind saying it now -that you are well quit of her--that was a woman to persuade a fellow -into anything. I should no more have dared to keep her--especially -after--in my house, and to expose myself to her wiles----” - -“They never were wiles for me,” said Aubrey, again turning his head -away. It was true, true--far more true than the fatal contradiction of -it, which lay upon his heart like a stone. “I never came nearer to -hating any of God’s creatures than that woman. She made my life a burden -to me. She took my wife from me----. She---- I needn’t get dithyrambic -on the subject; you all know.” - -“Oh, yes, we all know; but you were too soft-hearted. You should have -risked a fit of tears from poor Mrs. Leigh--excuse me for saying so -now--and sent her away.” - -“I tried it a dozen times. Poor Amy would have broken her heart. She -threatened even to go with her. And they say women don’t make -friendships with each other!” - -Fairfield shrugged his shoulders a little. “I suffer myself from my -wife’s friends,” he said; “there’s always some ‘dear Clara’ or other -putting the table out of joint, making me search heaven and earth when -there’s anybody to dinner to find an odd man. But Mary has some----” -Sense, he was going to say, but stopped short. Mrs. Fairfield was one of -those who had concluded long ago that dear Amy was a little goose, taken -sad advantage of by her persistent friend. - -“Fairfield,” said Aubrey, “you could do me a great service if you would. -Colonel Kingsward has just told me that he can’t send out a royal -commission to examine my friends on this subject. You see him sometimes, -I suppose. I know you belong to one of his clubs. Still more, he’s at -his office all the morning, and you know him well enough to look in upon -him there.” - -“Well?” said Fairfield, dubiously. - -“Couldn’t you stretch a point for my sake, and go--and tell him the real -state of affairs in respect to Miss Lance, and how untrue it is, how -ridiculously untrue, that she was kept at Forest-leigh by any will of -mine? Why, it was a thing, as you have just said, that all the county -knew! An infatuation--and nothing less than the bane of my whole -married life.” - -“Yes, I know--everybody thought so,” Mr. Fairfield said. That new -idea--was it perhaps germinating faintly in his mind?--no one had -thought of any other explanation, but yet----” - -“If you were only to say so--only as much as that--that all my friends -recognised the state of the case.” - -“I could say that,” said Fairfield, with hesitation. “Don’t think me -unfriendly, Aubrey, but it’s a little awkward for a man to interfere in -another man’s affairs, and it’s not only your affairs that I know so -well, but you see Kingsward’s too----” - -“I am aware of that, Fairfield; still, to break off what I believe in my -heart would be for his daughter’s happiness too----” - -“To be sure there’s the young lady to be taken into consideration,” said -Fairfield, dubiously. - -It will be as well to carry this incident to its completion at once. Mr. -Fairfield at the last allowed himself to be convinced, and he went that -afternoon to the club, to which he still belonged by some early -military experiences, and where Colonel Kingsward was one of those who -ruled supreme. He knew exactly when to find him at the club, where he -strolled in after leaving his office, to refresh himself with a cup of -tea, or something else in its place. The intercessor went up to the -table at which the Colonel sat with the evening paper, and conversed for -a little on the topics of the day. After these had been run over, and -the prospects of war slightly discussed--for Colonel Kingsward had not -much respect for Mr. Fairfield’s opinion on that subject--the latter -gentleman said abruptly-- - -“I say, Kingsward, I am very sorry to hear there is some hitch in the -marriage which I was so glad to hear of last week.” - -“Ah, oh! So Leigh has been with you, I presume?” the Colonel replied. - -“Yes; and, upon my life, Colonel, there is not a word of truth in any -talk you may have heard about that Miss Lance----. We all know quite -well the whole business. You should hear Mary on the subject. Of course, -he can’t say to you, poor fellow, that his first wife was a little -queer, and that that woman made her her slave.” - -“No; it wasn’t to be expected that he would tell me that.” - -“But it’s true. She got completely the upper hand of that poor little -thing. The husband had no influence. I believe he hated her--like the -devil.” - -“You think so,” said the Colonel, with a strange smile, “yet it is a -curious thing that he endured her all the same, and also that a wife -should insist so in keeping another woman in her husband’s constant -company--and an attractive woman, as I hear.” - -“Oh! a devil of a woman,” cried Fairfield. “I was telling Aubrey I -should no more have ventured to expose myself to her blandishments----. -One of those sort of women, you know, that you cannot abide, yet who can -turn you round their little finger.” - -“And what did he say to that?” the Colonel asked, still with that smile. - -“Oh, he said she never had any charm for him--and I believe it--for what -with poor little Mrs. Leigh’s whims and vagaries, and the other’s -flatteries and adulation and complete empire over her, his life was -made a burden to him. You should hear Mary on that subject--none of the -ladies could keep their patience.” - -“Yet it appears Mr. Aubrey Leigh kept his---- until he got tired,” said -the Colonel. “Believe me, Fairfield, when there is such an unnatural -situation as that, there must be more in it than meets the eye.” - -Fairfield, a good, steady soul, who generally had his ideas suggested to -him, went away very serious from that interview. It was very strange -indeed that a woman should prefer her friend to her husband, and make -things wretched for him in order to keep her comfortable--it was very -curious that with a woman so much superior to Amy in the house, a woman -of the kind that turn men’s heads, that mild Aubrey Leigh, who was not -distinguished for force of character, should have never sought a -moment’s relief with her from poor Mrs. Leigh’s querulousness. Fairfield -accelerated his departure by an hour or two in order not to meet Aubrey -again before he had poured those strange doubts and suggestions into his -own Mary’s ears. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -The party of travellers whose progress had hitherto been like that of a -party of pleasure, who had been interested in everything they saw, and -hailed every new place with delight, as if that had been the haven of -all their hopes, travelled home from Cologne in a very different spirit. -For one thing, it could not be concealed that Mrs. Kingsward was ill, -which was a thing that she herself and the whole family stoutly, one -standing by another, had hitherto been able to deny. She had not gone -far, not an hour’s journey, when she had to abandon her seat by the -window--where it had always been her delight to “see the country,” and -point out every village to her children--and lie down upon the temporary -couch which Moulsey prepared for her with shawls and cushions along one -side of the carriage. She cried out against herself as “self-indulgent” -and “lazy,” but she did not resist this arrangement. It effectually took -any pleasure that there might have been out of the journey: for Bee, as -may be supposed, though she was not melancholy, and would not admit, -even to Betty, in the closest confidence, that she was at all afraid of -the ultimate issue, was certainly self-absorbed, and glad not to be -called upon to notice the scenery, but allowed to subside into a corner -with her own thoughts. Charlie was in the opposite corner, exceedingly -glum, and not conversible. Bee would not speak to him or look at him, -and even Betty, that little thing, had said, “Oh, Charlie, how could you -be so nasty to Aubrey?” for her sole salutation that morning. He was not -sure even that his mother, though he had stood on her side and backed -her up, was pleased with him for it. She talked to him, it is true, -occasionally, and made him do little things for her, but rather in the -way in which a mother singles out the pariah of the family, the one who -is boycotted for some domestic offence, to show him that all are not -against him, than in the tone which is used to a champion and defender. -So it was not wonderful that Charlie was glum; but to see him in one -corner, biting or trying to bite the few hairs that he called his -moustache, with his brows bent down to his chin, and his chin sunk in -the collar of his coat--and Bee in another, very different--indeed, her -face glorified with dreams, and her eyes full of latent light, ready to -flash out at any moment--was not cheerful for the others. - -Mrs. Kingsward looked at them from one to another, and at little Betty -between busied in a little book, with that baffled feeling which arises -in the mind of a delicate woman when the strong individualities and -wills of her children become first developed before her, after that time -of their youth when all were guided by her decision, and mamma’s leave -was asked for everything. How fierce, how self-willed, how determined in -his opposition Charlie looked like his father, not to be moved by -anything! And Bee, how possessed by those young hopes of her own, which -the mother knew would be of no avail against the fiat gone forth against -her! Mrs. Kingsward knew her husband better than her children did. She -knew that having taken up his position he would not give in. And Bee, -with all that light of resistance in her eyes--Bee as little willing to -give in as he! The invalid trembled when she thought of the clash of -arms that would resound over her head--of the struggle which would rend -her cheerful house in two. She did not at all realise that the cheerful -days of that house were numbered--that soon it would be reduced into its -elements, as a somewhat clamorous, restless, too energetic brood of -children, with a father very self-willed, who hitherto had known nothing -of them but as happy and obedient creatures, whose individual -determinations concerned games and lessons, and who, so far as the -conduct of life was affected, were of no particular account. Mrs. -Kingsward was not yet aware that this was the dolorous prospect before -her household; she only thought, “How am I to manage them all?” and felt -her heart fail before Charlie’s ill humour and _parti pris_, and before -the bright defiance in Bee’s eyes. Poor Aubrey, whom she had learned to -look upon as one of her own, half a son, and half a brother--poor -Aubrey, who had gone so wrong, and yet had so many excuses for him, a -victim rather than a seducer--what was happening to Aubrey this fine -September morning? It made her heart sick in her bosom as she thought of -all these newly-raised conflicting powers, and she so little able to -cope with them. If she did not get strong soon, what would all these -children do? Charlie would go back to college, and would be out of it. -He had so strong a will, and was so determined to get on, that little -harm would happen to him--and besides, he was entirely in accord with -his father, which was a great matter. But Bee--Bee! It seemed to Mrs. -Kingsward that it was on the cards that Bee might take matters into her -own hands, and run away with her lover, if her father would not yield. -What else was there for these young creatures? Mrs. Kingsward knew that -she herself would have done so in the circumstances had _her_ lover -insisted; and she knew that he would no more have consented to such a -sentence--never, never!--than he had done to anything he disliked all -his life. And Bee was like him, though she had never hitherto been -anything but an obedient child. Mrs. Kingsward could not help picturing -to herself, as she lay there, the elopement--Bee’s room found empty in -the morning, the note left on the table, the so easy, so certain -explanation, which already she felt herself to be reading. And then her -husband’s wrath, his unalterable verdict on the criminal “never to enter -this house again!” Poor mother! She foresaw, as we all do, tortures for -herself, which she was never to be called upon to bear. - -As for Betty, it was the most tiresome journey in all her little -experiences. A long journey was generally fun to Betty. The scuffle of -getting away, of seeing that all the little packets were right, of -abusing Moulsey for hiding away the luncheon basket under the rugs and -the books in some locked bag, the trouble of securing a compartment, -arranging umbrellas and other things in the vacant seats to make believe -that every place was full, the watch at every station to prevent the -intrusion of strangers, the running from one side to another to see the -pretty village or old castle, or the funny people at the country -stations and the queer names--the luncheon in the middle of the day, -which was as good as a pic-nic--all these things much diverted Betty, -who loved the rapid movement through the air, and to feel the wind on -her face; but none of these delights were to be had to-day. She was in -one of the middle places, between Charlie, so glum and in a temper, and -Bee, lost in her own thoughts and without a word to say, and opposite to -mamma, who was so much more serious than usual, giving little Betty a -smile from time to time, but not able to speak loud enough to be heard -through the din of the train. She tried to read her book but it was not -a very interesting book, and it was short too, and evidently would not -last out half the journey. Betty was the only member of the party who -had a free mind. The commotion of the romance between Bee and Aubrey had -been pure amusement to her. It would be a bore if it did not end in a -speedy marriage, with all the excitement of the presents, the -trousseau, the dresses (especially the bridesmaids’ dresses), the -wedding day itself, the increased dignity of Betty as Miss Kingsward, -the pleasure of talking of “my married sister,” the pleasure of visiting -Bee, in her own house, and sharing all her grandeur as a county lady. To -miss all this would be a real trial, but Betty had confidence in the -fitness of things, and felt it was impossible that she should miss all -this. And she was at ease in her little mind, and the present dreariness -of this unamusing, unattractive journey hung all the more heavy upon her -consciousness now. - -They arrived next day, having slept at Brussels to break the journey for -Mrs. Kingsward, and the Colonel met them, as in duty bound, at Victoria. -He gave Charlie his hand, and allowed Bee and Betty to kiss him, but his -whole attention, as was natural, was for his wife. - -“You look dreadfully tired,” he said, with that half-tone of offence in -which a man shows his disappointment at the aspect of an invalid. “You -must have been worried on the journey to look so tired.” - -“Oh, no, I have not been at all worried on the journey--they have all -been so good, sparing me every fatigue; but it is a tiresome long way, -Edward, you know.” - -“Yes, of course, I know: but I never saw you look so tired before.” He -cast a reproachful look round upon the young people, who were all ready -to stand on the defensive. “You must have bothered your mother to -death,” he said. “I am sorry I did not come out for her myself--undoing -all the effect of her cure.” - -“Oh, you will see, I shall be all right when I get home,” Mrs. Kingsward -said, cheerfully. “As for the children, Edward, they have all been as -good as gold.” - -“You had better see to the luggage and bring your sisters home in a cab. -I can’t let mamma hang about here,” said the Colonel, in his peremptory -way. “Moulsey will come with us. I suppose you three have brains enough -to manage by yourselves?” - -Thus insulting his grown-up children, among whom a flame of indignation -lighted up, partially burning away their difficulties between -themselves, Colonel Kingsward half carried his wife to the carriage. “I -thought at first I should have waited at Kingswarden till you came back. -I am glad I changed my mind and came back to Harley Street,” he said. - -“Oh, is it to Harley Street we are going?” said Mrs. Kingsward, faintly. -“I had rather hoped for the country, Edward.” - -“You don’t look much like another twenty miles of a journey,” said her -husband. - -“Well, perhaps not. I own I shall be glad to be quiet,” the poor lady -said. What he wished had always turned out after a moment to be just -what his wife wished for all the years of their union. She even meekly -accepted the fact that the children--the nursery children, as they were -called--the little ones, who were no trouble but only a refreshment and -delight, would have been too much for her that first night. Secretly, -she had been looking forward to the touch and sight of her placid -smiling baby as the one thing that would do her good--and all those -large wet kisses of Johnny and Tommy and Lucy and little Margaret, and -the burst of delighted voices at the sight of mamma. “Yes, I believe it -would have been too much for me,” she said, with a look aside at -Moulsey, who, as on many a previous occasion, would dearly have loved to -box her master’s ears. “And I _do_ believe it would have been too much -for me,” Mrs. Kingsward added, when that confidential attendant put her -to bed. - -“Perhaps it would, ma’am,” Moulsey said. “They would have made a noise, -bless them--and baby will not go to anyone when he sees me--and -altogether I shall be more fit for them, Moulsey, after a good night’s -rest----” - -“If you get that, you poor dear,” said Moulsey, under her breath. But -her mistress did not hear that remark any more than many others which -Moulsey made in her own mind, always addressed to that mistress whom she -loved. “If he said dying would be good for you, you would say you were -sure of it, and that was what you wanted most,” the maid said within -herself. - -It must not, however, be supposed from this that Colonel Kingsward was -not a good husband. He had always been like a lover, though a somewhat -peremptory one, to his wife. And without him her young, gay, -pleasure-loving ways, her love of life and amusement might have made her -a much less successful personage, and not the example of every virtue -that she was. Had Mrs. Kingsward had the upper hand, the family would -have been a very different family, and its career probably a very -broken, tumultuous, happy-go-lucky career. It was that strong hand which -had controlled and guided her, which had been, as people say, the making -of Mrs. Kingsward; and though she feared his severity in the present -crisis, she yet felt the most unspeakable relief from the baffled, -helpless condition in which she had looked at her children, feeling -herself all unable to cope with them in the presence of papa. - -“I wonder if he thinks we are cabbages,” was Bee’s indignant exclamation -as he turned his back upon them. - -“Apparently,” said Charlie, coming a little out of his sullenness. “Look -here, you girls, get into this omnibus--happily we’ve got an -omnibus--with the little things, while I go to the Custom House to get -the luggage through.” - -“Betty, you get in,” said Bee. “I will go with you, Charlie, for I have -got mamma’s keys.” - -“Can’t you give them to me?” Charlie cast a gloomy look about, thinking -that Leigh might perhaps be somewhere awaiting a word, a thought which -now for the first time traversed Bee’s mind, too. - -“Then, Betty, you had better go with him, for he doesn’t know half the -boxes,” she said. - -“Oh, you can come yourself if you like,” said Charlie, feeling in that -case that this was the safest arrangement after all. - -“No, Betty had better go. Betty, you know Moulsey’s box and that new -basket that mamma brought me before we left the Baths.” - -“Come along yourself, quick, Bee.” - -“No, I shall stop in the omnibus.” - -“When you have made up your minds,” cried Betty, who had slipped out of -the vehicle at the first word. Betty thought it would be more fun to go -through the Custom House than to wait all the time cooped up here. - -And Bee had her reward; for Aubrey was there, waiting at a distance -till the matter was settled. “I should have risked everything and come, -even if the penalty had been a quarrel with Charlie,” Aubrey said, “but -I must not quarrel with anyone if I can help it. We shall have hard work -enough without that.” - -“You have seen papa?” - -“Yes, I have seen him: but I have not done myself much good, I fear,” -said Aubrey, shaking his head. “Bee, you won’t give me up whatever they -may say?” - -“Give you up? Never, Aubrey, till you give me up!” - -“Then all is safe, my darling. However things look now they can’t hold -out for ever. Lies must be found out, and then--in time--you will be -able to act for yourself.” - -“Do you think papa will stand to it like that, Aubrey?” - -Aubrey shook his head. He did not make any reply. - -“Tell me. Is it a lie?” she said. - -He bent down his head upon her hand, kissing it. - -“Not all,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice. “ I said that--at -Cologne----” - -“I did not understand,” said Bee. “No; it does not matter to me, -Aubrey--not so very much; but if you promised----” - -“I never promised--never! My only thought was to escape----” - -“Then I can’t think what you have done wrong. Aubrey, is she tall, with -dark hair, and beautiful dark eyes, and a way of looking at you as if -she would look you through and through?” - -“Bee!” he said, gripping her fast, as if someone had been about to decoy -her away. - -“And a mouth,” said Bee, “that is very pretty, but looks as if it were -cut out of steel? Then, I have seen her. She sat down by me one day in -the wood, when I was doing that sketch, and gave me such clever hints, -telling me how to finish it, till she made me hate it, don’t you know. -Is she horribly clever, and a good artist? and like that----” - -“Bee! What did that woman say to you?” - -“Nothing very much. Asked me about the people at the hotel, and if there -were any Leighs--not you, she pretended, but the Leighs of Hurst-leigh, -whom she knew. I thought it very strange at the time why she should ask -about the Leighs without knowing anything--and then I forgot all about -it. But to-day it came back to my mind, and I have been thinking of -nothing else. Aubrey--she is older than you are?” - -“Yes,” he said. - -“And she made you promise to marry her?” said Bee, half unconscious yet -half conscious of that wile of the cross-examiner, coming back to the -point suddenly. - -“Never, Bee, never for one moment in my misery! That I should have to -make such a confession to you!--but there was no promise nor thought of -a promise. I desired nothing--nothing but to escape from her. You don’t -doubt my word, Bee?” - -“No; I don’t doubt anything you say. But I think she is a dreadful woman -to get anybody in her power, Aubrey. My little drawing was for you. It -was the place we first met, and she told me how to do it and make it -look so much better. I am not very clever at it, you know; and then I -hated the very sight of it, and tore it in two. I don’t know why.” - -“I understand why. Bee, you will be faithful to me, whatever you are -told?” - -“Till I die, Aubrey.” - -“And never, never believe that for a moment my heart will change from -you.” - -“Not till I hear it from yourself,” she said, with a woeful smile. The -despair in him communicated itself to her, who had not been despairing -at all. - -“Which will never be--and when you are your own mistress, my -darling----” - -“Oh, we shan’t have to wait for that!” she cried, with a burst of her -native energy. “Dear Aubrey, they are coming back; you must go away.” - -“Till we meet again, darling?” - -“Till we meet again!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Bee stole into her mother’s room as she went upstairs before that first -dinner at home which used to be such a joyous meal. How they had all -enjoyed it--until now. The ease and space, the going from room to room, -the delight in finding everything with which they were familiar, the -flowers in the vases (never were any such flowers as those at home!), -the incursions of the little ones shouting to each other, “Mamma’s come -home!” Even the little air of disorder which all these interruptions -brought into the orderly house was delightful to the young people. They -looked forward as to an ideal life, to beginning all their usual -occupations again and doing them all better than ever. “Oh, how nice it -is to be at home!” the girls had said to each other. Instead of those -hotel rooms, which at their best are never more than hotel rooms, a -_genre_ not to be mistaken, how delightful was the drawing-room at home, -with all its corners--Bee’s little table where she muddled at her -drawings, mamma’s great basket of needlework where everything could be -thrown under charitable cover, Betty’s stool on which she sat at the -feet of her oracle of the moment, whoever that might be, and all the -little duties to be resumed--the evening papers arranged for papa (as if -he had not seen enough of them in the daytime in his office!), the -flowers to see after, the little notes to write, all the pleasant -common-places of the home life. But to-night, for the first time, dinner -was a silent meal, hurried over--not much better than a dinner at a -railway station, with a sensation in it of being still on the road, of -not having yet reached their destination. The drawing-room was in brown -holland still, for they were all going on to Kingswarden to-morrow. The -house felt formal, uninhabited, as if they had come home to lodgings. -All this was bad enough; but the primary trouble of all was the fact -that mamma was upstairs--gone to bed before dinner, too tired to sit up. -Such a thing had never happened before. However tired she was, she had -always so brightened up at the sensation of coming home. - -And papa, though kind, was very grave. The happiness of getting his -family back did not show in his face and all his actions as it generally -did. Colonel Kingsward was very kind as a father, and very tender as a -husband; the severity of his character showed little at home. His wife -was aware of it, and so were the servants, and Charlie, I think, had -begun to suspect what a hand of iron was covered by that velvet glove. -But the girls had never had any occasion to fear their father. Bee -thought that the additional gravity of his behaviour was owing to -herself and her introduction of a new individual interest into the -family; so that, notwithstanding a touch of indignation, with which she -felt the difference, she was timid and not without a sense of guilt -before her father. Never had she been rebellious or disobedient before; -and she was both now, determined not to submit. This made her -self-conscious and rather silent; she who was always overflowing with -talk and fun and the story of their travels. Colonel Kingsward did not -ask many questions about that. What he did ask was all about “your -mother.” - -“She is not looking so well as when she went away,” he said. - -“Oh, papa, it’s only because she’s so tired,” cried little Betty. Betty -taking upon her to answer papa, to take the responsibility upon her -little shoulders! But Bee felt as if she could not say anything. - -“Do you really think so?” he said, turning to that confident little -speaker--to Betty. As if Betty could know anything about it! But Bee -seemed paralysed and could not speak. - -She stole, as I have said, into her mother’s room on her way upstairs, -but she had hardly time to say a word when papa came in to see if Mrs. -Kingsward had eaten anything, and how she felt now that she was -comfortably established in her own bed. It irritated Bee to feel herself -thus deprived of the one little bit of possible expansion, and stirred -her spirit. With her cheek to her mother’s, she said in her ear, “Mamma, -I saw Aubrey at the station,” with a thrill of pleasure and defiance in -saying that, though secretly, in her father’s presence. - -“Oh, Bee!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a faint cry of alarm. - -“And he told me,” continued Bee, breathless in her whisper, “that papa -was firm against us.” - -“Bee! Bee!” - -“And we promised each other we should never, never give up, whatever -anyone might say.” - -“Oh, child, how dare you, how dare you?” Mrs. Kingsward said. - -How Bee’s heart beat! What an enlivening, inspiriting strain of -opposition came into her mind, making her cheeks glow and her eyes -flame! The whisper was, perhaps, a child’s device, perhaps a woman’s -weakness, but it exhilarated her beyond description to say all this in -the very presence of her father. There was a sensation of girlish -mischief in it as well as defiance, which relieved all the heavier -sentiments that had weighed down her heart. - -“What are you saying to your mother, Bee? She must not be disturbed. Run -away and let her rest. If we are to go back to Kingswarden to-morrow she -must get all the rest that is possible now.” - -“I was never the one to disturb mamma,” said Bee, bestowing another kiss -on her mother’s cheek. - -“Oh, be a good child, Bee!” pleaded Mrs. Kingsward, almost without -sound; for by this time the Colonel was hovering over the bed, with a -touch of suspicion, wondering what was going on between these two. - -“Yes, mamma dear, always,” said Bee, aloud. - -“What is she promising, Lucy? And what were you saying to her? Bee -should know better at her age than to disturb you with talk.” - -“Oh, nothing, Edward. She was only giving me a kiss, and I told her to -be a good child--as I am always doing; thinking to be heard, you know, -for so much speaking,” the mother said, with a soft laugh. - -“Bee has always been a sufficiently good child. I don’t think you need -trouble yourself on that point. The thing is for you to get well, my -dear, and keep an easy mind. Don’t trouble about anything; leave all -that to me, and try and think a little about yourself.” - -“I always do, Edward,” she said with a smile. - -He shook his head, but agitation had brought a colour to her cheeks, and -to persuade one’s-self that it is only fatigue that makes a beloved face -look pale is so easy at first, before any grave alarm has been roused. -Yet, Colonel Kingsward’s mind was not an easy one that night. He was _au -fond_, a severe man, very rigid as to what he thought his duty, taking -life seriously on the whole. His young wife, who loved pleasure, had -made him far more a man of society than was natural or indeed pleasing -to him; but he had thus got into that current which it is so difficult -to get out of without a too stern withdrawal, and his large young family -had warmed his heart and dressed his aspect in many smiles and graces -which did not belong to him by nature. The mixture of the rigid and the -yielding had produced nothing but good effects upon his character till -now. But there is no telling what a man is till the first conflict of -wills arises in his own household. Hitherto there had been nothing of -the kind. His children had amused him and pleased him and made him -proud. Their health, their prettiness, their infantile gaiety and -delight in every favour accorded to them had been all so many tributes -to his own supreme influence and power. Their very health was a standing -compliment to his own health and vigour, from whom they took their -excellent constitutions, and to the wonderful care and attention to -every law of health which he enforced in his house. Not a drain escaped -trapping, not a gas was left undisposed of where Colonel Kingsward was. -He had every new suggestion in his nursery that sanitary science could -bring up. “And look at the result!” he was in the habit of saying. Not a -pale face, not a headache, not an invalid member there. And among the -children he was as the sun in his splendour. Every delight rayed out -from him. The hour of his coming home was watched for; it was the -greatest treat for the little boys to go in the dogcart with Simmons, -the groom, to fetch papa from the station, while the others assembled at -the door as at a daily celebration to see him arrive. Charlie was now a -man grown, but he was a good boy, full of all right impulses, and there -had never been any difficulty with him. - -Thus Colonel Kingsward had been kept from all knowledge of those -contrarieties of nature which appear even in the most favoured regions. -He was of opinion that he surrounded his wife with every care, bore -everything for her, did not suffer the winds of heaven to visit her -cheek too roughly. And it was true. But he was not at all aware that she -saved him anything, or that his joyful omnipotence and security from -every fret and all opposition depended upon her more than on anything -else in the world. He did not know the little inevitable jars which she -smoothed away, the youthful wills growing into individuality which she -kept in check. Which was a pity, for the strong man was thus deprived of -the graces of precaution, and knew no more than the merest weakling -what, as his children grow into men and women, every man has to face and -provide against. If Colonel Kingsward was too arbitrary, too trenchant -in his measures, too certain that there was no will but his own to be -taken into account, the blame must thus be partially laid upon those -natural fictions of boundless love and duty and sweet affectionate -submission, which grow up in the nursery and reign as long as childhood -lasts--until a more potent force of self or will or love, comes in to -put the gentle dream to flight. - -It was thus that Colonel Kingsward considered the matter about Bee. It -had been, of course, necessary to cross Bee two or three times in her -life before. It had been necessary, or at least he had thought it -necessary, to send her to school; it had been thought expedient to keep -her back a year longer than she wished from appearing in the world. -These decisions had cost tears and a little struggle, but in a few days -Bee had forgotten all about them--or so, at least, her father thought. -And a lover--at nineteen--what was that but another plaything, a -novelty, a compliment, such as girls love? How could it mean anything -more serious? Why, Bee was a child--a little girl, an ornamental adjunct -to her mother, a sort of reflection, not to be detached for a long time -from that source of all that was delightful in her. Colonel Kingsward -had felt with a delighted surprise that the child and the mother did -“throw up” each other when he began to go out with them together. Bee’s -young beauty showing what mamma’s had been, and Mrs. Kingsward’s beauty -(so much higher and sweeter than any girl’s wild-rose bloom could be) -showing what in the after days her child would grow to. To cut these two -asunder for a stranger--another man, an intruding personality thrusting -himself between the child and her natural allegiance--was oppressive in -any shape. At the first word, indeed, and in the amusement furnished him -by the letters that had been poured upon him, Colonel Kingsward’s -consent had been given almost without thought. Aubrey Leigh was a good -match, he had a fine place, a valuable estate, and was well spoken of -among men. If Lucy was so absurd as to wish her daughter to marry; if -Bee, the silly child, was so foolish as to think of leaving her father’s -house for another, that was probably as good a one as she could have -chosen. I don’t know if fathers generally feel it a sort of desecration -when their young daughters marry. Some fathers do, and some brothers, as -if the creature pure by nature from all such thoughts were descending to -a lower place, and becoming such an one as themselves. Colonel Kingsward -was not, perhaps, visionary enough for such a view, yet he was slightly -shocked in his sentiment about the perfection of his own house by this -idea on his child’s part of leaving it for another. However, it was true -he had a very large family, and to provide so well for one of them at -the very outset of her career was a thing which was not to be despised. - -But when the second chapter of this romance, all so simple, so natural -in its first phase, opened out, and there appeared a dark passage -behind--a woman wronged who had a claim upon the man, a story, a -scandal--whether it were true or untrue!--Colonel Kingsward, in his -knowledge of the world, knew that it did not so much matter whether a -story was true or untrue. It stuck, anyhow; and years, generations -after, when, if false, it had been contradicted and exploded, and -acknowledged to be false, people still would shake their heads and say, -“Wasn’t there some story?” For this reason he was not very rigid about -the facts, part of which, at least, the culprit admitted. There was a -woman and there was a story, and all the explanations in the world could -not do away with these. What did it matter about the man? He, Colonel -Kingsward, was not Aubrey Leigh’s keeper. And as for Bee, there would be -some tears, no doubt, as when she was sent to school--a little passion -of disappointment, as when she was kept back for a whole year, from -seventeen to eighteen, in her “coming out”--but the tears and the -passion once over, things would go on the same as before. The little -girl would go back to her place, and all would be well. - -This was the man’s delusion, and perhaps it was a natural one, and he -was conscious of wishing to do the best thing for her, of saving her -from the after tortures which a wife has to endure whose husband has -proclivities towards strange women, and capabilities of being “led -away.” That was a risk that he could understand much better than she -could, at her age. The fellow might be proud of her, small blame to -him--he might strive to escape from disgraceful entanglements by such an -exceptionable connection as that of Colonel Kingsward, of Kingswarden, -Harley Street, and the Intelligence Department; he might be very much in -earnest and all that. He did not altogether blame the man; indeed, he -was willing enough to allow that he was not a bad fellow, and that he -was popular among his friends. - -But these were not enough in the case of a girl like Bee. And it was -certainly for her good that her father was acting. She had known the man -a month, what could he be to her in so short a time? This is the most -natural of questions, constantly asked, and never finding any sufficient -answer. Why should a girl in three or four weeks be so changed in all -her thoughts as to be ready to give up her father’s house, the place in -which she has all her associations, the company in which she has been -so happy, and go away to the end of the world, perhaps with a man whom -she has known only for a month? It is the commonest thing in the world, -but also the most mysterious, and Colonel Kingsward refused to believe -in it, as so many other fathers have done. Bee would cry, and her mother -would console her. She would fly into a childish passion, and struggle -against her fate--for a few days. She would swear that she would never, -never give up that new plaything, and the joy of parading it before the -other girls, who perhaps had not such toys to play with--but all that -nonsense would give way in a little to firm guidance and considerate -care, and the fresh course of amusement and pleasure which the winter -would bring. - -The winter is by no means barren to those who spend it habitually in -town. It has many distractions. There is the theatre, there are -Christmas gatherings without number, there are new dresses also to be -got for the same, perhaps a pretty new bonnet or two thrown in by a -penitent father, very sorry even in his own interests to give his -little girl pain. If all these pleasant things could not make up for the -loss of a man--of doubtful character, too--whom she had only known for a -month, Colonel Kingsward felt that it would be a strange thing indeed, -and altogether beyond his power to explain. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -It was not possible, however, to remove Mrs. Kingsward to Kingswarden -next day. She was too much fatigued even to leave her bed, and the -doctor who came to see her, her own familiar doctor who had sent her to -Germany to the celebrated bath, looked a little grave when he saw the -condition in which she had come home. “No fatigue, no excitement,” was -what he enjoined. She was to have nothing to excite, nothing to disturb -her--to go to the country? Oh, yes, but not for some days. To see the -children? Certainly, the children could not be kept from their mother; -but all in moderation, with great judgment, not too long at a time, not -too often. And above all she must not be worried. Nothing must be done, -nothing said to cross or vex her. When he heard from the Colonel a very -brief and studiously subdued version of a little family business which -had disturbed her--“I need not keep any secrets from you, doctor. The -fact is that someone wanted to marry my girl Bee, and that I made some -discoveries about him which obliged me to withdraw my consent.” The -doctor formed his lips into a whistle, to which he did not give vent. -“That accounts for it,” he said. - -“That accounts for--what?” cried Colonel Kingsward, not without -irritation. - -“For the state in which I find her. And mind my words, Kingsward, you’d -better let your girl marry anybody that isn’t a blackguard than risk -that sort of shock with your wife. Never forget that her life---- I mean -to say that she’s very delicate. Don’t let her be worried--stretch a -point--have things done as she wishes. You will find it pay best in the -end.” - -“For once you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Colonel -Kingsward; “my wife is not a woman who has ever been set upon having her -own way.” - -“Let her have it this time,” said the doctor, “and you’ll never repent -it. If she wants Bee to marry, let her marry. Bee is a dear little -thing, but her mother, Kingsward, her mother--is of far more consequence -to you than even she--” - -“That is a matter of course,” said Colonel Kingsward. “Lucy is of more -importance to me than all the world beside; but neither must I neglect -the interests of my child.” - -“Oh, bother the child,” cried the doctor, “let her have her lover; the -mother is what you must think of now.” - -“You seem tremendously in earnest, Southwood.” - -“So I am--tremendously in earnest. And don’t you work your mind on the -subject, but do what I say.” - -“Do you mean to say that my wife is in a--state of danger?” - -“I mean that she must be kept from worry--she must not be -contradicted--things must not be allowed to go contrary to her wishes. -Poor little Bee! I don’t say you are to let her marry a blackguard. But -don’t worry her mother about it--that is the chief thing I’ve got to -say.” - -“No, I shan’t worry her mother about it,” said the Colonel, shutting his -mouth closely as if he were locking it up. When Dr. Southwood was gone, -however, he stopped the two girls who were lingering about to know the -doctor’s opinion, and detaching Betty’s arm from about Bee’s waist drew -his eldest daughter into his study and shut the door. “I want to speak -to you, Bee,” he said. - -“Yes, papa.” In this call to her alone to receive some communication, -Bee, as may be imagined, jumped to a conclusion quite different from -what her father intended, and almost for the moment forgot mamma. - -“The doctor tells me that above everything your mother must be kept from -worry. Do you understand? In the circumstances it is extremely important -that you should know this.” - -“Papa,” she cried, half in indignation half in disappointment, “do you -think that I would worry her--in any circumstances?” - -“I think that girls of your age often think that no affairs are so -important as your own, and it is very likely that you may be of that -opinion, and I wish you to know what the doctor says.” - -“Is mamma--very ill?” Bee asked, bewildered. - -“He does not say so--only that she is not to be fretted or contradicted, -or disturbed about anything. I feel it necessary to warn you, Bee.” - -“Why me above the rest?” she cried. “Am I likely to be the one to worry -mamma?” - -“The others have no particular affairs of their own to worry her with. -There must be no private talks, no discussions, no endeavours to get her -upon what you may suppose to be your side.” - -Bee gave her father a glance of fire, but she felt that a little -prudence was necessary, and kept the tumult of feeling which was within -her as much as possible in her own breast. “I have always talked to -mamma of everything that was in my mind,” she said, piteously. “I don’t -know how I am to stop. She would wonder so if I stopped talking; and how -can I talk to her except of things that are in my mind?” - -“You must learn,” said the Colonel, “to think of her more than of -yourself.” He did not at all mean to prescribe to her a course of -conduct more elevated than that he meant to pursue himself, but then it -was only in action that he meant to carry out his purposes, he was not -afraid of committing himself in speech. - -Bee looked at him again with a gaze that asked a great many questions, -but she only answered, “I will try my very best, papa.” - -“If you do, I am sure you will succeed, my dear,” he said, in a gentler -tone. - -“Is that all?” she asked, hesitating. - -“That is all I want with you just now.” - -Bee turned away towards the door, and then she paused and made a step -back. - -“Papa!” - -“Yes, Bee.” - -“Would you mind telling me--I will not say a word to her--but oh, please -tell me--” - -“What is it?” said the Colonel. He went to his writing table, and -sitting down began to turn over his papers. His tone was slightly -impatient, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if in surprise. - -“Papa, you must know what it is. I know that you have seen--Mr. Leigh!” - -“How do you know anything about it? What have you to do with whom I have -seen? Run away. I do not mean to enter into any explanations on this -subject with you.” - -“Then with whom will you enter into explanations? You cannot speak to -mamma; she must not be worried. Papa, I am not a little girl now, to be -told to run away.” - -“You seem to be determined not to lose a moment in telling me so.” - -“I should not have told you so,” said Bee, looking at him over the high -back of his writing-table, “if you had not told me I was not to talk to -mamma.” - -He looked up at her, and their eyes met; both of them keenly, fiercely -blue, lit up with fires of combat. It is often imagined that blue eyes -are the softest eyes--but not by those who are acquainted with the kind -which belonged to the Kingswards, which might have been called -sapphires, if sapphires ever flash and cut the air as diamonds do. They -were not either so dark as sapphires--they were like nothing but -themselves, two pairs of blue eyes that might have been made to order, -so like were they to each other, and both blazing across that table as -if they would have set the house on fire. - -“That’s an excellent point,” he said. “I can’t deny it. What made you so -terrifically clever all at once?” - -There is nothing more stinging than to be called clever in the midst of -a discussion. Bee’s eyes seemed to set fire to her face, at least, which -flashed crimson upon her father’s startled sight. - -“When one has someone else to think of, someone’s interests to take care -of----” - -“Which are your own interests--and vastly more important than anything -which concerns your father and mother.” - -“I never said so--nor thought so, papa--but if they are different from -yours, that’s no reason,” said Bee, bold in words but faltering in -manner, “is it, why I should not think of them, if, as you say, they’re -my own interests, papa?” - -“You are very bold, Bee.” - -“What am I to do if I have no one to speak for me? Papa, Aubrey----” - -“I forbid you to speak with such familiarity of a man whom you have -nothing to do with, and whom you scarcely know.” - -“Papa, Aubrey--” cried Bee, with astonishment. - -Colonel Kingsward jumped up from his table in a fury of impatience. “How -dare you come and besiege me here in my own room with your Aubrey?--a -man whom you have not known a month; a stranger to the family.” - -“Papa, you must let me speak. You allowed me to be engaged to him. If -you had said ‘no’ at first, there might, perhaps, have been some reason -in it.” - -“Perhaps--some reason!” he repeated, with an angry laugh. - -“Yes, for even then it was not your own happiness that was in question. -It was I, after all, that was to marry him.” - -“And you think that is a reason for defying me?” - -“It is always said to be a reason--not for defying anybody--but for -standing up for what you call my own interests, papa--when they are -somebody else’s interests as well. You said we might be engaged--and we -were. And how can I let anyone, even you, say he is a stranger? He is my -_fiancé_. He is betrothed to me. We belong to each other. Whatever -anyone may say, that is the fact,” cried Bee, very rapidly, to get it -all out before she was interrupted. - -“It is not at all a cheerful or pleasant fact--if it changes my little -Bee, whom I thought I knew, to this flushed and brazen woman, fighting -for her----. Go, child, and don’t make an exhibition of yourself. Your -mother’s daughter! It is not credible--to assault me, your father, in my -own room, for the sake of----” - -“Papa! don’t you remember that it is said in the Bible you are not to -provoke your children to wrath? Mamma would have stood up for you, I -suppose, when she was engaged to you. I may be flushed,” cried Bee, -putting her hands to her blazing cheeks, “how could I help it? Forced to -talk to you, to ask you--on a subject that gives you a right to speak to -me, your own child, like that----” - -“I am glad you think I have a right to speak as the circumstances demand -to my own child,” said the Colonel, cooling down; “but why you should -be forced, as you say, to take up such an unbecoming and unwomanly -position is beyond my guessing.” - -“It is because I have no longer mamma to speak for me,” Bee said. - -The creature was not without skill. Now she came back to the point that -was not to be gainsaid. - -“We have had quite enough of this,” Colonel Kingsward replied. “Your -mother, as you are quite aware, never set up her will against mine. She -was aware, if you are not, that I knew the world better than she did, -and was more competent to decide. Your mother would never have stood up -to me as you have done.” - -“It would have been better, perhaps, sometimes, if she had,” cried Bee, -carried away by the tide of her excitement. Colonel Kingsward was so -astounded that he had scarcely power to be angry. He gazed at his -excited child with a surprise that was beyond words. - -“Oh, papa, papa! Forgive me! I never meant that; it came out before I -was aware.” - -“The thought must have been there or it could not have come out,” he -said. - -“Oh, no; there was no thought there. It may be so with you, but not with -us, papa. Words come into our mouths. We don’t think them; we don’t mean -to say--they only seem to--hook on to--something that went before; and -then they come out with a crash. Oh, forgive me, forgive me, papa!” - -“I suppose,” he said, with a half laugh, “that may be taken as a woman’s -exposition of her own style of argument.” - -“Don’t call me a woman,” she said, with her soft small voice, aggrieved -and wounded, drawing closer to him. “Oh, papa! I am only your little -girl after all.” - -“A naughty little girl,” he said, shaking his head. - -“And without mamma to speak for me,” added Bee. - -The Colonel laughed aloud. “You wily little natural lawyer!” he said; -but immediately became very grave, for underneath this burst of half -angry amusement Bee had given him a shock she did not know of. All -unaware of the edge of the weapons which she used with a certain -instinctive deftness, it did not occur to her that these words of hers -might penetrate not only deeper than she thought, but far deeper than -her own thoughts had ever gone. His wife’s worn face seemed suddenly to -appear before Colonel Kingsward’s eyes in a light which he had never -seen before, and the argument which this child used so keenly, yet so -ignorantly, pierced him like a knife. “Without mamma to speak for me!” -These words sounded very simple to Bee, a mischievous expedient to trap -him in the snare he had laid for her. But if the time should ever come -when they should be true! The Colonel was struck down by that arrow -flown at a venture. He went back to his table subdued, and sat down -there. “That will do,” he said, “that will do. Now run away and leave me -to my work, Bee.” - -She came up to him and gave him a timid kiss, which the Colonel accepted -quietly in the softening of that thought. She roamed about the table a -little, flicking off an imperceptible speck of dust with her -handkerchief, arranging some books upon the upper shelf of his bureau, -sometimes looking at him over that row of books, sometimes lingering -behind him as if doing something there. He did not interfere with her -movements for a few minutes, in the _attendrissement_ of his thoughts. -Without a mother to speak for her! Poor little girl, if that should ever -be so! Poor little children unconscious in their nursery crying for -mamma; and, oh, worse than all, himself without his Lucy, who had made -all the world sweet to him! He was a masterfull man, who would stand to -his arms in any circumstances, who would not give in even if his heart -was broken; but what a strange, dull, gloomy world it would be to him if -the children had no mother to speak for them! He made a sudden effort to -shake off that thought, and the first thing that recalled him to himself -was to hear Bee, having no other mischief, he supposed, to turn her hand -to, heaping coals upon the little bit of fire which had been lighted for -cheerfulness only. - -“Bee,” he cried, “are you still there? What are you doing? The room is -like an oven already, and you are making up a sort of Christmas fire.” - -“Oh, I am so sorry--I forgot,” cried Bee, putting down the shovel -hastily. “I thought it wanted mending--for you always like a good fire.” - -“Not in September,” he said, “and such weather; the finest we have had -since July. Come, cease this fluttering about--you disturb me--and I -have a hundred things to do.” - -“Yes, papa.” Bee’s little figure stole from behind him in the meekest -way. She stopped in her progress towards the door to give a touch to the -flowers on a side table; and then she went slowly on, going out. She had -got her hand upon the handle of the door, and Colonel Kingsward thanked -heaven he had got rid of her for the moment, when she turned round, -eyeing him closely again though keeping by that means of escape. “Papa,” -she said, softly, “after all the talk we have been having--you perhaps -don’t remember that--you have never--answered my question yet.” - -“What question?” he said sharply. - -Bee put her hands together like a child, she looked at him beseechingly, -coaxingly, like that child returning to its point, and then she said -still more softly, “About Aubrey, dear papa!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -I will not attempt to follow in detail the course of that autumn. It was -a fine season, and Mrs. Kingsward was taken to her home in the country -and recovered much of her lost health in the serene ending of the month -and the bright days of October, which was a model October--everything -that month ought to be. The trees had scarcely begun to take any -autumnal colouring upon them when they reached Kingswarden--a house -which stood among the Surrey hills; an old house placed not as modern -houses are, pitched upon hillsides, or at points where there is “a -view.” The old Kingswards had been moved by no such ridiculous modern -sentiments. They had planted their mansion in a sheltered spot, where it -would be safe from the winds that range over the country and all the -moorland heights. The gates opened upon a wild country road with an -extravagant breadth of green pathway and grassy bank on either -side--enough to have made a farmer swear, but very pleasant to the eye -and delightful to a horse’s feet, as well as to the pedestrians, whether -they were tramps or tourists, who walked or rode on bicycles--the latter -class only--from London to Portsmouth. The house was old, red, and -straggling, covered with multitudes of creepers. Sheets of purple -clematis--the Jackmanni, if anybody wishes to know; intolerable name for -such a royal garment of blossom--covered half-a-dozen corners, hanging -down in great brilliant wreaths over old ivy and straggling Virginia -creeper and the strong stalks of the climbing roses, which still bore -here and there a flower. Other sheets of other flowers threw themselves -about in other places as if at their own sweet will, especially the wild -exuberance of the Traveller’s Joy; though I need not say that this -wildness was under the careful eye of the gardener, who would not let it -go too far. I cannot attempt to tell how many other pleasant and -fragrant and flowery things there were which insisted on growing in that -luxurious place, even to the fastidious Highland creeper, which in that -autumn season was the most gay, luxuriant, and delightful of all. The -flowers abounded like the children, not to be checked, as healthy and as -brilliant, in the fine, peaty soil and pure air. The scent of the -mignonette, which in this late season straggled anywhere, seemed to fill -half the country round. The borders were crowned with those autumn -flowers which make up as well as they can for their want of sweetness by -lavish wealth of colour--the glowing single dahlias, which this -generation has had the good sense to re-capture from Nature after the -quilled and rosetted artificial things which the gardeners had -manufactured out of them, and the fine scarlet and blue of the salvias, -and the glory of all those golden tribes of the daisy kind that now make -our borders bright, instead of the old sturdy red geranium, which once -sufficed for all the supplies of autumn, an honest servant but a poor -lord. I prefer the sweetness of the Spring, when every flower has a soul -in it, and breathes it all about in the air, that is full of hope. But -as it cannot always be Spring, that triumph of bright hues is something -to mask the face of winter with until the time when the tortured and -fantastic chrysanthemum reigns alone. - -This was the sort of garden they had at Kingswarden; not shut off in a -place by itself, but bordering all the lawns, which were of the velvet -it takes centuries to perfect. The immediate grounds sloped a little to -the south, and beyond them was a very extensive, if somewhat flat, -prospect, ending on the horizon in certain mild blue shadows which were -believed to be hills. There was not much that could be called a park at -Kingswarden. The few farms which Colonel Kingsward possessed pressed his -little circle of trees rather close; but as long as the farms were let -the family felt they could bear this. It gave them a comfortable feeling -of modest natural wealth and company; the yeomen keeping the squire -warm, they in their farmsteadings, he in the hall. - -And the autumn went on in its natural course, gaining colour as it began -to lose its greenness and the days their warmth. The fruit got all -gathered in after the corn, the apple trees that had been such a sight, -every bough bent down with its balls of russet or gold, looked shabby -and worn, their season done, the hedges ran over with their harvest, -every kind of wild berry and feathery seedpod, wild elderberries, hips -and haws, the dangerous unwholesome fruit of the nightshade, the -triumphant wreaths of bryony of every colour, green, crimson, and -purple. The robins began to appear about Kingswarden, hopping about the -lawns, and coming very near the dining-room windows after breakfast, -when the little tribe of the nursery children had their accustomed -half-hour with mamma, and delighted in nothing so much as to crumble the -bread upon the terrace and tempt the redbreasts nearer and nearer. When, -quite satisfied and comforted about his wife’s looks, Colonel Kingsward -went off to the shooting, this little flock of children trailed after -mamma wherever she went, a little blooming troop. By this time Charlie -had gone back to Oxford, and the little ones liked to have the run of -the lawns outside and the sitting rooms within, with nothing more -alarming than Betty to keep them in order. It is to be feared that the -relaxation of discipline which occurred when papa was absent was -delightful to all those little people, and neither was Mrs. Kingsward -sorry now and then to feel herself at full ease--with no necessity -anywhere of further restraint than her own softened perceptions of -family decorum required. It was a moment in which, if that could be -said, she was self-indulgent--sometimes not getting up at her usual -hour, but taking her breakfast in her room, with clusters of little boys -and girls all over her bed, and over the carpet, sharing every morsel, -climbing over her in their play. And when she went out to drive she had -the carriage full of them; and when she took her stroll about the -grounds they were all about, shouting and racing, nobody suggesting that -it would be “too much for her,” or sending them off because they -disturbed mamma. She was disturbed to her heart’s content while the -Colonel was away. She said, “You know this is very nice for a time, but -it would not do always,” to her elder daughter: but I think that she saw -no necessity, except in the return of her husband, why it should not -do, and she enjoyed herself singing to them, dancing (a very little) -with them, playing for them as only the mother of a large family ever -can play, that simple dance music which is punctuated and kept in -perfect time by her heart as much as by her ear. For myself, I know the -very touch upon the piano of a woman who is the orchestra of the -children, who makes their little feet twinkle to the music. There is no -band equal to it for harmony, and precision, and go. They enjoyed the -freedom of having no one to say, “Hush, don’t make such a noise in the -house,” of the absence of all the disturbable people, “the gentlemen,” -as the servants plainly said, “being away” more, Mrs. Kingsward -sometimes thought, with a faint twinge of conscience, than it was right -they should enjoy anything in the absence of papa. Charlie was quite as -bad as papa, and declared that they made his head ache, and that no -fellow could work with such a row going on; it made the little carnival -all the more joyous that he was out of the way. - -Bee had spent the six weeks since their return in a sort of splendour of -girlish superiority and elation, of which her mother had not been -unobservant, though nothing had been said between them. I am not sure -that Bee did not enjoy the situation more than if Aubrey had been at -Kingswarden wooing her all day long, playing tennis with her, riding -with her--in every way appearing as her accepted lover. Circumstances -had saved her from this mere vulgarity of beatitude, and she felt that -in the very uncertainty of their correspondence, which was -private--almost secret, and yet not clandestine--there was a wonderful -charm, a romance and tinge of the unhappy and desperate, while yet -everything within herself was happy and triumphant. It had never been -said, neither by the Colonel nor by his wife (who had said nothing at -all), that Bee was not to write letters to Aubrey nor to receive letters -from him. I cannot imagine how Colonel Kingsward, in bidding her -understand that all was over between Aubrey and herself, did not make a -condition of this. But probably he thought her too young and simple to -maintain any such correspondence, and her lover too little determined, -too persuadeable, to begin it. When Bee had received her lover’s first -letter it had been under her father’s very eyes. It had come at -breakfast between two girl-epistles, and Colonel Kingsward would not -have been guilty of the pettiness of looking at his daughter’s -correspondence for any inducement yet before him. She had the tremendous -thrill and excitement of reading it in his very sight, which she did not -hesitate to do, for the sake of the bravado, feeling her ears tingle and -the blood coursing in her veins, never imagining that he would not -observe, and setting her young slight strength like a rock in momentary -expectation of a question on the subject. But no question came. Colonel -Kingsward was looking at the papers, and at the few letters which came -to him at his house. The greater part of his correspondence went to the -office. He took it very quietly, and he never remarked Bee at all, which -was little less than a miracle, she thought. And it was very well for -her that this was one of the mornings on which mamma did not come -downstairs. - -This immense excitement was a little too strong for ordinary use, and -Bee so arranged it afterwards that her letters came by a later post, -when she could read them by herself in her room. The servants knew -perfectly well of this arrangement--the butler who opened the post bag -at Kingswarden, and the maid who carried Miss Bee’s letters -upstairs--but neither father nor mother thought of it. That is, I will -not answer for Mrs. Kingsward. She perhaps had her suspicions; but, if -her husband did not forbid correspondence, she said to herself that it -was not her business to do so. It seemed to her that nothing else could -keep Bee so bright. Her disappointment, the shock of the severance, must -have affected her otherwise than appeared if she had not been buoyed up -by some such expedient. As for the Colonel, he thought nothing about it. -He thought that, as for love, properly so called, the thing was -preposterous for a girl of her years, and that the foolish business had -been all made up of imaginative novelty, and the charm of the position, -which had flattered and dazzled the girl. Now that she had returned to -all her old associations and occupations, the pretty bubble had floated -away into the air. It had not been necessary even to burst it--it had -dispersed of itself, as he said to himself he always knew it would. Thus -he deceived himself with the easiest mind and did not interfere. - -Mrs. Kingsward had come upon her daughter seated out on the lawn under -the great walnut tree, reading one of these letters, one morning when -she had gone out earlier than usual, on an exceptionally fine day. Bee -had thrust it away hastily into her pocket and came forward with burning -cheeks when she heard her mother’s voice--but it was not till some time -later that Mrs. Kingsward spoke. The day had kept up its morning -promise. It was one of those warm days that sometimes come in October, -breathing the very spirit of that contented season, when all things have -come to fruition and the work of the year is done, and its produce -garnered into the barns. Now we may sit and rest, is the sentiment of -the much toiling earth--all the labour being over, the harvest done, -and no immediate need yet to rise again and plough. The world hangs -softly swaying in space, the fields are fallow, the labourer rests. The -sunshine lay warm upon the velvet grass, the foliage, thinned by one -good blast a week ago, gave just shade enough, not too much; the -tea-table was set out upon the lawn--the little horde had gone off -shouting and skirmishing through the grounds, Betty at the head of them, -supposed captain and controller, virtually ringleader, which comes to -much the same thing. The air so hushed and silent in itself, half drowsy -with profound peace, was just touched and made musical by their shouts, -and Bee and her mother, with this triumphant sound of a multitude close -by, were alone. - -“Bee,” Mrs. Kingsward said, “I have long wanted an opportunity to speak -to you.” - -“Yes, mamma,” she said, looking up with a rush of blood to her heart, -feeling that the moment had come. But she would not have been Bee if she -had not put a little something of her own into the thick of the crisis. -“There were plenty of opportunities--we have been together all day.” - -“You know what I mean,” said Mrs. Kingsward. “Bee, I saw you reading a -letter this morning.” - -“Yes, mamma.” - -“Who was it from?” - -Bee looked her mother in the face. “I have never made any secret of it,” -she said. “I have read them openly before papa--I never would pretend -they were anything different. Of course it was from Aubrey, mamma.” - -“Oh, Bee!” said her mother. “You have never told me what your father -said to you that morning. He told me that it was all over and done -with--that he would never listen to another word on the subject.” - -“That was what he told me.” - -“Oh, Bee, Bee! and yet----” - -“Stop a moment, mamma! He never said I was not to write; he never said -there was to be no correspondence. Had he said so, I should have, at -least, considered what it was best to do.” - -“Considered what was best! But you were not the judge. I hope you would -have obeyed your father, Bee.” - -“I cannot say, mamma. You must remember that it is my case and not his. -I don’t know what I should have done. But it was not necessary, for he -said nothing about it.” - -“Bee, my dear child, he may have said nothing; but you know very well -that when he said it was entirely broken off he meant what he said.” - -“Papa is very capable of saying what he means,” said Bee. “I did not -think it was any business of mine to inquire what might be his secret -meaning. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed; but, oh, that would have been too -hard! And for Aubrey, too.” - -“I think much less of Aubrey that he should carry on a clandestine -correspondence with a girl like you.” - -“Clandestine!” cried Bee, with blazing eyes. “No more clandestine than -your letters that come by the post with your own name upon them. If -Aubrey did not scorn anything that is clandestine, I should. There is -nothing like that between him and me.” - -“I never supposed you would be guilty of any artifice, Bee; but you are -going completely against your father--making a fool of him, -indeed--making it all ridiculous--when you carry on a correspondence, as -if you were engaged, after he has broken everything off.” - -“I am engaged,” said Bee, very low. - -“What do you say? Bee, this is out of the question. I shall have to tell -your father when he comes back. “Oh! child, child, how you turn this -delightful time into trouble. I shall be obliged to tell your father -when he comes back.” - -“Perhaps it will be your duty, mamma,” said Bee, the colour going out of -her face; “and then I shall have to consider what is mine,” she said. - -“Oh, Bee, Bee! Oh! how hard you make it for me. Oh! how I wish you had -never seen him, nor heard of him,” Mrs. Kingsward cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -This communication made a little breach between Bee and her mother and -planted a thorn in Mrs. Kingsward’s breast. She had been getting on so -well; the quiet (which meant the riot of the seven nursery children and -all their troublesome ways) had been doing her so much good, and the -absence of every care save that Johnny should not take cold, and Lucy -eat enough dinner--that it was hard upon her thus to be brought back in -a moment to another and a more pressing kind of care. However, after an -hour or two’s estrangement from Bee, which ended in a fuller expansion -than ever of sympathy between them--and a morning or two in which Mrs. -Kingsward remembered as soon as she awoke that it would be her duty to -tell her husband and break up the pleasant peace and harmony of the -household--the sweetness of that _dolce far niente_ swept over her again -and obliterated or at least blurred the outline of all such troublous -thoughts. Colonel Kingsward sent a hasty telegram to say that he was -going on somewhere else for another ten days’ shooting, and that, though -she exclaimed at first with a countenance of dismay, “Oh, children, papa -is not coming home for another week!” in reality gave a pang of relief -to her mind. Gliding into her being, she scarcely knew how, was an -inclination to take every day as it came without thinking of -to-morrow--which was perfectly natural, no doubt, and yet was an -unconscious realisation of the fact, which as yet she had never put into -words, nor had suggested to her, that those gentle days were numbered. -Her husband’s delay was in one way like a reprieve to her. She had, like -all simple natures, a vague faith in accident, in something that might -turn up--“perhaps the world may end to-night”--something at least might -happen in another ten days to make it unnecessary for her to disturb -the existing state of affairs and throw new trouble into the house. She -did not waver at first as to her duty, though nothing in the world could -be more painful; and Bee did not say a word to change her mother’s -resolution. Bee had always been aware that as soon as it was known the -matter must come to another crisis--and the scorn with which she -regarded the idea of doing anything clandestine prevented her even from -asking that her secret should be kept. It was not in her mind but in her -mother’s that those faint doubtings at last arose--those half -entertained thoughts that a letter or two could do no harm; that the -correspondence would drop of itself when it was seen between the two -that there was no hope in it; and that almost anything would be better -than a storm of domestic dispeace and the open rebellion in which Mrs. -Kingsward felt with a shudder Bee would place herself. How are you to -break the will of a girl who will not be convinced, who says it is not -your, but her affair? - -No doubt that was true enough. It was Bee, not Colonel Kingsward, whose -happiness was concerned. According to all the canons of poetry and -literature in general, which in such matters permeate theoretically the -general mind when there is no strong personal instinct to crush them, -Bee had right on her side--and her mother’s instinct was all on the side -of poetry and romance and Bee. She had not the courage to cut short that -correspondence, not clandestine though unrevealed, which kept the girl’s -heart alive, and was not without attractions to the mother also, into -whose ear it might be whispered now and then (with always a faint -protest on her part) that Aubrey had better hopes, that he had a -powerful friend who was going to speak for him. If they really meant to -be faithful to each other--and there was no doubt that was what they -meant--they must win the day in the end; and what harm would it do in -the meantime that they should hear of each other from time to time? -Whereas, if she betrayed the secret, there would at once be a dreadful -commotion in the house, and Bee would confront her father and tell him -with those blazing eyes, so like his, that it was her affair. Mrs. -Kingsward knew that her husband would never stoop to the manœuvre of -intercepting letters, or keeping a watch upon those that his daughter -received; and what can you do to a girl who says that? She shrank more -than any words could say from the renewal of the conflict. She had been -so thankful to believe that it had passed over and all things settled -into peace while she was ill. Now that she was better her heart sank -within her at the thought of bringing it all on again, which would also -make her ill again she was convinced. Yet, at the same time, if she -could not persuade Bee to give it up of herself (of which there was no -hope whatever), then she must, it was her duty, inform her husband. But -her heart rose a little at that ten days’ reprieve. Perhaps the world -might end to-night. Something might happen to make it unnecessary in -those ten days. - -And something did happen, though not in any way what Mrs. Kingsward -could have wished. - -Colonel Kingsward’s return was approaching very near when on one of -those bright October afternoons a lady from the neighbourhood--nay, it -was the clergywoman of the parish, the Rector of Kingswarden’s wife, the -very nearest of all neighbours--came to call. She had just returned from -that series of visits which in the autumn is--with all who respect -themselves--the natural course of events. Mrs. Chichester was a woman of -good connection, of “private means,” and more or less “in society,” so -that she carried out this programme quite as if she had been a great -lady. She had an air of importance about her, which seemed to shadow -forth from her very entrance something that she had to say--an unusual -gravity, a look of having to make up her mind to a certain action which -was not without difficulty. There passed a glance between Mrs. Kingsward -and Bee, in which they said to each other, “What is it this time?” as -clearly as words could have said; for, to be sure, they were well -acquainted with this lady’s ways. She sat for a little, and talked of -their respective travels since they had last met; and of the pleasant -weeks she had passed at Homburg, where so many pleasant people were -always to be met after the London season; and then she lightly touched -on the fact that she had come over early in September, and since then -had been staying at a number of country places, with the dear Bishop, -and at Lady Grandmaison’s, and with old Sir Thomas down in Devonshire, -and so on. - -“Or,” she concluded, with a disproportionate emphasis on that apparently -unimportant word, “I should have been to see you long ago.” - -There was a significance in this which again made Mrs. Kingsward and Bee -exchange a look--a laughing glance--as of those who had heard the phrase -before. When, however, she had asked some questions about Mrs. -Kingsward’s health, and expressed the proper feeling--sorry to hear she -had been so poorly; delighted that she was so much better--Mrs. -Chichester departed from her established use and wont. Instead of -beginning upon the real object of her visit, after she had taken her cup -of tea, with a “Now,” (also very emphatic) “I want to interest you in -something I have very much at heart,”--which was generally a -subscription, a society, a bazaar, a missionary meeting, or something of -the sort--Mrs. Chichester bent forward and said, in a half whisper, “I -have something I want very much to talk to you about. Could I speak to -you for a moment--alone?” - -Bee was much surprised, but took her part with promptitude. “You want to -get rid of me,” she said. “I shall go out on to the terrace, mamma, and -you can call me from the window when you want me. I shall be sure to -hear.” - -There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she -stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which -repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first, -but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book, -one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one -does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is -opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how -long the dahlias would last, and that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be -cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under -which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many -minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting -rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was -already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got -up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against -the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest. -There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee -forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room -window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret, -which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which -she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor -had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee -sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of -her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student, -though she liked a novel as well as anyone; but her eyes strayed from -it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy -glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long -golden ray of the sun. - -Then she heard a low cry--an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror. -Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s -lips such a cry? Bee--I cannot blame her--pricked up her ears. Mrs. -Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which -she had nothing to do. - -“Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said. - -“But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed -so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands -with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s -story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him -at Sir Thomas’s the year before--when he was still in deep mourning for -his wife, you know.” - -“Mr. Leigh! So it was something about Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s -business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any -further thought. - -“But,” said Mrs. Kingsward, as if taking courage, “you must be mistaken; -oh, not about seeing him shake hands with a woman--why shouldn’t he -shake hands with a woman? He is very friendly with everybody. Perhaps he -knew her, and there is nothing to find fault with in that.” - -“Now,” said Mrs. Chichester, solemnly, “should I have mentioned it had -it been confined to that? I only told you of that as a proof. The thing -is that he put in this woman--a common woman, like a servant--into a -sleeping carriage--you know what those sleeping carriages cost; a -perfect fortune; far too much for any comfort there is in them--in the -middle of the night, with her two children. The woman behaved quite -nicely, Miss Tatham says, and looked shocked to be put in with a lady, -and blushed all over her face, and told that ridiculous story to account -for it. Poor thing! One can only be sorry for her. Probably some poor -thing deceived, and thinking she was to be made a lady of. But I know -what you must think of the man, Mrs. Kingsward, who could do such a -thing on his way from staying with your own family, even if there had -been no more in it than that.” - -“But Mr. Leigh is very kind--kind to everybody--it might have been -nothing but charity.” - -“Charity--in an express train sleeping carriage! Well, I confess I never -heard of charity like that. Gentlemen generally know better than to -compromise themselves for nothing in that sort of way. They are more -afraid of risking themselves in railway carriages and that kind of thing -than girls are--much more afraid. And if you remember, Mrs. Kingsward, -what kind of reputation Mr. Leigh had in his poor wife’s time--keeping -that Miss Lance all the time in her very house under her eyes.” - -“I have always heard that it was Mrs. Leigh who insisted upon keeping -Miss Lance----” - -“Is it likely?” said Mrs. Chichester. “I ask you, knowing what you do of -human nature? And then a thing to happen like this on his very way -home--when he had just left you and poor little Bee. Oh, it is -shameless, shameless! I could not contain myself when I heard of it. And -then it was said that the Colonel had broken off the engagement, and I -thought it would be a comfort to you to know that other things were -occurring every day, and that it was the only thing to do.” - -“It is no comfort to me--and I cannot--I cannot believe it!” - -“Dear Mrs. Kingsward, you always take the best view; but if you had seen -him, as I did, holding the woman’s hand, bending over her with such a -look!--I was afraid he would kiss her, there, before everybody. And I, -knowing of the engagement, and that he had just left you--before Miss -Tatham said a word--I sat and stared, and couldn’t believe my eyes. It -was the tenth of September, and he had left Bee, hadn’t he, the night -before?” - -“I never remember dates,” said Mrs. Kingsward, querulously. - -“I do,” replied the visitor, “and I took the trouble to find out. At -least, I found out by accident, through someone who saw him at the -club, and who had just discovered the rights of that story about Miss -Lance. Oh, I trust you will not be beguiled by his being a good _parti_, -or that sort of thing, to trust dear Bee in such hands! Marriage is -always rather a disenchantment; but think what it would be in such a -case--a man that can’t be trusted to travel between Cologne and London -without----” - -“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” said Mrs. Kingsward; and Bee -heard that her mother had melted into tears. - -“That is as good as saying you don’t believe me, who saw it with my own -eyes,” said the visitor, getting up. “Indeed, I didn’t mean at all to -distress you, for I thought that, as everything was broken off--I -thought only if you had any doubts, as one has sometimes after one has -settled a thing--that to know he was a man like that, with no respect -for anything, who could leave his _fiancée_, and just plunge, -plunge--there is no other word for it----” - -It was evident that Mrs. Kingsward, reduced to helplessness, here made -no effort either to detain her visitor or to contradict her further, or -indeed to make any remark. There was a step or two across the room, and -then Mrs. Chichester said again--“Good-bye, dear. I am very sorry to -have distressed you--but I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of such a -thing for dear Bee’s sake; that is the one thing to be thankful for in -the whole matter, that Bee doesn’t seem to mind a bit! She looks just as -bright and just as nice as if nothing had happened. She can’t have cared -for him! Only flattered, I suppose, and pleased to have a proposal--as -those little things are, poor things. We should all thank heaven on our -knees that there’s no question of a broken heart in Bee’s case----” - -She might not have been so sure of that had she seen the figure which -came through the window the moment the door had closed upon her--Bee -with her blue eyes blazing wildly out of her white face, and strange -passion in every line both of features and form. - -“What is the meaning of it?” she said, briefly, with dry lips. - -“Oh, Bee, you have heard it all!” - -“I have heard enough--what does it mean, mamma?” - -Mrs. Kingsward roused herself, dried her eyes, and went forward to Bee -with outstretched arms; but the girl turned away. “I don’t want to be -petted. I want to know what--what it means,” she said. - -“I don’t believe it,” cried Mrs. Kingsward. - -“Give a reason; don’t say things to quiet me. Oh, keep your arms away, -mamma! Don’t pet me as if I wanted that! Why don’t you believe it? And -if you did believe it--what does it mean--what does it mean?” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -Bee’s look of scared and horrified misery was something new in Mrs. -Kingsward’s experience. The girl had not known any trouble. Her father’s -rejection of her lover and the apparent break between them had been in -reality only another feature in the romance. She had almost liked it -better so. There had been no time to pine, to feel the pain of -separation. It was all the more like a poem, like what every love story -should be, that this breaking off should have come. - -And now, all at once, without any warning! The worst of it was that Bee -had only heard a part of the story, the recapitulation of it. Mrs. -Chichester had given the accused more or less fair play. She had given -an imperfect account of the explanation, the story the woman had -told--as was almost inevitable to a third party, but she had given it to -the best of her ability, not meaning to deceive, willing enough that he -should have the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps that the judgment upon -him should be all the more hard, because of his attempt to mingle deceit -with his sin, and throw dust in the eyes of any possible spectators. -This was the way in which it had appeared to herself, but she was not -unfair. She told the story which had been told to the astonished lady -upon whose solitude the little party had been obtruded in the middle of -the night, and who had heard it perhaps even imperfectly at first hand -mingled with the jolting and jarring of the train and the murmur of the -children. And yet Mrs. Chichester had repeated it honestly. - -But Bee had not heard that part of the tale. She had heard only the -facts of the case which had presented to her inexperienced young mind -the most wild and dreadful picture. Her lover, who had just left her, -whom she had promised to stand by till death, suddenly appeared to her -in the pale darkness of the midnight with a woman and children hanging -on to him--belonging to him, as appeared. Where had he met them? How had -he arranged to meet them? When her hand had been in his, when he had -been asking from her that pledge till death, had he just been arranging -all that--giving them that rendezvous--settling how they were to meet, -and where? A horror and sickness came over poor Bee. It made her head -swim and her limbs tremble. To leave her with her pledge in his ears, -and to meet, perhaps at the very outset of his journey, the woman with -the children--a common sort of woman, like a servant. As if that made -any difference! If she had been a duchess it would have been all the -same. He must have met her fresh from Bee’s presence, with his farewell -to the girl whom he had pretended to love still on his lips. She could -not think so clearly. Was this picture burnt in upon her mind? She -seemed to see the dim, half-lighted carriage, and Aubrey at the door -putting the party in. And then at Dover, in the daylight, shaking hands -with his companion, bending over her as if he meant to kiss her! These -two pictures took possession of Bee’s mind completely. And all this just -when he had left Bee--between his farewell to her and his interview with -her father! If she had heard of the story which the woman had told to -the startled Miss Tatham in the dim sleeping carriage, from which, -looking out, she had recognised Aubrey Leigh, it might have made a -difference. But that story had not been told in Bee’s hearing. And Mrs. -Kingsward did not know this, but supposed she had heard the whole from -beginning to end. - -Bee’s mother, to tell the truth, after the first shock, was glad of that -unconscious eaves-dropping on Bee’s part; for how could she have told -her? Indeed, the story was too gross, too flagrant to be believed by -herself. She felt sure that there must be some explanation of it other -than the vulgar one which was put upon it by these ladies; but she knew -very well that the same interpretation would be put upon it by her -husband, and many other people to whom Aubrey’s innocent interference in -such a case would have seemed much less credible than guilt. Guilt is -the thing that generally rises first as the explanation of everything, -to the mind, both of the man and woman of the world. The impossibility -of a man leaving a delicate flower of womanhood like Bee, whose first -love he had won, in order to fall back at once into the bonds of a -common intrigue, and provide for the comfort of his paramour, who had -been waiting for him on the journey, would not prove so great to most -people as the impossibility that he, as a stranger, would step out of -his way to succour a poor little mother and children whom he had never -seen before, and risk thereby a compromising situation. - -The latter was the thing which would have seemed unutterably ridiculous -and impossible to Colonel Kingsward. A first-class sleeping carriage -secured for a mere waif upon his way, whom he had never seen before and -never would see again! The fellow might be a fool, but he was not such a -fool as that. Had the woman even been old and ugly the Colonel would -have laughed and shrugged his shoulders at Aubrey’s bad taste; but the -woman was pretty and young. A long-standing affair, no doubt; and, of -course, it was quite possible, nay likely, that she was being sent, poor -creature, to some retreat or other, where she would be out of the way -with her children. - -Mrs. Kingsward knew, as if she had heard him say these words, how her -husband would speak. And who was she, with not half his experience of -the world, to maintain a different opinion? Yet she did so. She thought -it was like Aubrey to turn the poor woman’s lingering, melancholy -journey into a quick and comfortable one, out of pure kindness, without -thought of compromising himself any more than of having any recompense -for what he did. But she did not know that Bee knew nothing of this -explanation of the story. When she found that her child evidently -thought nothing of that, but received at once the darker miserable tale -into her mind, she was startled, but not perhaps astonished. Bee was -young to think the worst of anybody, but at the same time it is by far -the commonest way of thinking, and the offence was one against herself, -which gives a sharper edge to everything. And then she knew what was -going on in Bee’s mind chiefly by guesswork, for the girl said little. -The colour went out of her face, her eyes sometimes gave a gleam of -their old fire, but mostly had a strange set look, as if they were fixed -on something not visible to the ordinary spectator. She sat all the -evening through and never spoke. This was not so noticeable while the -children were still about with their perpetual flow of observations and -flood of questions; but when they went off in detachments to bed, and -the two elder girls were left alone with their mother, Bee’s silence -fell upon the others like a cloud. Betty, who knew nothing, after a few -minutes rushed away upstairs to find refuge in the nursery, and then -Mrs. Kingsward was left alone, face to face with this silent figure, so -unlike Bee, which neither moved nor spoke. She had scarcely the courage -to break the dreadful silence, but yet it had to be broken. Poor Mrs. -Kingsward’s heart began to beat violently against her breast as it had -not done since her return home. - -“Bee!” she said. “Bee!” - -Already the pumping of her heart had taken away her breath. - -“Yes, mamma.” - -“Oh! Bee, what--what are you going to do?” - -“To do, mamma?” - -“Oh! don’t repeat my words after me, but give me some sort of an answer. -Betty may be back again in a moment. What are you going to do?” - -“What can I do?” the girl said, in a low voice. - -“I can’t suppose but that you have been thinking about it--what else -could you be thinking of, poor child? For my part, I don’t believe it. -Do you hear me, Bee?” - -“Yes--I heard you say that before, mamma.” - -“And that is all you think of what I say! My darling, you can’t remain -like this. The first thing your father will ask will be, ‘What has -happened?’ I cannot bear that you should give up--without a word.” - -Mrs. Kingsward had disapproved of the correspondence, had felt that it -would be incumbent upon her to tell her husband of it, but yet in this -unforeseen emergency she forgot all that. - -“Without a word! What words could I say? You don’t suppose I could -discuss it with him--ask if it was true? If it’s true, there isn’t a -word to say, is there? And if it isn’t true it would be an insult to ask -him. And so one way or another it is all just done with and over. And I -wish you would leave me quiet, mamma.” - -“Done with and over! Without a word--on a mere story of something that -took place on a journey!” - -“Oh! leave me quiet, mamma. Do you think I need to be reminded of that -journey? As if I did not see it, and the lamps burning, and hear the -very wheels!” - -“Bee, dear, how can I leave you quiet? Do you mean just to let it break -off like that, without a word, without giving him the chance to -explain?” - -“I thought,” said Bee, with a faint satirical smile, for, indeed, her -heart was capable of all bitterness, “that it was broken off completely -by papa, and all that remained was only--what you called clandestine, -mamma.” - -“I did not call it clandestine. I knew you would do nothing that was -dishonourable. And it is true that it was--broken off. But, Bee! Bee! -you don’t seem to feel the dreadful thing this is. After all that has -passed, to let it drop in a moment, without saying a word!” - -“I thought it was what I ought to have done, as soon as papa’s will was -made known.” - -“Oh! Bee, you will drive me mad. And I have got no breath to speak. So -you ought, perhaps--but you have not, when perhaps there was a reason. -And now, for a mere chance story, and without giving him--an -opportunity--to speak for himself.” - -Bee raised her face, now crimson as it had before been pale. - -“How could I put any questions on such a thing? How could it be -discussed between him and me? To think of it is bad enough, but to speak -of it--mamma! How do I know, even, what words to say?” - -“In that case, every engagement would be at the mercy of any slanderer, -if the girl never could bring herself to ask what it meant.” - -“I am not any girl,” cried poor Bee, with a quiver of her lip. “I am -just myself. I don’t think very much of myself any more than you do, but -I can’t change myself. Oh, let me alone, let me alone, mamma!” - -Mrs. Kingsward was very much excited. Her nostrils grew pinched and -dilated in the struggle for breath; her lips were open and panting from -the same cause. She was caught in that dreadful contradiction of -sentiment and feeling which is worse than any unmingled catastrophe. She -had been rent asunder before this by her desire to shield her daughter, -yet the sense of her duty to her husband remained, and now it was the -correspondence which she seemed to be called upon to defend almost at -peril of her life; that actually clandestine, at least secret -correspondence, of which she could not approve, which she was bound to -cut short. And yet to cut it short like this was something which she -could not bear. She threw aside the work with which she had been -struggling and fixed her eyes on Bee, who did not look at her nor see -how agitated her expression was. - -“If you can do this, I can’t,” she said. “I will write to him. The -other dreadful story may be true, for anything I know. And that, of -course, is enough. But this one I don’t believe, if an angel from Heaven -told it me. He shall at least have the chance of clearing himself!” - -“I don’t know,” said Bee, “what the other dreadful story was. I thought -it was only pretending to love--some other woman; and then--pretending -to love _me_”--she broke off into a little hoarse laugh. The offence of -it was more than Bee could bear. The insult--to suffer (she said to -herself) was one thing--but to be insulted! She laughed to think what a -fool she had been; how she had been taken in; how she had said--oh, like -the veriest credulous fool--“Till death.” - -“He was not pretending to love you. What went before I know not, but -with you he was true.” - -“One before--and one after,” said Bee, rising in an irrepressible rage -of indignation. “Oh, mamma, how can we sit quietly and discuss it, as -if--as if it were a thing that could be talked about? Am I to come in -between--two others--two---- I think it will make me mad,” the girl -cried, stamping her foot. How does a man dare to do that--to insult a -girl--who never sought him nor heard of him, wanted nothing of him--till -he came and forced himself into her life!” - -“Oh! Bee, my darling,” cried the mother, going up to her child with -outstretched arms. - -“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t pet me; I cannot bear it. Let me -stand by myself. I am not a little thing like Lucy to be caught up and -kissed till I forget. I don’t want to forget. There is nothing that can -ever be done to me, if I were to live to an hundred, to put this out of -my head.” - -“Bee, be patient with me for a moment. I have lived longer than you -have. What went before could be no offence to you, whatever it was. It -might be bad, but it was no offence to you. And this--I don’t believe -it----” - -Bee was far too much self-absorbed to see the labouring breath, the pink -spot on each cheek, the panting which made her mother’s fine nostrils -quiver and kept her lips apart, or that she caught at the back of a -chair to support herself as she stood. - -“I don’t know why--you shouldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it; I see -it, I hear it,” cried Bee. “It’s like a story--and I thought these -things were always stories, things made up to keep up the interest in a -book---- I’m the--deceived heroine, the one that’s disappointed, don’t -you know, mamma? We’ve read all about her dozens of times. But she -generally makes a fuss over it,” the girl said, with her suffocating -laugh. “I shall make--no fuss---- Mamma! What is the matter, mamma?” - -Nothing more was the matter than the doctor could have told Mrs. -Kingsward’s family long ago--a spasm of the heart. She stumbled backward -to the sofa, and flung herself down before consciousness forsook her. -Did consciousness forsake her at all? Bee rushing to the bell, making -its violent sound peal through the house, then flinging herself at her -mother’s feet, and calling to her in the helplessness of utter -ignorance, “Mamma, mamma!” did not think that she was unconscious. -Broken words fell from her in the midst of her gasps for breath, then -there was a moment of dread stillness. By this time the room seemed to -be full of people--Bee did not know who was there--and then there -suddenly appeared out of the mist Moulsey with a glass and teaspoon in -her hands. - -“Go away, all of you,” cried Moulsey, “she’ll be better directly--open -all the windows and take a fan and fan her, Miss Bee.” - -The blast of the cold October night air came in like a flood, Bee seemed -to come out of a horrible dream in the waft of air brought by the fan -which she was herself waving to and fro--and in a little time, as -Moulsey said, Mrs. Kingsward was better. The labouring breath which had -come back after that awful moment of stillness gradually calmed down and -became softer with an occasional long drawn sigh, and then she opened -her eyes and said, with a faint smile, “What is it? What is it?” She -looked round her for a moment puzzled--and then she said, “Ah! you are -fanning me,” with a smile to Bee, but presently, “How cold it is! I -don’t think I want to be fanned, Moulsey.” - -“No, ma’am, not now. And White is just a-going to shut all the windows. -The fire was a bit too hot, and you know you never can bear it when the -room gets too hot.” - -“No, I never can bear it,” Mrs. Kingsward said, in a docile tone. She -followed the lead of any suggestion given to her. “I must have got -faint--with the heat.” - -“That was just it,” said Moulsey. “When you have a fire in the -drawing-room so early it looks so cheerful you’re apt to pile it too -high without thinking--for it ain’t really cold in October, not cold -enough to have a fire like that. You want it for cheerfulness, ma’am, -more than for heat. A big bit of wood that will make a nice blaze, and -very little coal, as is too much for the season, is what your -drawing-room fire should be.” - -Mrs. Kingsward gradually came to herself during this long speech, which -no doubt was what Moulsey intended. But she said she felt a little weak, -and that she would keep on the sofa until it was time to go to bed. The -agitation she had gone through seemed to have passed from her mind. -“Read me a little of that story,” she said, pointing to a book on the -table. “We left off last night at a most interesting part. Read me the -next chapter, Bee.” - -Bee sat down beside her mother’s sofa and opened the book. It was not a -book of a very exciting kind it may be supposed, when it was thus read a -chapter at a time, without any one of the party opening it from evening -to evening to see how things went on. But as it happened at this point -of the story, the heroine had found out that her lover was not so -blameless as she thought, and was making up her mind to have nothing to -do with him. Bee began to read with an indignation beyond words for both -hero and heroine, who were so pale, so colourless, beside her own story. -To waste one’s time reading stuff like this, while the tide of one’s own -passion was ten times stronger! She did not think very much of her -mother’s faint. It was, no doubt, the too large fire, as Moulsey said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -IT was perhaps a very good thing for Bee at this distracting and -distracted moment of her life, that her mother’s illness came in to fill -up every thought. Her own little fabric of happiness crumbled down about -her ears like a house of cards, only as it was far more deeply founded -and strongly built, the downfall was with a rumbling that shook the -earth and a dust that rose up to the skies. Heaven was blurred out to -her by the rising clouds, and all the earth was full of the noise, like -an earthquake, of the falling walls. She could not get that sound out of -her ears even in Mrs. Kingsward’s sick room, where the quiet was -preternatural, and everybody spoke in the lowest tone, and every step -was hushed. Even then it went on roaring, the stones and the rafters -flying, the storms of dust and ruin blackening the air, so that Bee -could not but wonder that nobody saw them, that the atmosphere was not -thick and stifling with those _debris_ that were continually falling -about her own ears. For everything was coming down; not only the idol -and the shrine he abode in, but heaven and earth, in which she felt that -no truth, no faith, could dwell any longer. Who was there to believe in? -Not any man if not Aubrey; not any goodness, any truth, if not his--not -anything! For it was without object, without warning, for nothing at -all, that he had deserted her, as if it had been of no importance: with -the ink not dry on his letter, with her name still upon his lips. A -great infidelity, like a great faith, is always something. It is tragic, -one of the awful events of life in which there is, or may be, fate; an -evil destiny, a terrible chastisement prepared beforehand. In such a -case one can at least feel one’s self only a great victim, injured by -God himself and the laws of the universe, though that was not the common -fashion of thought then, as it is now-a-days. But Bee’s downfall did not -mean so much as that it was not intended by anyone--not even by the -chief worker in it. He had meant to hold Bee fast with one hand while he -amused himself with the other. Amused himself--oh, heaven! Bee’s heart -seemed to contract with a speechless spasm of anguish and rage. That she -should be of no more account than that! Played with as if she were -nobody--the slight creature of a moment. She, Bee! She, Colonel -Kingsward’s daughter! - -At first the poor girl went on in a mist of self-absorption, through -which everything else pierced but dully, wrapped up and hidden in it as -in the storm which would have arisen had the house actually fallen about -her ears, perceiving her mother through it, and the doctor, and all the -accessories of the scene--but dimly, not as if they were real. When, -however, there began to penetrate through this, strange words, with -strange meanings in them: “Danger”--danger to whom?--“Strength -failing”--but whose strength?--a dull wonder came in, bringing her back -to other thoughts. By-and-by, Bee began to understand a little that it -was of her mother of whom these things were being said. Her mother? But -it was not her mother’s house that had fallen; what did it mean? The -doctor talked apart with Moulsey, and Moulsey turned her back, and her -shoulders heaved, and her apron seemed to be put to her eyes. Bee, in -her dream said, half aloud, “Danger?” and both the doctor and Moulsey -turned upon her as if they would have killed her. Then she was beckoned -out of the room, and found herself standing face to face with that grave -yet kindly countenance which she had known all her life, in which she -believed as in the greatest authority. She heard his voice speaking to -her through all the rumbling and downfall. - -“You must be very courageous,” it said, “You are the eldest, and till -your father comes home----” - -What did it matter about her father coming home, or about her being the -eldest? What had all these things to do with the earthquake, with the -failure of truth, and meaning, and everything in life? She looked at him -blankly, wondering if it were possible that he did not hear the sound of -the great falling, the rending of the walls, and the tearing of the -roof, and the choking dust that filled all earth and heaven. - -“My dear Beatrice,” he said, for he had known her all his life, “you -don’t understand me, do you, my poor child?” - -Bee shook her head, looking at him wistfully. Could he know anything -more about it, she wondered--anything that had still to be said? - -He took her hand, and her poor little hand was very cold with emotion -and trouble. The good doctor, who knew nothing about any individual -cause little Bee could have for agitation, thought he saw that her very -being was arrested by a terror which as yet her intelligence had not -grasped; something dreadful in the air which she did not understand. He -drew her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open, and poured -out a little wine for her. “Now, Bee,” he said, “no fainting, no -weakness. You must prove what is in you now. It is a dreadful trial for -you, my dear, but you can do a great deal for your dear mother’s sake, -as she would for yours.” - -“I have never said it was a trial,” cried Bee, with a gasp. “Why do you -speak to me so? Has mamma told you? No one has anything to do with it -but me.” - -He looked at her with great surprise, but the doctor was a man of too -much experience not to see that here was something into which it was -better not to inquire. He said, very quietly, “You, as the eldest, have -no doubt the chief part to play; but the little ones will all depend -upon your strength and courage. Your mother does not herself know. She -is very ill. It will require all that we can do--to pull her through.” - -Bee repeated the last words after him with a scared look, but scarcely -any understanding in her face--“To pull her--through?” - -“Don’t you understand me now? Your mother--has been ill for a long time. -Your father is aware of it. I suppose he thought you were too young to -be told. But now that he is absent, and your brother, I have no -alternative. Your mother is in great danger. I have telegraphed for -Colonel Kingsward, but in the meantime, Bee--child, don’t lose your -head! Do you understand me? She may be dying, and you are the only one -to stand by her, to give her courage.” - -Bee did not look as if she had courage for anyone at that dreadful -moment. She fell a-trembling from head to foot and fell back against the -wall where she was standing. Her eyes grew large, staring at him yet -veiled as if they did not see--and she stammered forth at length, -“Mother, mother!” with almost no meaning, in the excess of misery and -surprise. - -“Yes, your mother; whatever else you may have to think of, she is the -first consideration now.” - -He went on speaking, but Bee did not hear him; everything floated around -her in a mist. The scenes at the Bath, the agitations, Mrs. Kingsward’s -sudden pallors and flushings, her pretence, which they all laughed at, -of not being able to walk; her laziness, lying on the sofa, the -giddiness when she made that one turn with Charlie, she who had always -been so fond of dancing; the hurry of bringing her to Kingswarden when -Bee had felt they would have been so much better in London, and her -strange, strange new fancy, mutely condemned by Bee, of finding the -children too much for her. Half of these things had been silently -remarked and disapproved of by the daughters. Mamma getting so -idle--self-indulgent almost, so unlike herself! Had they not been too -busily engaged in their own affairs, Bee and Betty would both have been -angry with mamma. All these things seem to float about Bee in a mist -while she leaned against the wall and the doctor stood opposite to her -talking. It was only perhaps about a minute after all, but she saw -waving round her, passing before her eyes, one scene melting into -another, or rather all visible at once, innumerable episodes--the whole -course of the three months past which had contained so much. She came -out of this strange whirl very miserable but very quiet. - -“I think it is chiefly my fault,” she said, faltering, interrupting the -doctor who was talking, always talking; “but how could I know, for -nobody told me? Doctor, tell me what to do now? You said we should--pull -her through.” - -She gave him a faint, eager, conciliatory smile, appealing to him to do -it. Of course he could do it! “Tell me--tell me only what to do.” - -He patted her kindly upon the shoulder. “That is right,” he said. “Now -you understand me, and I know I can trust you. There is not much to do. -Only to be quiet and steady--no crying or agitation. Moulsey knows -everything. But you must be ready and steady, my dear. Sit by her and -look happy and keep up her courage--that’s the chief thing. If she gives -in it is all over. She must not see that you are frightened or -miserable. Come, it’s a great thing to do for a little girl that has -never known any trouble. But you are of a good sort, and you must rise -to it for your mother’s sake.” - -Look happy! That was all she had to do. “Can’t I help Moulsey,” she -asked. “I could fetch her what she wants. I could--go errands for her. -Oh, doctor, something a little easier,” cried Bee, clasping her hands, -“just at first!” - -“All that’s arranged,” he said, hastily, “Come, we must go back to our -patient. She will be wondering what I am talking to you about. She will -perhaps take fright. No, nothing easier, my poor child--if you can do -that you may help me a great deal; if you can’t, go to bed, my dear, -that will be best.” - -She gave him a look of great scorn, and moved towards her mother’s room, -leading the way. - -Mrs. Kingsward was lying with her face towards the door, watching, in a -blaze of excitement and fever. Her eyes had never been so bright nor her -colour so brilliant. She was breathing quickly, panting, with her heart -very audible to herself, pumping in her ears, and almost audible in the -room, so evident was it that every pulse was at fever speed. “What have -you been telling Bee, doctor? What have you been telling Bee? What----” -When she had begun this phrase it did not seem as if she could stop -repeating it again and again. - -“I have been telling her that she may sit with you, my dear lady, on -condition of being very quiet, very quiet,” said the doctor. “It’s a -great promotion at her age. She has promised to sit very still, and talk -very little, and hush her mamma to sleep. It is you who must be the baby -to-night. If you can get a good long quiet sleep, it will do you all the -good in the world. Yes, you may hold her hand if you like, my dear, and -pat it, and smooth it--a little gentle mesmerism will do no harm. That, -my dear lady, is what I have been telling Miss Bee.” - -“Oh, doctor,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “don’t you know she has had great -trouble herself, poor child? Poor little Bee! At her age I was married -and happy; and here is she, poor thing, plunged into trouble. Doctor, -you know, there is a--gentleman----” - -Mrs. Kingsward had raised herself upon her elbow, and the panting of her -breath filled all the room. - -“Another time--another time you shall tell me all about it. But I shall -take Miss Bee away, and consign you to a dark room, and silence, if you -say another word----” - -“Oh, don’t make my room dark! I like the light. I want my child. Let me -keep her, let me keep her! Who should--comfort her--but her mother?” - -“Yes, so long as you keep quiet. If you talk I will take her away. Not a -word--not a word--till to-morrow.” In spite of himself there was a -change in the doctor’s voice as he said that word--or Bee thought so--as -if there might never be any to-morrow. The girl felt as if she must cry -out, shriek aloud, to relieve her bursting brain, but did not, overborne -by his presence and by the new sense of duty and self-restraint. “Come -now,” he went on, “I am very kind to let you have your little girl by -you, holding your hand--don’t you think so? Go to sleep, both of you. If -you’re quite, quite, quiet you’ll both doze, and towards the morning -I’ll look in upon you again. Now, not another word. Good-night, -good-night.” - -Bee, whose heart was beating almost as strongly as her mother’s, heard -his measured step withdraw on the soft carpets with a sense of wild -despair, as if the last hope was going from her. Her inexperienced -imagination had leaped from complete ignorance and calm to the last -possibilities of calamity. She had never seen death, and what if that -awful presence were to come while she was alone, incapable of any -struggle, of giving any help. She listened to the steps getting fainter -in the distance with anguish and terror unspeakable. She clasped her -mother’s hand tightly without knowing it. That only aid, the only man -who could do anything, was going away--deserting them--leaving her alone -in her ignorance to stand between her mother and death. Death! Every -pulse sprang up and fluttered in mortal terror. And she was put there to -be quiet--ready and steady, he had said--to look happy! Bee kept silent; -kept sitting upon her chair; kept down her shriek after him with a -superhuman effort. She could do no more. - -“Listen--he’s talking to Moulsey now,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “about me; -they’re always--whispering, about me--telling the symptoms--and how I -am. That is the worst of nurses----” - -“Mamma! Oh, don’t talk, don’t talk!” cried Bee; though she was more -comforted than words can tell by the sound of her mother’s voice. - -“Whispering: can’t you hear them? About temperature--and things. -I can bear talking--but whispering. Bee--don’t you hear -’em--whis--whispering----” - -“Oh, mamma,” cried Bee, “I love to hear you speak! But don’t, don’t, -don’t, or they’ll make me go away.” - -“My baby,” said the mother, diverted in her wandering and weakness to a -new subject, “my little thing! He said we were to go to sleep. Put your -head there--and I’ll sing you--I’ll sing you--to sleep--little Bee, -little Bee, poor little Bee!” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -THIS night was the strangest in Bee Kingsward’s life. She had never -known what it was to remain silent and awake in the darkness and warmth -of a sick room, which of itself is a strange experience for a girl, and -shows the young spirit its own weakness, its craving for rest and -comfort, the difficulty of overcoming the instincts of nature--with such -a sense of humiliation as nothing else could give. Could you not watch -with me one hour? She believed that she had lain awake crying all night -when her dream of happiness had so suddenly been broken in upon at -Cologne; but now, while she sat by her mother’s side, and the little -soft crooning of the song, which Mrs. Kingsward supposed herself to be -singing to put her child to sleep, sank into a soft murmur, and the poor -lady succeeded in hushing herself into a doze by this characteristic -method. Bee’s head dropped too, and her eyelids closed. Then she woke, -with a little shiver, to see the large figure of Moulsey like a ghost by -the bed, and struggled dumbly back to her senses, only remembering that -she must not start nor cry to disturb Mrs. Kingsward, whose quick -breathing filled the room with a sensation of danger and dismay to which -the girl was sensible as soon as the film of sleep that had enveloped -her was broken. Mrs. Kingsward’s head was thrown back on the pillow; now -and then a faint note of the lullaby which she had been singing came -from the parted lips, through which the hot, quick breath came so -audibly. Now and then she stirred in her feverish sleep. Moulsey stood -indistinguishable with her back to the light, a mass of solid shadow by -the bedside. She shook her head. “Sleep’s best,” she said, in the -whisper which the patient hated. “Sleep’s better than the best of -physic.” Bee caught those solid skirts with a sensation of hope, to -feel them so real and substantial in her hand. She did not care to -speak, but lifted her face, pale with alarm and trouble, to the -accustomed nurse. Moulsey shook her head again. It was all the -communication that passed between them, and it crushed the hope that was -beginning to rise in Bee’s mind. She had thought when she heard the -doctor go away that death might be coming as soon as his back was -turned. She had felt when her mother fell asleep as if the danger must -be past. Now she sank into that second stage of hopelessness, when there -is no longer any immediate panic, when the unaccustomed intelligence -dimly realises that the sufferer may be better, and may live through the -night, or through many nights, and yet there may be no real change. Very -dim as yet was this consciousness in Bee’s heart, and yet the first -dawning of it bowed her down. - -In the middle of the night--after hours so long!--more like years, when -Bee seemed to have sat there half her life, to have become used to it, -to be uncertain about everything outside, but only that her mother lay -there more ill than words could say--Mrs. Kingsward awoke. She opened -her eyes without any change of position with the habit of a woman who -has been long ill, without acknowledging her illness. It was Moulsey who -saw a faint reflection of the faint light in the softly opening eyes, -and detected that little change in the breathing which comes with -returning consciousness. Bee, with her head leant back upon her chair -and her eyes closed, was dozing again. - -“You must take your cordial, ma’am, now you’re awake. You’ve had such a -nice sleep.” - -“Have I? I thought I was with the children and singing to baby. Who’s -this that has my hand--Bee?” - -“Mamma,” cried the girl, with a little start, and then, “Oh! I have -waked her, Moulsey, I have waked her!” - -“Is this her little hand? Poor little Bee! No, you have not waked me, -love; but why, why is the child here?” - -“The doctor said she might stay--to send for him if you wanted -anything--and--and to satisfy her.” - -“To satisfy her, why so, why so? Am I so bad? Did he think I would -die--in the night?” - -“No, no, no,” said Moulsey, standing by her, patting her shoulder, as if -she had been a fretful child. “What a thing to fancy! As if he’d have -sent the child here for that!” - -“No,” said the poor lady, “he wouldn’t have sent the child, would -he--not the child--for that--to frighten her! But Bee must go to bed. -I’m so much better. Go to bed. Moulsey; poor Moulsey, never tires, she’s -so good. But you must go to bed.” - -“Oh, mother, let me stay. When you sleep, I sleep too; and I’m so much -happier here.” - -“Happier, are you? Well--but there was something wrong. Something had -happened. What was it that happened? And your father away! It never does -for anything to happen when--my husband is away. I’ve grown so silly. I -never know what to do. What was it that happened, Bee?” - -“There was--nothing,” said Bee, with a sudden chill of despair. She had -forgotten everything but the dim bed-chamber, the faint light, the -quick, quick breathing. And now there came a stab at her poor little -heart. She scarcely knew what it was, but a cut like a knife going to -the very centre of her being. Then there came the doctor’s words, as if -they were written in light across the darkness of the room--“Ready, and -steady.” She said in a stronger voice, “You have been dreaming. There -was nothing, mamma.” - -Mrs. Kingsward, who had raised herself on her elbow, sank back again on -her pillow. - -“Yes,” she said, “I must have been dreaming. I thought somebody -came--and told us. Dreams are so strange. People say they’re things -you’ve been--thinking of. But I was not thinking of that--the very last -thing! Bee, it’s a pity--it’s a great pity--when a woman with so many -children falls into this kind of silly, bad health.” - -“Oh, mamma,” was all that poor Bee could say. - -“Oh--let me alone, Moulsey--I want to talk a little. I’ve had such a -good sleep, you said; sometimes--I want to talk, and Moulsey won’t let -me--nor your father, and I have it all here,” she said, putting her -hand to her heart, “or here,” laying it over her eyebrows, “and I never -get it out. Let me talk, Moulsey--let me talk.” - -Bee, leaning forward, and Moulsey standing over her by the bedside, -there was a pause. Their eyes, accustomed to the faint light, saw her -eyes shining from the pillow, and the flush of her cheeks against the -whiteness of the bed. Then, after a while, there came a little faint -laugh, and, “What was I saying?” Mrs. Kingsward asked. “You look so big, -Moulsey, like the shadows I used to throw on the wall to please the -children. You always liked the rabbit best, Bee. Look!” She put up her -hands as if to make that familiar play upon the wall. “But Moulsey,” she -added, “is so big. She shuts out all the light, and what is Bee doing -here at this hour of the night? Moulsey, send Miss Bee to bed.” - -“Oh, mother, let me stay. You were going to tell me something.” - -“Miss Bee, you must not make her talk.” - -“How like Moulsey!” said the invalid. “Make me talk! when I have wanted -so much to talk. Bee, it’s horrid to go on in this silly ill way, -when--when one has children to think of. Your father’s always good--but -a man often doesn’t understand. About you, now--if I had been a little -stronger, it might have been different. What was it we heard? I don’t -think it was true what we heard.” - -“Oh, mamma, don’t think of that, now.” - -“It is _so_ silly, always being ill! And there’s nothing really the -matter. Ask the doctor. They all say there’s nothing really the matter. -Your father--but then he doesn’t know how a woman feels. I feel as if I -were sinking, sinking down through the bed and the floor and everything, -away, I don’t know where. So silly, for nothing hurts me--I’ve no -pain--except that I always want more air. If you were to open the -window, Moulsey; and Bee, give me your hand and hold me fast, that I -mayn’t sink away. It’s all quite silly, you know, to think so,” she -added, with again a faint laugh. - -Bee’s eyes sought those of Moulsey with a terrified question in them; -the great shadow only slightly shook its head. - -“Do you remember, Bee, the picture--we saw it in Italy, and I’ve got a -photograph--where there is a saint lying so sweetly in the air, with -angels holding her up? They’re flying with her through the blue sky--two -at her head, and other two--and her mantle so wrapped round her, and she -lying, oh! so easy, resting, though there’s nothing but the air and the -angels. Do you remember, Bee?” - -“Yes, mamma. Oh, mamma, mamma!” - -“That’s what I should like,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “it’s strange, isn’t -it? The bed’s solid, and the house is solid, and Moulsey there, she’s -very solid too, and air isn’t solid at all. But there never was anybody -that lay so easy and looked so safe as that woman in the air. Their arms -must be so soft under her, and yet so strong, you know; stronger than -your father’s. He’s so kind, but he hurries me sometimes; and -soft--you’re soft, Bee, but you’re not strong. You’ve got a soft little -hand, hasn’t she, Moulsey? Poor little thing! And to think one doesn’t -know what she may have to do with it before she is like me.” - -“She’ll have no more to do with it, ma’am, than a lady should, no more -than you’ve had. But you must be quiet, dear lady, and try and go to -sleep.” - -“I might never have such a good chance of talking to her again. The -middle of the night and nobody here--her father not even in the house. -Bee, you must try never to begin being ill in any silly way, feeling not -strong and that sort of foolish thing, and say out what you think. Don’t -be frightened. It’s--it’s bad for him as well as for you. He gets to -think you haven’t any opinion. And then all at once they find out--And, -perhaps, it’s too late--.” - -“Mamma, you’re not very ill? Oh, no; you’re looking so beautiful, and -you talk just as you always did.” - -“She says am I very ill, Moulsey? Poor little Bee! I feel a great deal -better. I had surely a nice sleep. But why should the doctor be here, -and you made to sit up, you poor little thing. Moulsey, why is the -doctor here?” - -“I never said, ma’am, as he was here. He’s coming round first thing in -the morning. He’s anxious--because the Colonel’s away.” - -“Ah! you think I don’t know. I’m not so very bad; but he thinks--he -thinks--perhaps I might die, Bee.” - -“Mamma, mamma!” - -“Don’t be frightened,” said Mrs. Kingsward, drawing the girl close to -her. “That’s a secret; he doesn’t think I know. It would be a curious, -curious thing, when people think you are only ill to go and die. It -would surprise them so. And so strange altogether--instead of worries, -you know, every day, to be all by yourself, lying so easy and the angels -carrying you. No trouble at all then to think whether he would be -pleased--or anything; giving yourself to be carried like that, like a -little child.” - -“But mamma,” cried Bee, “you could not, would not leave us--you -wouldn’t, would you, mamma?--all the children, and me; and I with nobody -else, no one to care for me. You couldn’t, mother, leave us; you -wouldn’t! Say you wouldn’t! Oh! Moulsey! Moulsey! look how far away she -is looking, as if she didn’t see you and me!” - -“You forget, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “How easy it looked for that -saint in the picture. I always liked to watch the birds floating down -on the wind, never moving their wings. That’s what seems no trouble, so -easy; not too hot nor too cold, nor tiring, neither to the breath nor -anything. I shouldn’t like to leave you. No--But then:” she added, with -a smile, “I should not require to leave you. I’d--I’d--What was I -saying? Moulsey, will you please give me some--more--” - -She held out her hand again for the glass which Moulsey had just put -down. - -“It makes me strong--it makes me speak. I’m--sinking away again, Bee. -Hold me--hold me tight. If I was to slip away--down--down--down to the -cellars or somewhere.” The feeble laugh was dreadful for the listeners -to hear. - -“Run,” cried Moulsey, in Bee’s ear, “the doctor--the doctor! in the -library.” - -And then there was a strange phantasmagoria that seemed to fill the -night, one scene melting into another. The doctor rousing from his doze, -his measured step coming back; the little struggle round the bed; -Moulsey giving place to the still darker shadow; the glow of Mrs. -Kingsward’s flushed and feverish countenance between; then the quiet, -and then again sleep--sleep broken by feeble movements, by the quick -panting of the breath. - -“She’ll be easier now,” the doctor said. “You must go to bed, my dear -young lady. Moulsey can manage for the rest of the night.” - -“Doctor,” said Bee, with something in her throat that stopped the words, -“doctor--will she--must she? Oh, doctor, say that is not what it means? -One of us, it would not matter, but mother--mother!” - -“It is not in our hands,” the doctor said. “It is not much we can do. -Don’t look at me as if I were God. It is little, little I can do.” - -“They say,” cried poor Bee, “that you can do anything. It is when there -is no doctor, no nurse that people---- Oh, my mother--my mother! Doctor, -don’t let it be.” - -“You are but a child,” said the doctor, patting her kindly on the -shoulder, “you’ve not forgotten how to say your prayers. That’s the -only thing for you to do. Those that say such things of doctors know -very little. We stand and look on. Say your prayers, little girl--if -they do her no good, they’ll do you good. And now she’ll have a little -sleep.” - -Bee caught him by the arm. “Sleep,” she said, looking at him -suspiciously. “Sleep?” - -“Yes, sleep--that may give her strength for another day. Oh, ask no -more, child. Life is not mine to give.” - -What a night! Out of doors it was moonlight as serene as heaven--the -moon departing in the west, and another faint light that was day coming -on the other side, and the first birds beginning to stir in the -branches; but not even baby moving in the house. All fast asleep, safe -as if trouble never was, as if death could not be. Bee went upstairs to -her chill, white room, where the white bed, unoccupied, looked to her -like death itself--all cold, dreadful, full of suggestion. Bee’s heart -was more heavy than could be told. She had nothing to fall back upon, no -secret strength to uphold her. She had forgotten how wretched she had -been, but she felt it, nevertheless, behind the present anguish. -Nevertheless, she was only nineteen, and when she flung herself down to -cry upon her white pillow--only to cry, to get her passion -out--beneficent nature took hold of the girl and made her sleep. She did -not wake for hours. Was it beneficent? For when she was roused by the -opening of the door and sat up in her bed, and found herself still -dressed in her evening frock, with her little necklace round her throat, -there pressed back upon Bee such a flood of misery and trouble as she -thought did not exist in the world. - -“Miss Bee, Miss Bee! Master’s come home. He’s been travelling all -night--and I dare not disturb Mrs. Moulsey in Missis’s room; and he -wants to see you this minit, please. Oh, come, come, quick, and don’t -keep the Colonel waiting,” the woman said. - -Half awakened, but wholly miserable, Bee sprang up and rushed downstairs -to her father. He came forward to meet her at the door, frowning and -pale. - -“What is this I hear?” he said. “What have you been doing to upset your -mother? She was well enough when I went away. What have you been doing -to your mother? You children are the plague of our lives!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -THE week passed in the sombre hurry yet tedium of a house lying under -the shadow of death--that period during which when it is night we long -for morning, and when it is morning we long for night, hoping always for -the hope that never comes, trembling to mark the progress which does go -on silently towards the end. - -Colonel Kingsward was rough and angry with Bee that first morning, to -her consternation and dismay. She had never been the object of her -father’s anger before, and this hasty and imperious questioning seemed -to take all power of reply out of her. “What had she been doing to her -mother?” She! to her mother! Bee was too much frightened by his -threatening look, the cloud on his face, the fire in his eyes, to say -anything. Her mind ran hurriedly over all that had happened, and that -last terrible visit, which had changed the whole aspect of the earth to -herself. But it was to herself that this stroke of misfortune had come, -and not to her mother. A gleam of answering anger came into Bee’s eyes, -sombre with the unhappiness which had been pushed aside by more -immediate suffering, yet was still there like a black background, to -frame whatever other miseries might come after. As for Colonel -Kingsward, it was to him, as to so many men, a relief to blame somebody -for the trouble which was unbearable. The blow was approaching which he -had never allowed himself to believe in. He had blamed his wife -instinctively, involuntarily, at the first hearing of every -inconvenience in life; and it had helped to accustom him to the -annoyance to think that it was her fault. He had done so in what he -called this unfortunate business of Bee’s, concluding that but for Mrs. -Kingsward’s weakness, Mr. Aubrey Leigh and his affairs would never have -become of any importance to the family. He had blamed her, too, and -greatly, for that weakening of health which he had so persistently -endeavoured to convince himself did not mean half so much as the doctors -said. Women are so idiotic in these respects. They will insist on -wearing muslin and lace when they ought to wear flannel. They will put -on evening dresses when they ought to be clothed warmly to the throat, -and shoes made of paper when they ought to be solidly and stoutly shod, -quite indifferent to the trouble and anxiety they may cause to their -family. And now that Mrs. Kingsward’s state had got beyond the -possibility of reproach, he turned upon his daughter. It must be her -fault. Her mother had been better or he should not have left her. The -quiet of the country was doing her good; if she had not been agitated -all would have been well. But Bee, with all her declarations of devotion -to her mother; Bee, the eldest, who ought to have had some sense; Bee -had brought on this trumpery love business to overset the delicate -equilibrium which he himself, a man with affairs so much more important -in hand, had refrained from disturbing. It did him a little good, -unhappy and anxious as he was, to pour out his wrath upon Bee. And she -did not reply. She did not shed tears, as her mother had weakly done in -similar circumstances, or attempt excuses. Even if he had been -sufficiently at leisure to note it, an answering fire awoke in Bee’s -eyes. He had not leisure to note, but he perceived it all the same. - -Presently, however, every faculty, every thought, became absorbed in -that sick chamber; things had still to be thought of outside of it, but -they seemed strange, artificial things, having no connection with life. -Then Charlie was summoned from Oxford, and the younger boys from school, -which increased the strange commotion of the house, adding that restless -element of young life which had no place there, nothing to do with -itself, and which roused an almost frenzied irritation in Colonel -Kingsward when he saw any attempt on the part of the poor boys to amuse -themselves, or resume their usual occupations. “Clods!” he said; “young -brutes! They would play tennis if the world were falling to pieces.” And -again that glance of fire came into Bee’s eyes, marked unconsciously, -though he did not know he had seen it, by her father. The boys hung -about her when she stole out for a little air, one at each arm. “How is -mother, Bee? She’s no worse? Don’t you think we might go over to -Hillside for that tournament? Don’t you think Fred might play in the -parish match with Siddemore? They’re so badly off for bowlers. Don’t you -think----” - -“Oh, I think it would be much better for you to be doing something, -boys; but, then, papa might hear, and he would be angry. If we could but -keep it from papa.” - -“We’re doing mother no good,” said Fred. - -“How could we do mother good? Why did the governor send for us, Bee, -only to kick our heels here, and get into mischief? A fellow can’t help -getting into mischief when he has nothing to do.” - -“Yes,” repeated Fred, “what did he send for us for? I wish mother was -better. I suppose as soon as she’s better we’ll be packed off again.” - -They were big boys, but they did not understand the possibility of their -mother not getting better, and, indeed, neither did Bee. When morning -followed morning and nothing happened, it seemed to her that getting -better was the only conclusion to be looked for. If it had been Death -that was coming, surely it must have come by this time. Her hopes rose -with every new day. - -But Mrs. Kingsward had been greatly agitated by the sight of Charlie -when he was allowed to see her. “Why has Charlie come home?” she said. -“Was he sent for? Was it your father that brought him? Charlie, my dear, -what are you doing here? Why have you come back? You should have been -going on with---- Did your father send for you? Why--why did your father -send for you, my boy?” - -“I thought,” said Charlie, quite unmanned by the sight of her, and by -this unexpected question, and by all he had been told about her state, -“I thought--you wanted to see me, mother.” - -“I always like to see you--but not to take you away from---- And why -was he sent for, Moulsey? Does the doctor think?--does my husband -think?----” - -Her feverish colour grew brighter and brighter. Her eyes shone with a -burning eagerness. She put her hot hand upon that of her son. “Was it to -say good-bye to me?” she said, with a strange flutter of a smile. - -At the same time an argument on the same subject was going on between -the doctor and the Colonel. - -“What can the children do in a sick room? Keep them away. I should never -have sent for them if you had consulted me. It is bad enough to have let -her see Charlie, summoned express--do you want to frighten your wife to -death?” - -“There can be no question,” said the Colonel, “if what you tell me is -true, of frightening her to death. I think, Benson, that a patient in -such circumstances ought to know. She ought to be told----” - -“What?” the doctor said, sharply, with a harsh tone in his voice. - -“What? Do you need to ask? Of her state--of what is imminent--that she -is going to----” - -Colonel Kingsward loved his wife truly, and he could not say those last -words. - -“Yes,” said the doctor, “going to----? Well, we hope it’s to One who has -called her, that knows all about it, Kingsward. Doctors are not supposed -to take that view much, but I do. I’d tell her nothing of the sort. I -would not agitate her either with the sight of the children or those -heathenish thoughts about dying. Well, I suppose you’ll take your own -way, if you think she’s in danger of damnation; but you see I don’t. I -think where she’s going she’ll find more consideration and more -understanding than ever she got here.” - -“You are all infidels--every one of you,” said Colonel Kingsward; “you -would let a soul rush unprepared into the presence of--” - -“Her Father,” said Doctor Benson. “So I would; if he’s her Father he’ll -take care of that. And if he’s only a Judge, you know, a Judge is an -extraordinarily considerate person. He leaves no means untried of coming -to a right decision. I would rather trust my case in the hands of the -Bench than make up my own little plea any day. And, anyhow you can put -it, the Supreme Judge must be better than the best Bench that ever was. -Leave her alone. She’s safer with Him than either with you or me.” - -“It’s an argument I never would pardon--in my own case. I shudder at the -thought of being plunged into eternity without the time to--to -think--to--to prepare----” - -“But if your preparations are all seen through from the beginning? If -it’s just as well known then, or better, what you are thinking, or -trying to think, to make yourself ready for that event? You knew -yourself, more or less, didn’t you, when you were in active service, the -excuses a wretched private would make when he was hauled up, and how he -would try to make the worse appear the better cause. Were you moved by -that, Colonel Kingsward? Didn’t you know the man, and judge him by what -you knew?” - -“It seems to me a very undignified argument; there’s no analogy between -a wretched private and my--and my--and one of us--at the Judgment Seat.” - -“No--it’s more like one of your boys making up the defence--when brought -before you--and the poor boy would need it too,” Dr. Benson added -within himself. But naturally he made no impression with his argument, -whether it was good or bad, upon his hearer. Colonel Kingsward was in -reality a very unhappy man. He had nobody to blame for the dreadful -misfortune which was threatening him except God, for whom he entertained -only a great terror as of an overwhelming tyrannical Power ready to -catch him at any moment when he neglected the observances or rites -necessary to appease it. He was very particular in these -observances--going to church, keeping up family prayers, contributing -his proper and carefully calculated proportion to the charities, &c. -Nobody could say of him that he was careless or negligent. And now how -badly was his devotion repaid!--by the tearing away from him of the -companion of his life. But he felt that there was still much more that -the awful Master of the Universe might inflict, perhaps upon her if she -was not prepared to meet her God. He was wretched till he had told her, -warned her, till she had fulfilled everything that was necessary, seen -a clergyman, and got herself into the state of mind becoming a dying -person. He had collected all the children that she might take leave of -them in a becoming way. He had, so far as he knew, thought of everything -to make her exit from the world a right one in all the forms--and now to -be told that he was not to agitate her, that the God whom he wished to -prepare her to meet knew more of her and understood her better than he -did! Agitate her! When the alternative might be unspeakable miseries of -punishment, instead of the acquittal which would have to be given to a -soul properly prepared. These arguments did not in the least change his -purpose, but they fretted and irritated him beyond measure. At the -bottom of all, the idea that anybody should know better than he what was -the right thing for his own wife was an intolerable thought. - -He went in and out of her room with that irritated, though -self-controlled look, which she knew so well. He had never shown it to -the world, and when he had demanded of her in his angry way why this was -and that, and how on earth such and such things had happened, Mrs. -Kingsward had till lately taken it so sweetly that he had not himself -suspected how heavy it was upon her. And when she had begun to show -signs of being unable to bear the responsibility of everything in earth -and heaven, the Colonel had felt himself an injured man. There were -signs that he might eventually throw that responsibility on Bee. But in -the meantime he had nobody to blame, as has been said, and the burden of -irritation and disturbance was heavy upon him. - -The next morning after his talk with Dr. Brown he came in with that -clouded brow to find Charlie by her bedside. The Colonel came up and -stood looking at the face on the pillow, now wan in the reaction of the -fever, and utterly weak, but still smiling at his approach. - -“I have been telling Charlie,” she said, in her faint voice, “that he -must go back to his college. Why should he waste his time here?” - -“He will not go back yet,” said Colonel Kingsward; “are you feeling a -little better this morning, my dear?” - -“Oh, not to call ill at all,” said the sufferer. “Weak--a sort of -sinking, floating away. I take hold of somebody’s hand to keep me from -falling through. Isn’t it ridiculous?” she said, after a little pause. - -“Your weakness is very great,” said the husband, almost sternly. - -“Oh, no, Edward. It’s more silly than anything--when I am not really -ill, you know. I’ve got Charlie’s hand here under the counterpane,” she -said again, with her faint little laugh. - -“You won’t always have Charlie’s hand, or anyone’s hand, Lucy.” - -She looked at him with a little anxiety. - -“No, no. I’ll get stronger, perhaps, Edward.” - -“Do you feel as if you were at all stronger, my dear?” - -She loosed her son’s hand, giving him a little troubled smile. “Go away -now, Charlie dear. I don’t believe you’ve had your breakfast. I want to -speak to--papa.” Then she waited, looking wistfully in her husband’s -face till the door had closed. “You have something to say to me, Edward. -Oh, what is it? Nothing has happened to anyone?” - -“No, nothing has happened,” he said. He turned away and walked to the -window, then came back again, turning his head half-way from her as he -spoke. “It is only that you are, my poor darling--weaker every day.” - -“Does the doctor think so?” she said, with a little eagerness, with a -faint suffusion of colour in her face. - -He did not say anything--could not perhaps--but slightly moved his head. - -“Weaker every day, and that means, Edward!” She put out her thin, hot -hands. “That means----” - -The man could not say anything. He could do his duty grimly, but when -the moment came he could not put it into words. He sank down on the -chair Charlie had left, and put down his face on the pillow, his large -frame shaken by sobs which he could not restrain. - -These sobs made Mrs. Kingsward forget the meaning of this communication -altogether. She put her hands upon him trying to raise his head. -“Edward! Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry! I have never seen you cry in all my -life. Edward, for goodness’ sake! You will kill me if you go on sobbing -like that. Oh, Edward, Edward, I never saw you cry before.” - -Moulsey had darted forward from some shadowy corner where she was and -gripped him by the arm. - -“Stop, sir--stop it,” she cried, in an authoritative whisper, “or you’ll -kill her.” - -He flung Moulsey off and raised his head a little from the pillow. - -“You have never seen me with any such occasion before,” he said, taking -her hands into his and kissing them repeatedly. - -He was not a man of many caresses, and her heart was touched with a -feeble sense of pleasure. - -“Dear!” she said softly, “dear!” feebly drawing a little nearer to him -to put her cheek against his. - -Colonel Kingsward looked up as soon as he was able and saw her lying -smiling at him, her hand in his, her eyes full of that wonderful liquid -light which belongs to great weakness. The small worn face was all -illuminated with smiles; it was like the face of a child--or perhaps an -angel. He looked at first with awe, then with doubt and alarm. Had he -failed after all in the commission which he had executed at so much cost -to himself, and against the doctor’s orders? He had been afraid for the -moment of the sight of her despair--and now he was frightened by her -look of ease, the absence of all perturbations. Had she not understood -him? Would it have to be told again, more severely, more distinctly, -this dreadful news? - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -MRS. KINGSWARD said nothing of the communication her husband had made to -her. Did she understand it? He went about heavily all day, pondering the -matter, going and coming to her room, trying in vain to make out what -was in her mind. But he could not divine what was in that mind, hidden -from him in those veils of individual existence which never seemed to -him to have been so baffling before. In the afternoon she had heard, -somehow, the voices of the elder boys, and had asked if they were there, -and had sent for them. The two big fellows, with the mud on their boots -and the scent of the fresh air about them, stood huddled together, -speechless with awe and grief, by the bedside, when their father came -in. They did not know what to say to their mother in such circumstances. -They had never talked to her about herself, but always about themselves; -and now they were entirely at a loss after they had said, “How are you, -mamma? Are you very bad, mamma? Oh, I’m so sorry;” and “Oh, I wish you -were better.” What could boys of twelve and fourteen say? For the moment -they felt as if their hearts were broken; but they did not want to stay -there; they had nothing to say to her. Their pang of sudden trouble was -confused with shyness and awkwardness, and their consciousness that she -was altogether in another atmosphere and another world. Mrs. Kingsward -was not a clever woman, but she understood miraculously what was in -those inarticulate young souls. She kissed them both, drawing each close -to her for a moment, and then bade them run away. “Were you having a -good game?” she said, with that ineffable, feeble smile. “Go and finish -it, my darlings.” And they stumbled out very awkwardly, startled to meet -their father’s look as they turned round, and greatly disturbed and -mystified altogether, though consoled somehow by their mother’s look. - -They said to each other after a while that she looked “jolly bad,” but -that she was in such good spirits it must be all right. - -Their father was as much mystified as they; but he was troubled in -conscience, as if he had not spoken plainly enough, had not made it -clear enough what “her state” was. She had not asked for the -clergyman--she had not asked for anything. Was it necessary that he -should speak again? There was one thing she had near her, but that so -fantastic a thing!--a photograph--one of the quantities of such rubbish -the girls and she had brought home--a woman wrapped in a mantle floating -in the air. - -“Take that thing away,” he said to Moulsey. It irritated him to see a -frivolous thing like that--a twopenny-halfpenny photograph--so near his -wife’s bed. - -“Don’t take it away,” she said, in the whisper to which her voice had -sunk; “it gives me such pleasure.” - -“Pleasure!” he cried; even to speak of pleasure was wrong at such a -moment. And then he added, “Would you like me to read to you? Would you -like to see--anyone?” - -“To see anyone? Whom should I wish to see but you, Edward, and the -children?” - -“We haven’t been--so religious, my dear, as perhaps we ought,” stammered -the anxious man. “If I sent for--Mr. Baldwin perhaps, to read the -prayers for the sick and--and talk to you a little?” - -She looked at him with some wonder for a moment, and then she said, with -a smile, “Yes, yes; by all means, Edward, if you like it.” - -“I shall certainly like it, my dearest; and it is right--it is what we -should all wish to do at the----” He could not say at the last--he could -not say when we are dying--it was too much for him; but certainly she -must understand now. And he went away hurriedly to call the clergyman, -that no more time might be lost. - -“Moulsey,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “have we come then quite--to the end -now?” - -“Oh, ma’am! Oh, my dear lady!” Moulsey said. - -“My husband--seems to think so. It is a little hard--to leave them all. -Where is Bee?” - -“I am here, mamma,” said a broken voice; and the mother’s hand was -caught and held tight, as she liked it to be. “May Betty come too?” - -“Yes, let Betty come. It is you I want, not Mr. Baldwin.” - -“Mr. Baldwin is a good man, ma’am. He’ll be a comfort to them and to the -Colonel.” - -“Yes, I suppose so; he will be a comfort to--your father. But I don’t -want anyone. I haven’t done very much harm----” - -“No! oh, no, ma’am, none!” said Moulsey, while Betty, thrown on her -knees by the bedside, tried to smother her sobs; and Bee, worn out and -feeling as if she felt nothing, sat and held her mother’s hand. - -“But, then,” she said, “I’ve never, never, done any good.” - -“Oh! my dear lady, my dear lady! And all the poor people, and all the -children.” - -“Hush! Moulsey. I never gave anything--not a bit of bread, not a -shilling--but because I liked to do it. Never! oh, never from any good -motive. I always liked to do it. It was my pleasure. It never cost me -anything. I have done no good in my life. I just liked the poor -children, that was all, and thought if they were my own---- Oh, Bee and -Betty, try to be better women--different from me.” - -Betty, who was so young, crept nearer and nearer on her knees, till she -came to the head of the bed. She lifted up her tear-stained face, -“Mother! oh, mother! are you frightened?” she cried. - -Mrs. Kingsward put forth her other arm and put it freely round the -weeping girl. “Perhaps I ought to be, perhaps I ought to be!” she said, -with a little thrill and quaver. - -“Mother,” said Betty, pushing closer and closer, almost pushing Bee -away, “if I had been wicked, ever so wicked, I shouldn’t be frightened -for you.” - -A heavenly smile came over the woman’s face. “I should think not, -indeed.” - -And then Betty, in the silence of the room, put her hands together and -said very softly, “Our Father, which art in Heaven--” - -“Oh, children, children,” cried Moulsey, “don’t break our hearts! She’s -too weak to bear it. Leave her alone.” - -“Yes, go away, children dear--go away. I have to rest--to see Mr. -Baldwin.” Then she smiled, and said in gasps, “To tell the -truth--I’m--I’m not afraid; look--” She pointed to the picture by her -bedside. “So easy--so easy! Just resting--and the Saviour will put out -his hand and take me in.” - -Mr. Baldwin came soon after--the good Rector, who was a good man, but -who believed he had the keys, and that what he bound on earth was bound -in Heaven--or, at least, he thought he believed so--with Colonel -Kingsward, who felt that he was thus fulfilling all righteousness, and -that this was the proper way in which to approach the everlasting doors. -He put away the little picture in which Catherine of Siena lay in the -hold of the angels, in the perfect peace of life accomplished, the rest -that was so easy and so sweet--hastily with displeasure and contempt. He -did not wish the Rector to see the childish thing in which his wife had -taken pleasure, nor even that she had been taking pleasure at all at -such a solemn moment; even that she should smile the same smile of -welcome with which she would have greeted her kind neighbour had she -been in her usual place in the drawing-room disturbed her husband. So -near death and yet able to think of that! He watched her face as the -Rector read the usual prayers. Did she enter into them--did she -understand them? He could scarcely join in them himself in his anxiety -to make sure that she felt and knew what was her “state,” and was -preparing--preparing to meet her God. That God was awaiting severely the -appearance of that soul before him, the Colonel could not but feel. He -would not have said so in words, but the instinctive conviction in his -heart was so. When she looked round for the little picture it hurt him -like a sting. Oh, if she would but think of the things that concerned -her peace--not of follies, childish distractions, amusements for the -fancy. On her side, the poor lady was conscious more or less of all that -was going on, understood here and there the prayers that were going over -her head, prayers of others for her, rather than anything to be said by -herself. In the midst of them, she felt herself already like St. -Catherine, floating away into ineffable peace, then coming back again to -hear the sacred words, to see the little circle round her on their -knees, and to smile upon them in an utter calm of weakness without pain, -feeling only that they were good to her, thinking of her, which was -sweet, but knowing little more. - -It was the most serene and cloudless night after that terrible day. A -little after Colonel Kingsward had left the room finally and shut -himself up in his study, Moulsey took the two girls out into the garden, -through a window which opened upon it. “Children, go and breathe the -sweet air. I’ll not have you in a room to break your hearts. Look up -yonder--yonder where she’s gone,” said the kind nurse who had done -everything for their mother. And they stole out--the two little ghosts, -overborne with the dreadful burden of humanity, the burden which none of -us can shake off, and crept across the grass to the seat where she had -been used to sit among the children. The night was peace itself--not a -breath stirring, a young moon with something wistful in her light -looking down, making the garden bright as with a softened ethereal day. -A line of white cloud dimly detached from the softness of the blue lay -far off towards the west amid the radiance, a long faint line as of -something in the far distance. Bee and Betty stood and gazed at it with -eyes and hearts over-charged, each leaning upon the other. Their young -souls were touched with awe and an awful quiet. They were too near the -departure to have fallen down as yet into the vacancy and emptiness of -re-awakening life. “Oh,” they said, “if that should be her!” And why -should it not be? Unless perhaps there was a quicker way. They watched -it with that sob in the throat which is of all sounds and sensations the -most overwhelming. It seemed to them as if they were watching her a -little further on her way, to the very horizon, till the soft distance -closed over, and that speck like a sail upon the sea could be seen no -more. And when it was gone they sank down together upon her seat, under -the trees she loved, where the children had played and tumbled on the -grass about her, and talked of her in broken words, a little phrase now -and then, sometimes only “Mother,” or “Oh, mamma, mamma,” now from one, -now from another--in that first extraordinary exaltation and anguish -which is not yet grief. - -They did not know how long they had been there when something stirred in -the bushes, and the two big boys, Arthur and Fred, came heavily into -sight, holding each other by the arm. The boys were bewildered, heavy -and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves nor where to go. -But they came up with a purpose, which was a little ease in the trouble. -It cost them a little convulsion of reluctant crying before they could -get out what they had to say. Then it came out in broken words from both -together. “Bee, there’s someone wants to speak to you at the gate.” - -“Oh! who could want to speak to me--to-night? I cannot speak to anyone; -you might have known.” - -“Bee,” said Arthur, the eldest, “it isn’t just--anyone; it’s--we thought -you would perhaps--” - -“He told us,” said Fred, “who he was; and begged so hard--” - -Then there came back upon poor Bee all the other trouble that she had -pushed away from her. Her heart seemed to grow hard and cold after all -the softening and tenderness of this dreadful yet heavenly hour. “I will -see no one--no one,” she said. - -“Bee,” said the boys, “we shut the gate upon him; but he took hold of -our hands, and--and cried, too.” They had to stop and swallow the sob -before either could say any more. “He said she was his best friend. He -said he couldn’t bear it no more than us. And if you would only speak to -him.” - -Bee got up from her mother’s seat; her poor little heart swelled in her -bosom as if it would burst. Oh! how was she to bear all this--to bear it -all--to have no one to help her! “No, no, I will not. I will not!” she -said. - -“Oh, Bee,” cried Betty, “if it is Aubrey--poor Aubrey! She was fond of -him. She would not like him to be left out. Oh, Bee, come; come and -speak to him. Suppose one of us were alone, with nobody to say mother’s -name to!” - -“No, I will not,” said Bee. “Oh! Betty, mother knows why; she knows.” - -“What does she know?” cried Betty, pleading. “She was fond of him. I am -fond of him, without thinking of you, for mother’s sake.” - -“Oh, let me go! I am going in; I am going to her. I wish, I wish she had -taken me with her! No, no, no! I will never see him more.” - -“I think,” said Betty to the boys, pushing them away, “that she is not -quite herself. Tell him she’s not herself. Say she’s not able to speak -to anyone, and we can’t move her. And--and give poor Aubrey--oh, poor -Aubrey!--my love.” - -The boys turned away on their mission, crossing the gravel path with a -commotion of their heavy feet which seemed to fill the air with echoes. - -Colonel Kingsward heard it from his study, though that was closed up -from any influence outside. He opened his window and came out, standing -a black figure surrounded by the moonlight. “Who is there?” he said. -“Are there any of you so lost to all feeling as to be out in the -garden, of all nights in the world on this night?” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -AUBREY LEIGH had been living a troubled life during the time which had -elapsed since the swallowing up in the country of the family in which he -had become so suddenly interested, of which, for a short time, he had felt -himself a member, and from which, as he felt, he could never be -separated, whatever arbitrary laws might be made by its head. When they -disappeared from London, which was done so suddenly, he was much cast -down for the moment, but, as he had the fullest faith in Bee, and was -sustained by her independence of character and determined to stand by -him whatever happened, he was, though anxious and full of agitation, -neither despairing nor even in very low spirits. To be sure there were -moments in which his heart sank, recalling the blank countenance of the -father, and the too gentle and yielding disposition of the mother, and -Bee’s extreme youth and habits of obedience to both. He felt how much -there was to be said against himself--a man who had been forced into -circumstances of danger which nobody but himself could fully understand, -and against which his whole being had revolted, though he could say but -little on the subject. And, indeed, who was to understand that a man -might yield to a sudden temptation which he despised and hated, and that -he could not even explain that this was so, laying the blackest blame -upon another--to a man, and still less to a woman; which last was -impossible, and not even to be thought of. He might tell it, perhaps, to -his mother, and there was a possibility of help there; though even there -a hundred difficulties existed. But he was not wound up to that last -appeal, and he felt, at first, but little fear of the eventual result He -was assured of Bee’s faithfulness, and how could any parent stand out -against Bee? Not even, he tried to persuade himself, the stern Colonel, -who had so crushed himself. And she had received his first letters, and -had answered them, professing her determination never to be coerced in -this respect. - -He was agitated, his life was full of excitement, and speculation, and -trouble. But this is nothing dreadful in a young man’s life. It was -perhaps better, more enlivening, more vivid, than the delights of an -undisturbed love-making, followed by a triumphant marriage. It is well -sometimes that the course of true love should not run smooth. He thought -himself unhappy in being separated from Bee; but the keen delight of her -determination to stand by him for good or evil, her faith in him, her -championship, and the conviction that this being so all must come right -in the end, was like a stream of bright fresh water flowing through the -somewhat sombre flat of his existence. It had been very sombre in the -early days of what people thought his youthful happiness--very flat, -monotonous, yet with ignoble contentions in it. Bee’s sunshiny nature, -full of lights and shadows, had changed the whole landscape, and now -the excitement of this struggle for her, changed it still more. It might -be a hard battle, but they would win in the end. Whether he, a somewhat -unlucky fellow, would have done so was very doubtful--but for her the -stars would fight in their courses. Everything would be overturned in -the world, rather than that Bee should be made miserable, and since she -had set her dear heart on him, on his behalf too the very elements would -fight, for how otherwise could Bee be made happy? The argument was -without a flaw. - -This was his reasoning, never put, I need not say, into any formula of -words, yet vaguely believed in, and forming a source of the brightest -exhilaration in his life, rousing all combative influences by the power -of that hope of success which was a certainty in such a case. This -exhilaration was crossed by the blackest of disappointments, and -threatened to become despair when for days he had no sign of existence -from Bee: but that after all was only a keener excitement--the sting of -anxiety which makes after satisfaction more sweet. And then he was -consoled to hear of Mrs. Kingsward’s illness, which explained -everything. Not that Aubrey was selfish enough to rejoice in that poor -lady’s suffering. He would have been shocked and horrified by the -thought. But then it was no unusual thing for Mrs. Kingsward to be ill; -it is not unusual, a young man so easily thinks, for any middle-aged -person to be ill--and in so many cases it does not seem to do them much -harm; whereas it did him much good--for it explained the silence of Bee! - -And then it came to Aubrey’s ears that Mrs. Kingsward was very -ill--worse than she had ever been before; and then that all the family -had been summoned that she was dying. Such rumours spread like -wildfire--they get into the air--nobody knows how they come. He went -down to the village nearest Kingswarden, and found a lodging there, when -this news reached him, and endeavoured to send a note to Bee, to let her -know he was at hand. But in the trouble of the house this note, sent by -a private hand--always in these days an unsafe method--was somehow lost -and never reached her. He hung about the house in the evenings, -avoiding on various occasions an encounter with Charlie, who was not -friendly, and with the Colonel, who was his enemy. These two were the -only members of the family visible outside the gates of -Kingswarden--until he managed to identify the two boys, whose -disconsolate wanderings about pointed them out to him, and who did not -know, therefore had no hostility or suspicion of the stranger who -inquired after their mother so anxiously. Everybody inquired after their -mother. It was nothing strange to them to be stopped on the road with -this question. It was thus at last, hearing the final blow had fallen, -Aubrey had ventured to send a message, to ask for a word from Bee. The -thought of what the girl must be suffering in her first grief, and to -feel himself so near her--almost within hearing--yet altogether shut -out, was more than he could bear. He pushed in within the gate, into the -shelter of the shrubbery, and there he stopped short, bound by invisible -restraints. It was the home of his love, and yet it was the house of his -enemy. He could not take advantage of the darkness of the night and of -the misery of the moment to violate the sanctuary of a man soul-stricken -by such trouble. But from where he stood he could see the little group -of shadows under the tree. And how could he go away and not say a word -to her--not take her in his arms, tell her his heart was with her, and -that he was a mourner too? “Ask Bee to speak to me. Ask her to speak to -me--only for a moment. I am Aubrey Leigh,” he said to the two brothers, -taking an arm of each, imploring them. The boys did not know much about -Aubrey Leigh, but still they had heard the name. And they were overawed -by his earnestness; the sound of his voice which, full of passion and -feeling as it was, was strange to their undeveloped consciousness. They -took his message, as we have seen, and then there came a mysterious -moment which Aubrey could not understand. He could not hear what was -said, but he was conscious of a resistance, of denial, and that Bee did -not make a step towards him; that she recoiled rather than advanced. -Though he could scarcely see anything distinctly, he could see -that--that there was no impulse towards him, but rather the reverse; -that Bee did not wish to come. And then the harsh voice of the Colonel -broke the spell of the quiet, of the mournful, tranquil night, which it -was so easy for a roused imagination to think was penetrated, too, by -the sentiment of sorrow and of peace. The Colonel’s voice put every -gentler vision to flight. “Is it possible that any of you are out here -in the garden--of all nights in the world on this night?” Oh! the very -night of all nights to be there--in the first awe and silence, watching -her pass, as it were, to the very gates of Heaven! Perhaps, it was -unawares from Bee’s mind that this idea came to his--“to watch her -ascending, trailing clouds of glory,” as the poet said; but that was the -spirit coming and not going. These thoughts flew through his mind in the -shock and irritation of the Colonel’s voice. And then the shadows under -the tree seemed to fly away and disperse, and silence fell upon all -around, the great ghostly trees standing up immovable like muffled -giants in the moonlight, their shadows making lines and heavy clumps of -blackness on the turf, the late roses showing pale in the distance, the -garden paths white and desolate. A moment more, and the harsh sound, -almost angry, of the Colonel’s window shutting, of bolts and bars, and a -final closing up of everything came unkindly upon the hushed air. And -then the moonlight reached the shut up house, all unresponsive, with -death in it, with one faint light burning in the large window upstairs, -showing where the gentle inmate lay who needed light no more. Strange -prejudice of humanity that put out all the lights for sleep, but -surrounds death with them, that no careless spirit may mistake for a -common chamber the place where that last majesty lies. - -Aubrey stood alone in this hushed and silent world. His heart was as -heavy as a stone, heavy with grief for the friend who had passed for -ever out of his life. He had not known perhaps till now what he too had -lost--a friend, who would not have forsaken him not a very strong -champion to fight for him; but a friend that never, whatever might be -said, would have refused to hear him, refused to give him her sympathy. -Had Bee, his own Bee, refused? The young man was bewildered beyond the -power of thought. Was it his fault to have come too soon? Was it an -outrage to be there on the night of the mother’s death? But there was no -outrage in his thoughts, not even any selfishness. It was her he had -been thinking of, not himself; that she might feel there was someone -whose thoughts were all hers, who was herself, not another, feeling with -her, mourning with her, her very own to take the half of her burden. He -had felt that he could not be far away while Bee was in trouble--that -even to stand outside would be something, would somehow lighten her -load, would make her feel in the very air a consciousness of the mighty -love that would - - cleave in twain - The lading of a single pain - And part it giving half to him. - -His heart, which had so gone out to her, seemed to come back confused, -with all the life out of it, full of wonder and dismay. Had she rejected -him and his sympathy? Was it the fault of the others, the boys who did -not know what to say? Was she angry that he should come so soon? But it -was now, immediately on the very stroke of the distress, that love -should come. He stood for a long time silent, bewildered, not knowing -what to think. Was it possible that she could have misunderstood him, -have thought that he had come here only to beguile her into his arms, to -take advantage of an opportunity? It pained poor Aubrey to the heart to -think that she might have thought so. Ah! Mrs. Kingsward would not have -done it, would not have let Bee do it. But she lay there, where the -light was, never to say anything more: and Bee--Bee! - -He got out of the little park that surrounded Kingswarden by the stile -near the village, some time after, he did not know how long. He thought -it was in the middle of the night. The moon had set, everything was -dark, and all the cottagers asleep. But time is long to watchers -unaccustomed to long vigils, and the lights were not out at the small -inn in the village where he was lodging. He found the master of the -house and his wife talking at the door in subdued tones, over the event -of the evening. “She was always a weakly body, but she’ll be sore -missed,” the woman said. “She kept everything going. The Colonel, he’ll -not have a servant left as will put up with him in three months. You -take my word. She kept all straight. Lord, that’s how women mostly -is--no account as long as they’re living--and then you finds the want o’ -them when they’re gone.” - -“Here you are, mister,” said the landlord; “we thought as you was lost. -It was a fine night, tempting for a walk. But it’s clouding over now.” - -“Oh, no, sir, nought of the sort,” said the woman. “My master here, he -never goes to bed afore the middle of the night, he don’t, and it’s an -excuse for not getting up in the mornin’. But you’ll have to be early -to-morrow, Gregg, you take my word, for there’ll be undertakers’ men and -that sort down from London, and I’ll not be bothered with them, mind you -that.” - -“I suppose you’re right this time,” said the man. “They drinks a deal to -keep up their spirits, being as it is a kind of depressing trade.” - -“If I hear you laugh again like that!--and the missis lying in her -coffin! Don’t you think, sir, as he’s got no feeling. He puts it off -like with a laugh not to cry. I was kitchen-maid up there, and he was -groom in the old days, and many and many’s the kindness she done to me -and mine. Oh, and such a pretty lady and sweet--and a young family left -just at the ages that most need a mother’s care.” - -“They’re all ages, Molly, if you come to that.” - -“Well, and don’t they want a mother’s care at all ages? What would you -do with my children if I was took, John Gregg? And the Colonel, he’s -just a helpless man like you are. The only hope is as Miss Bee will turn -out like her mother. I always thought she favoured Missis, though some -said it was the Colonel she was like. It’s a dreadful charge for her, -poor thing, at her age; but if she takes after the Missis there will be -some hope for them,” the woman said. - -“I thought as Miss Bee was going to be married?” said the landlord. - -“Oh, that’s all broken off,” she said, “and a good thing too, seeing -what’s happened, for what could ever little Miss Betty do?” - -Aubrey, who had lingered listening, went slowly up the narrow wooden -stair to his shabby little room as the pair locked the door and put out -their lights. He heard them carrying on the conversation in the kitchen -underneath for a few minutes before they, too, in their turn clambered -upstairs to bed. “Oh, that’s all broken off, and a good thing too.” He -kept saying these words over and over miserably, as if they had been the -chorus of some dreadful song of fate. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -AUBREY stayed at the village public-house day after day, hoping for some -sign or message. He wrote to Bee, this time by the post; but he had no -better success. Was it only because of her grief that she took no -notice? Terrible as that grief must be, and rigorous as evidently were -the rules of the closed-up house, from which no one came forth, even for -a mouthful of air, it did not seem to him that this was reason enough -for putting him from her--he who was to share her life, and whose -sympathy was so full and overflowing. Surely it was the moment when all -who loved her should gather round her, when she most wanted solace and -support. It could not be that her heart was so wrapped up in sorrow -that she should push from her the man who had the best right to share -her tears--whom her mother approved and liked, whose acceptance she had -ratified and confirmed. It could not be that. He felt that, had he been -in the same circumstances, his cry would have been for Bee to stand by -him, to comfort him. Was she so different, or was she overwhelmed by -what was before her--the charge of her father’s house, the dreadful -suggestion that it was to him and the children she should dedicate -herself henceforward, giving up her own happiness? It seemed to Aubrey, -after long thinking, that this must be the cause of her silence; the -burden which surely was not for her young shoulders, which never could -be intended for her, must have come down upon her, crushing her. She was -the eldest girl. She must have, like so many girls, an exaggerated sense -of what was her duty. Her duty! Could anything be more fantastic, more -impossible? To take her mother’s place--and her mother had been killed -by it!--to humour the stern father--to take care of the tribe of -children, to be their nurse, their ruler--everything that a creature of -nineteen could not, should not be! And for this she would throw aside -her own life--and him, whose life it was also. He would never, never -consent to such a sacrifice, he said to himself. Bee was not soft and -yielding, like their mother. She was a determined little thing. She -would stand to it, and sacrifice him as she sacrificed herself, unless -he made a bold stand from the first. No, no, no! Whatever was to be -done, that must not be done. He would not have it--he must let her know -from the very first--if it were not that she knew already, and that this -was the reason why she was silent, feeling that if ever they met she -could not hold out against him. Poor little Bee! Poor, poor little Bee! -Her mother dead, and her father so stern; and thinking it her duty--her -duty, God bless her!--to take all that household upon her little -shoulders. The tears came into his eyes with a sudden softening. She -thought it better to keep him at arm’s length, the darling, knowing that -she never could stand against him, that he would never, never consent; -the little, sublime, unreasonable girl! The things they took into their -heads, these inexperienced, generous creatures! But, thank heaven, he -was here; even though she held him at bay--here, to make all right. - -The reader knows that poor Bee was not actuated by such lofty feelings, -but then Aubrey had no knowledge in his mind of that strange story which -had destroyed her faith in him. When a man is guilty he knows all that -can be brought against him, in which, in its way, there is a certain -advantage. He cannot be taken by surprise. He knows that this or that is -lying ready like a secret weapon apt to be picked up by any man who may -wish to do him harm. But the innocent man has not that safeguard. It is -not likely to occur to him that harmless circumstances may be so twisted -as to look like guilt. For his own part he had forgotten all about that -little episode on the railway--or if he remembered it, it was with a -smile and a glow of momentary pleasure, to think how, with a little -money--so small a matter--he had been able to make comfort take the -place of misery to the poor little family, whom perhaps he would never -have noticed at all had not his thoughts been full of Bee. He had done -that for her with the feeling with which he might have given her an -ornament or a basket of flowers; the only drawback to the pleasure of it -being that he could not tell her off-hand, and get the smile of thanks -she would give him for it--far more than he deserved, for he liked doing -it--kindness coming natural to this young man. It was hard on Aubrey in -the complications of fate that this innocent, nay praiseworthy, incident -should be made the occasion of his trouble. But he had no suspicion of -it--forgot the fact, indeed, altogether--and would have laughed at the -idea that such an accidental occurrence could in any way influence his -fate. - -He went to the funeral, unnoticed in the crowd of people who were -there--some for love and some for conventional necessity, but almost all -with a pang of natural sympathy to see the train of children who -followed their mother to her last rest. The Colonel, rigid in all -things, had insisted at last, that all, except the very youngest, should -be there--having wavered for a moment whether it would not be more in -order that the girls should remain at home, and only the boys be present -at the melancholy ceremony. To see the little wondering faces -two-and-two that followed the elder children up the aisle, and were -installed in the mourners’ places, some of them scarcely tall enough to -see over the edge of the pew, brought many a gush of tears to -sympathetic eyes. Bee and Betty, the two inseparable “eldest,”--slim, -black figures--drooping under the heavy veils that covered them from the -daylight, almost touched Aubrey with their clinging black garments as -they passed. Did they see him? He saw, wherever he was, at whatever -distance, any movement they made. He saw that Bee never raised her head; -but Betty was younger, and less self-restrained--that she had seen him -at least he felt sure. And he felt the Colonel’s eyes upon him, -penetrating the thickest of the crowd. Colonel Kingsward had a glance -that saw everything. He was a man bereaved, the light of his eyes taken -from him, and the comfort of his life--and yet he saw everything at his -wife’s funeral, saw and noted the faces that were dull and tired of the -tension, and those that were alive with sympathy--making notes for or -against them in his memory, and, above all, he saw Aubrey Leigh. Charlie -saw him more accidentally, without any conscious observation, and the -boys who had cried all they were capable of, and now could not help -their eyes straying a little, conscious of the spectacle, and of the -important part they played in it, everybody looking at them. All of them -saw him, but Bee. Was it only Bee who was so little in sympathy with him -that she did not know he must be there? - -He went back to his lodging a little angry through his emotion. It was -too much. Even in the interval between her mother’s death and funeral he -felt that a girl who loved him should not be so obdurate as that, and he -listened with a very sombre face to all the landlady’s discussion of the -proceedings. “It was a shame,” she said, “to bring those little children -there, not much more than babies--what could they know? I’d have kept -them safe in the nursery with some quiet game to play, the poor little -innocents! And so would Missis. Missis would have thought what was best -for them, not for making a display. But God knows what will become of -them children now.” - -“What should become of them?” said the husband. “They’ll get the best of -everything and servants to wait on them hand and foot. The Colonel, he -ain’t like a poor man who could do nothing for them. When the mother’s -gone the children had better go too--in a poor man’s house.” - -“It’s little you know about it,” said the woman with contempt. “Rich -house or poor house, it don’t make no such great difference. Nurses is a -long way different from mothers. Not as I’m saying a word against Sarah -Langridge, as is a good honest woman, that would wrong her master not by -a candle end or a boot lace, not she. But that’s not like being a -mother. The Lord grant that if I die and there’s a baby it may go too, -as you say. You’re more than a nurse, you’re their father, and you’re -part of them; but Lord forbid that I should leave a poor little baby on -your hands.” - -The man turned on his heel with a tremulous laugh. “Well, I ain’t -wishing it, am I?” he said. - -“But,” said Aubrey, “there are the--elder sisters--the young ladies.” - -“Miss Bee! Lord bless us, sir, do ye know the age that child is? -Nineteen, and no more. Is that an age to take the charge of a nursery -full of children? Why, her mother was but forty as has been laid in her -grave to-day. I wish to goodness as that marriage hadn’t been broke off. -He was a widower--and I don’t much hold with widowers--but I wish that I -could give him a sign to come back, if he has any spirit in him, and try -and get that poor young lady away.” - -“If he has been sent about his business,” said Aubrey, forcing a smile, -“he could have no right to come back.” - -“I don’t know whose fault it was,” said the landlady. “None o’ missis’s, -you take my word; but, Lord, if a gentleman loves a young lady, what’s -to hinder him putting his pride in his pocket? A man does when he’s real -fond of a woman in our rank of life.” - -“I don’t know about that,” said her husband. “If I had been sent away -with a cuff on the side of my head, blessed if I’d ever have come back.” - -“You’re a poor lot, all of you,” the woman said. - -Aubrey could not but smile at the end of the argument, but he asked -himself when he was alone--Was he a poor lot? Was he unwilling to put -his pride in his pocket? Walking about his little room, turning over and -over the circumstances, remembering the glare from Colonel Kingsward’s -eye, which had recognised him, he at last evolved out of his own -troubled feelings and imagination the idea that it was his part to offer -sympathy, to hold out an olive branch. Perhaps, after all, the stern -man’s heart was really touched; perhaps it would soothe him in his grief -to hear that “when the eye saw her, then it blessed her,” which was -Aubrey’s sincere feeling at this moment in respect to Bee’s mother. It -seemed to him that it was best to act upon this impulse before other -arguments came in; before the sense of wounding and pain in Bee’s -silence got the upper hand. He spent most of the afternoon in writing a -letter, so carefully put together, copied over and over again, that -there might be nothing in it to wound the most sensitive feelings; -offering to Colonel Kingsward his profound sympathy, telling him with -emotion of her kindness to himself, her sweetness, her beauty, with that -heightening of enthusiastic admiration, which, if it is permissible -anywhere, is so over a new-made grave. And at the end he asked, with all -the delicacy he could, whether in these new circumstances he might not -ask a hearing, a renewed consideration, for her dear sake who had been -so good to him, and who was gone. - -I am not sure that his judgment went fully with this renewed effort, and -his landlady’s remarks were but a poor reason for any such step. But his -heart was longing after Bee, angry with her, impatient beyond words, -disturbed, miserable, not knowing how to support the silence and -separation while yet so near. And to do something is always a relief, -even though it may be the worst and not the best thing to do. In the -evening after dark, when there was no one about, he went up to -Kingswarden, and himself put his letter into the hands of the butler, -who did not know him, and therefore knew no reason why the letter should -either be carried in haste to his master or delayed. Aubrey heard that -the young ladies were quite as well as could be expected, and the -Colonel very composed, considering--and then he returned to the village. -How silent the house was! Not a creature about, and how disturbing and -painful to the anxious spirit even the simple noises and commotion of -the village street. - -Next morning a letter came, delivered by the postman, from Kingswarden. -It contained only a few words. - - “Colonel Kingsward is obliged to Mr. Aubrey Leigh for his message - of sympathy, but, on consideration of the whole circumstances, - thinks it better that no pretence at intercourse should be resumed. - It could be nothing but painful to both parties, and Colonel - Kingsward, with his compliments, takes the liberty to suggest that - Mr. Aubrey Leigh would do well to remain in the neighbourhood as - short a time as suits his convenience. - -“Kingswarden, October 15.” - - - -Inside were the two or three notes which Aubrey on different -occasions--twice by post and once by a private messenger--had sent to -Bee. They had not been opened. The young man’s colour rose with a fiery -indignation--his heart thumped in his ears. This was an explanation of -which he had not thought. To keep back anyone’s letters had not occurred -to him as a thing that in the end of the eighteenth century any man -would dare to do. It seemed to bring him back face to face with -old-fashioned, forgotten methods, of all sorts of antiquated kinds. He -put down the papers on the table with a sort of awe. How was he to -struggle against such ways of warfare? Bee might think he had not -written at all--had shown no sympathy with her in her trouble. How -likely that it was this that had made her angry, that kept her from -saying a word, from vouchsafing a look! She might think it was he who -was deficient, who showed no feeling. What was he to do? The landlady -coming up with his breakfast broke in upon this distracting course of -thought. - -“I didn’t know, sir, as you were acquainted with the Colonel’s family,” -the woman said. - -“A little,” said poor Aubrey. The letters were all lying on the table, -giving to a sharp observer a very good clue to the position. Mrs. Gregg -had noted the unopened letters returned to him in the Colonel’s -enclosure at the first glance. - -“You didn’t ought to have let us talk. Why, we might have been saying, -without thinking, some ill of the Colonel or of Miss Bee.” - -He smiled, though with little heart. “You were once in their service,” -he said, “do you ever go there now?” - -“Oh, yes, now and again,” said Mrs. Gregg. “Sarah Langridge, as is in -the nursery, is a cousin of mine, and I do go just to see them all now -and again.” - -“Would you venture to take a letter from me to--Miss Kingsward?” - -“Sir,” said Mrs. Gregg, “is it about the marriage as was broke off? Is -it?” she added quickly, as he answered her by nodding his head, “likely -to come on again? That’s what I want to know.” - -“If it does not,” said Aubrey, “it will not be my fault.” - -“Then I will and welcome,” the landlady said. “It’s natural I should -want to go the day after the funeral, to see about everything. Give me -your letter, sir, and I’ll get it put safe into Miss Bee’s own hands.” - -All that he sent was half-a-dozen words of appeal. - - “Bee, these have been sent back to me. Was it by your will? I have - been here since ever I heard of her illness, longing to be with - you, to tell you what I felt for her and you. And you would not - speak to me! Bee, dearest, say you did not mean it. Tell me what I - am to do. - -“A.L.” - - - -How long the woman was in getting ready--how long in going! Before she -came back it was almost night again of the lingering, endless day. She -brought him a little note, not returning the enclosures--that was always -something--with a reproach. “Oh, sir, and you very near got me into -terrible trouble! I’ll never, never carry anything from you again.” The -note was still shorter than his own:-- - - “It was not by my will. I have never seen them till now. But - please--please let this be the last. We can’t meet again. There can - never more be anything between us--not from my father’s will, but - my own. And this for ever--and your own heart will tell you why. - -“BEE.” - - - -“My own heart will tell me why! My heart tells me nothing--nothing!” -poor Aubrey said to himself in the silence of his little room. But there -was little use in repeating it to himself, and there was no other ear to -hear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -IT was with a sort of stupified bewilderment that Aubrey read over and -over the little letter of Bee’s. Letter! To call it a letter. Those -straggling lines without any beginning, no name of him to whom they were -addressed, nothing even of the most superficial courtesy, nothing that -marked the link that had been--unless it were, perhaps, the abruptness, -the harshness, which she would have used to no other. This was a kind of -painful comfort in its way, when he came to think of it. To nobody but -him would she have written so--this was the little gleam of light. And -she had retained his letters, though she had forbidden him from sending -more. These lights of consolation leaped into his mind with the first -reading, but the more he repeated that reading, the darker grew the -prospect, and the less comfort they gave him. “Not by my father’s will, -but my own; and your own heart will tell you why.” What did she mean by -his own heart? She had begun to write conscience, and then drew her pen -through it. Conscience! What had he done? What had he done? The real -trouble of his life Bee had forgiven. Her father had stood upon it, and -nothing had changed his standing ground so far as the Colonel was -concerned; but Bee, who did not understand--how should any girl -understand?--had forgiven him, had flung his reproach away and accepted -him as he was. How was it that she should thus go back on her decision -now? “Not my father’s will, but mine. And your conscience will tell you -why.” Aubrey’s conscience reproached him with nothing, with no thought -of unfaithfulness to the young and spotless love which had re-created -his being. He had never denied the old reproach. But what was it, what -was it which she bid him to remember, which would explain the change in -her? “Your heart will tell you why”--why his heart? and what was there -that could be told him, which could explain this? He walked about his -little room all night, shaking the little rickety little house with his -tread, asking himself, “What was it, what was it?” and finding no answer -anywhere. - -When he got up from a troubled morning sleep, these disturbed and -unrefreshing slumbers, full of visions which turn the appearance of rest -into the most fatiguing of labour, Aubrey formed a resolution, which he -said to himself he should perhaps have carried out from the first. He -had an advocate who could take charge of his cause without any fear of -betrayal, his mother, and to her he would go without delay. Of all -things in the world to do, after the reception of Bee’s note, giving in -was the last thing he could think of. To accept that strange and -agitated decision, to allow that there was something in his own heart -that would explain it to him, was what he would not and could not do. -There was nothing in his own consciousness, in his heart or conscience, -as she had said, that could explain it. Nothing! It was not to his -credit to accept such a dismissal, even if he had been unaffected by it. -He could not let a mystery fall over this, leaving it as one of those -things unexplained which tear life in pieces. That would be mere -weakness, not the mode of action of a man of sense who had no exposure -to face. But if his letters were intercepted--miserable folly!--by the -father, a man of the world who ought to have known that such proceedings -were an anachronism--and rejected by herself, it was little use that he -should continue writing. Against two such methods of silencing him no -man could contend. But there was still one other great card to play. He -went out and took a last view of the sheltered and flowery dwelling of -Kingswarden, as it could be seen among the trees at one part of the -road. The windows were open and all the blinds drawn up. The house had -come back out of the shadow of death into the every-day composure of -living. White curtains fluttered in the wind at the upper windows. The -late climbing roses and pretty bunches of clematis seemed again to look -in. It was still like summer, though the year was waning, and the sun -still shone, notwithstanding all sorrow. Aubrey saw no one, however, but -a housemaid, who paused as she passed to put up a window, and looked out -for a moment. That was all. He had not the chance of seeing any face -that he wished to see. In the village he met the two boys, who -recognised him sheepishly with their eyes, and a look from one to -another, but were about to shuffle past, Reginald on the heels of -Arthur, to escape his notice--when he stopped them, which was a fact -they were unprepared for, and had not calculated how to meet. He told -them that he was going away, a definite fact upon which they seized -eagerly. “Oh, so are we,” they said, both together, one of them adding -the explanation that there was always something going on at school. “And -there’s nothing to do here,” the other added. “I hope we’ll, sometime or -other, know each other better,” said Aubrey, at which the boys hung -their heads. “There is a good deal of shooting down at my little -place,” he added. He was not above such a mean act; whereupon the two -heads raised themselves by one impulse, as if they had been upon wires, -and two pairs of eyes shone. “Try if you can do anything for me, and -I’ll do everything I can for you,” this insidious plotter said. The boys -shook hands with him with a warmth which they never expected to have -felt for any such “spoon,” and said to each other that he didn’t seem -such a bad fellow at bottom--as if they had searched his being through -and through. Mr. Leigh met Charlie when on his way to the railway -station, but he had no encouragement to say anything to Charlie. They -passed each other with a nod, very surly on Charlie’s part, whose anger -at the sight of him--as if that man had anything to do with _our_ -trouble--was perhaps not so unnatural. Charlie, too, was going back to -Oxford next day, and thankful to be doing so, out of this dreary place, -where there was nothing to do. - -It was the afternoon of the next day when Aubrey arrived at his mother’s -house. It was at some distance from his own house, much too far to -drive, and only to be got at by cross-country railways, with an interval -of an hour or two of waiting at several junctions, facts which he could -not help remembering his poor little wife and her companion had -congratulated themselves upon in those old, strange days, which had -disappeared so entirely, like a tale that is told. He wondered whether -she would equally think it an advantage--if she ever was the partner of -his home. There seemed to him now something wrong in the thought, a mean -sort of petty feeling, unworthy of a fine nature. He wondered if -Bee--Bee! How unlikely it was that she would ever consider that -question, or know anything further about his house or his ways of -living--she who had thrust him away from her at the very moment when her -heart ought to have been most soft--when love was most wanted to -strengthen and uphold. Not her father’s will, but her own. And your own -heart will explain it. His own heart! in which there was nothing but -truth and devotion to her. - -He arrived thus at his mother’s house very depressed in spirits. Mrs. -Leigh was not the ordinary kind of mother for a young man like Aubrey -Leigh. She was not one of those mothers wholly wrapped up in their -children, who are so general. She had all along made an attempt at an -independent life of her own. When Aubrey married she was still a -comparatively young woman, by no means disposed to sink her identity in -him or his household. Mrs. Aubrey Leigh might possess the first place in -the family as the queen regnant, but Mrs. Leigh, in her personality a -much more important person, had no idea of being swamped, and giving up -her natural consequence. She was still a considerable person, though she -was not rich, and inhabited only a sort of jointure-house, a “small -place” capable of holding very few visitors. Aubrey was her only son, -and she was, of course, very fond of him--_of course_, she was very fond -of him--but she had no intention of sinking into insignificance or -living only in the reflection of Aubrey, still less of his wife. - -Hurstleigh, where Mrs. Leigh lived, was near the sea, and near also to -the county town, which was a brisk and thriving seaport. It was an old -house that had known many fluctuations, an ancient manor house, -inhabited once by the Leighs when they were of humbler pretentions than -now; then it became a farm-house, then was let to a hunting man, who -greatly enlarged the stables; and now it was a jointure-house, the -stables veiled by a new wing, the place in that trim order which denotes -a careful master, and more particularly mistress; with large lattice -windows, heavy mullions, and a terrace with stone balustrades running -all the length of the house. Mrs. Leigh generally sat in a room opening -upon this terrace, with the windows always open, except in the coldest -weather, and there it was that Aubrey made his way, without passing -through the house. His mother was sitting at one of her favourite -occupations--writing letters. She was one of those women who maintain a -large correspondence, chiefly for the reason that it amuses them to -receive letters and to feel themselves a centre of lively and varied -life; besides that, she was considered a very clever letter writer, -which is a temptation to everyone who possesses, or is supposed to -possess, that qualification. She rose quickly, with a cry of “Aubrey!” -in great surprise. - -“You are the last person I expected to see,” she said, when she had -given him a warm welcome. “I saw the death in the papers, and I -supposed, of course, you would be there.” - -“I have just come from Kingswarden,” he said, with a little nod of his -head in assent; “and yet I was not there.” - -“Riddle me no riddles, Aubrey, for I never was good at guessing. You -were there and yet you were not there?” - -“I am afraid--I am no longer a welcome visitor, mother,” he said, with a -faint smile. - -“What!” Mrs. Leigh’s astonishment was so great that it seemed to disturb -the afternoon quiet which reigned over the whole domain. “What! Why, -Aubrey! It was only the other day I heard of your engagement.” - -“It is quite true, and yet it has become ancient history, and nobody -remembers it any more.” - -“What do you mean?” she cried. “My dear Aubrey, I do not understand you. -I thought you were dangling about after your young lady, and that this -was the reason why I heard so little of you; and then I was much -startled to see that announcement in the papers. But you said she was -always delicate. Well, but what on earth is the meaning of this other -change?” - -“I told you, mother. For some time I was but half accepted, pending -Colonel Kingsward’s decision.” - -“Oh, yes; one knows what that sort of thing means! And then Colonel -Kingsward generously consented--to one of the best matches in -England--in your condition of life.” - -“I am not a young duke, mother.” - -“No, you are not a young duke. I said in your condition of life, and the -Kingswards are nothing superior to that, I believe. Well--and then? That -was where your last letter left me.” - -“I am ashamed not to have written, mother; but it wasn’t pleasant -news--and I always hoped to change their mind.” - -“Well? I suppose there was some cause for it?” she said, after waiting a -long minute or two for his next words. - -He got up and walked to the window, which, as has been intimated, was -also a door opening and leading out on to the terrace. “May I shut this -window?” he said, turning his back on her; and then he added, still -keeping that attitude, “it was of course because of that old affair.” - -“What old affair?” - -“You generally understand at half a word, mother; must I go into the -whole nauseous business?” - -She came up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Miss Lance,” she -said. - -“What else? I haven’t had so many scandals in my life that you should -stand in any doubt.” - -“Scandals!” she exclaimed; and again was silent for a moment. “Aubrey, -explain it to me a little. How did that business come to their ears?” - -“Oh, in the easiest way, the simplest way!” he cried, “The injured woman -called on the father of the girl who was going to be given to such a -reprobate as me.” He laughed loudly and harshly, preserving the most -tragic face all the time. - -“The injured woman! Good heavens! And was the man such an ass--such an -ass----?” - -“He is not an ass, mother; he is a model of every virtue. My engagement, -if you like to call it so, lasted about a week, and then I was suddenly -turned adrift.” - -“Aubrey, when did all this happen?” - -“I suppose about three weeks ago. Pardon me, mother, for not having -written, but I had no heart to write. I left them at Cologne, and -travelled home by myself, and the first thing I did, of course, was to -go and see Colonel Kingsward.” - -“Well?” - -“No, it wasn’t well at all. He refused to listen to me. Of course, I got -it out from my side as well as I could, but it made no difference. He -would not hear me. He would understand no excuse.” - -“And the ladies?” - -“Mrs. Kingsward was too gentle and yielding. She never opposed him, -and--” - -“Aubrey, the girl whom you loved, and had such faith in--Bee, don’t you -call her?--” - -“Bee--stood by me, mother; never hesitated, gave me her hand, and stood -by me.” - -“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Leigh, with a little sigh of relief, “then that’s -all right. The father will soon come round--” - -“So I should have said yesterday. I left them in that full faith. But -since they came back to Kingswarden something has happened. I wrote to -her, but I got no answer--I supposed it was her mother’s illness--now I -have found that he stops my letters; but something far worse--wait a -moment--she, Bee herself, wrote to me yesterday, dismissing me without a -word of explanation--declaring she did it by her own will, not her -father’s--and adding, my conscience would tell me why.” - -Mrs. Leigh looked her son straight in the face for a full minute. -“Aubrey--and does your conscience tell you why?” - -“No, mother. I am too bewildered even to be able to think--I have not an -idea what she means. She knew all there was to know--without -understanding it in the least, it needn’t be said--and held fast to her -word; and now I know no more what she means than you do. Mother, -there’s only one thing to be done--you must take it in hand.” - -“I---- take your love affairs in hand!” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -BUT though Mrs. Leigh said this it is by no means certain that she meant -it even at the first moment. It is only a very prudent woman who objects -to being asked to interfere in a young man’s love affairs. Generally the -request itself is a compliment, and not less, but perhaps more so, when -made to a mother by her son. And Mrs. Leigh, though a sensible and -prudent person enough in ordinary affairs, did not attain to the height -of virtue above indicated. When she went upstairs to change her gown for -dinner, after talking it over and over with Aubrey in every possible -point of view, her mind, though she had not yet consented in words, had -begun to turn over the best methods of opening the question with the -Kingswards, and what it would be wisest in the circumstances to do. That -Aubrey should be beaten, that he should have to give up the girl whom he -loved, and of whom he gave so exalted a description, seemed the one -thing that must not be permitted to be. Mrs. Leigh was very anxious that -her son should marry, if it were only to wipe out the episode of that -little, silly Amy, who was fonder of her friend than of her husband; and -the half ludicrous, half tragic chapter of _that_ woman, staying on, -resisting all efforts to dislodge her for so long, until she had as she -thought acquired rights over the poor young man, who was not -strong-minded enough to turn her out of his house. To obliterate these -circumstances from the mind of the county altogether, as could only be -done by a happy and suitable marriage, Mrs. Leigh would have done much, -and, to be sure, her son’s happiness was also dear to her. Poor Aubrey! -His first adventure into life had not been a happy one, and his -descriptions of Bee and all her belongings had been full of a young -lover’s enthusiasm, not tame and tepid as she had always felt his -sentiments towards Amy to be. What would it be best to do if I really -undertake this business, she said to herself. Herself replied that it -was not a business for her to meddle with, that she would do no good, -and many other dissuasions of the conventional kind; but, when her -imagination and feelings were once lit up, Mrs. Leigh was not a woman to -be smothered in that way. After dinner, without still formally -undertaking the mission, she talked with Aubrey of the best ways of -carrying it out. If she did interfere, how should she set about it? -“Mind, I don’t promise anything, but supposing----” Should she write? -Should she go? Which thing would it be best to do? If she made up her -mind to go, should she write beforehand to warn them? What, on the -whole, would it be most appropriate to do? - -The method finally decided upon between them--“if I go--but I don’t say -that I will go--” was that Mrs. Leigh should first, without warning or -preparation, endeavour to see Bee, and ascertain whether any new -representations had been made to her to change her mind; and then, -according to her success or non-success with Bee, decide whether she -should ask an interview with her father. Aubrey slept under his mother’s -roof with greater tranquility and refreshment than he had known for some -time, and with something of the vague hope of his childhood that she -could set everything right, do away with punishment or procure pleasure, -when she took it in hand. It had always been so in the childish days, -which seemed to come near him in the sight of the old furniture, the -well-known pictures and ornaments and curiosities which Mrs. Leigh had -brought with her when she settled in this diminished house. How well he -remembered them all!--the old print of the little Samuel on his knees, -the attitude of which he used half-consciously to copy when he said his -prayers; the little old-fashioned books in blue and brown morocco on the -shelves, the china ornaments on the mantel-piece. He smiled at their -antiquity now-a-days, but he had thought them very grand and imposing -once upon a time. - -In the morning Mrs. Leigh coquetted a little, or else saw the whole -subject in a colder light. “Don’t you think it is possible that I might -do more harm than good,” she said; “things might settle of themselves if -you only give them a little time. Colonel Kingsward would come to his -senses, and Miss Bee--” - -“Mother,” cried Aubrey, pale with alarm, “on the contrary. Do you forget -the circumstances? Mrs. Kingsward is dead, there is a large family of -little children, and Bee is of the race of the Quixotes. Don’t you see -what will happen? She will get it into her mind, and everybody will -persuade her, that as the eldest daughter she is wanted at home. It will -be impressed upon her on all sides, and unless there is a strong -influence to counteract it, and at once, Bee is lost to me for ever.” - -“My dear, don’t be so tragical. These dreadful things don’t happen in -our days.” - -“You may laugh, mother, but it is no laughing matter to me.” - -“I don’t laugh,” she said. “I see the strength of your argument; but, my -dear boy, nothing will be so effectual in showing your Bee the happiness -that is awaiting her as a little trial of the troubles of a large -family on her shoulders. I know what it is.” - -Aubrey sprang from his seat though it was in the middle of his -breakfast. “Mother,” he said, “there is one thing that I believe you -will never know--and that is, Bee. The burden is exactly what will hold -her fast beyond any argument--the sense of duty--the feeling that she is -bound to take her mother’s place.” - -What was in Mrs. Leigh’s mind was the thought: Ah, that’s all very well -at first, till she has tried it. But what she said was: “I beg your -pardon, Aubrey. Of course, that is a much more elevated feeling. Sit -down, my dear, and take your breakfast. It is not my fault that I don’t -know Bee.” - -Upon which Aubrey had to beg her pardon and sit down, commiserating her -for that deficiency, which was indeed her misfortune and not her fault. - -At the end Mrs. Leigh was wound up to take the strongest step possible. -She joined her son in London after about a week had elapsed. He chafed -at the delay, but allowed that to leave Bee in quiet for a few days -after all the storms that had gone over her head was necessary. Mrs. -Leigh went down early on a bright October morning to Kingswarden with -much more excitement than she had expected to feel. She was herself -inclined to take a lighter view, to laugh at the idea of interrupted -letters or parental cruelty, and to believe that poor Bee was worn out, -her nerves all wrong, and possibly her temper affected by the -irritability which is so apt to accompany unaccustomed grief, and that -in a little time she would of herself come round. Seeing, however, that -these suggestions only made Aubrey angry, she had given them up, and was -in fact more influenced than she cared to show by his emotion and -anxiety when she thus sallied forth into the unknown to plead her son’s -cause. They had ascertained that Colonel Kingsward had returned to his -office, so the coast was clear. Only the two girls and the little -children were at home. Mrs. Leigh said to herself as she walked to the -gate that it was a shame to take the little girl, poor little thing, -thus unprotected, with nobody to stand by her. If it were not that it -was entirely for her good--nobody that knew Aubrey would deny that he -would make the best husband in the world, and surely to have a good -house of her own, and a good husband, and distinct place in the world -was better than to grow to maturity a harassed woman at the head of her -father’s house, acting mother to a troop of children who would not obey -her, nor even be grateful for her kindness to them. Surely there could -not be two opinions as to what it would be best for the girl to do. Yet -she felt a little like a wolf going down into the midst of the lambkins -when she opened the unguarded gate. - -Mrs. Leigh was a clever woman, and a woman of the world. She had a great -deal of natural understanding, and a considerable knowledge of life, but -she was not unlike in appearance the ordinary British matron, who is not -much credited with these qualities. That is to say, she was stout--which -is a calamity common with the kind. She had white hair, considerably -frizzed on the top of the forehead, as it is becoming to white hair to -be, and dark eyes and good complexion. These things were in her favour; -still, it is impossible to deny that when Bee and Betty saw coming -towards them, following the footman across the lawn, a stout figure, not -very tall, nor distinguishable from various ladies in both country and -town whom they knew, and with the natural impertinence of youth set down -as bores, they had both a strong revolt in their minds against their -visitor. “Oh, who is it--who is it?” they said to each other. “Why did -James let her in? Why did he let anyone in?” - -It was a warm morning, though the season was far advanced, and they were -seated again on that bench under the tree where they had watched the -white cloud floating away on the night of their mother’s death. They -went there instinctively whenever they went out. “Mother’s tree,” they -began to call it, and sat as she had been used to do, with the children -playing near, and nurse walking up and down with the baby in her arms. -They had been talking more that morning than ever before. It was little -more than a week since Mrs. Kingsward’s funeral, but they were so young -that their hearts now and then for a moment burst the bondage of their -sorrow, and escaped the length of a smile or two. It was not much; and, -to be sure, for the children’s sake it was indispensable that they -should not be crying and miserable always, as at first they had felt as -if they must continually be. But it was another thing to receive -visitors and have perhaps to answer questions about the circumstances of -their loss. - -“Mrs.--? what did James say?” Neither of them were sure, though a thrill -ran through Bee’s veins. It was a stranger. Who could it be? - -“I have to apologise for coming--without knowing you--and at such a -time,” said Mrs. Leigh, making a little pause till the nurse had got to -the end of the gravel walk with the baby, and James was out of hearing. -“It is you who are Bee, is it not?” she said, suddenly taking the girl’s -hands. “I am the mother of Aubrey Leigh.” - -All the colour went out of Bee’s face; she drew away her hands -hurriedly, and dropped upon her mother’s seat. She felt that she had no -power to say a word. - -“Oh, I thought it was Mrs. Leigh he said,” cried Betty, “but I could not -suppose--oh, Mrs. Leigh, whatever Bee may say, I am so glad, so glad to -see you--perhaps you will be able to make things right.” - -“I hope I shall,” said Mrs. Leigh, “and I shall always be obliged to -you, my dear, for giving me your countenance. But your sister does not -look as if she meant to let me put things right.” - -“I am sorry if I seem rude,” said Bee, gathering herself together, -“but--I don’t think that papa would like us to receive visitors.” - -“I am not a common visitor,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I hope you will do me the -credit to think that it is with a very different feeling I come. I am -very, very sorry for you, so young as you are--more sorry than I can -say. And, Bee, if indeed I am to hope to be one day your mother--” - -Bee did not speak; but she fixed her blue eyes upon her visitor with a -sort of entreaty to be left alone, and mournfully shook her head. - -“We can’t think just now of that name,” said little Betty, with the -tears standing in her eyes. - -“My dear children, I came to try to comfort you, not to open your -wounds. Dear,” she said, putting her hand on Bee’s shoulder, “you would -not see Aubrey, nor let him have a word from you. But he said you had -heard everything an evil woman could say, and did not give him up for -that--and he is heart-broken. He thought perhaps you would tell me if he -had done anything to displease you--or if it was only the effect of your -grief, to which he would be submissive at once. All he wanted was to -share your trouble, my dear child.” - -This was not at all what Mrs. Leigh intended to say. She had meant to -represent her visit as one of sympathy solely, without at first -referring to the hard case of Aubrey; but Bee’s looks had confused even -this experienced woman. The girl’s pale face put on an expression of -determined decision, or rather of that blank of resistance to entering -upon the question, which is a kind of defence which it is almost -impossible to break down. - -“I would rather, if you please, not say anything of Mr. Leigh.” - -“Dear child! Do not take that tone. If he has done anything that does -not please you, how is he ever to clear himself if you will not tell him -what it is.” - -“She is like this all the time,” cried Betty; “she will not say what is -wrong--and yet she is just as miserable herself as anyone could be.” - -Bee gave her sister a look in which Mrs. Leigh, closely watching, saw -the lightening of the glance, the brilliancy and splendour of the blue -eyes of which Aubrey had raved. Poor little Betty was illuminated as if -with a great flame. It was all that she could do to restrain a very -inappropriate smile. “You know nothing, and how do you dare to say -anything?” Bee said. - -“I am sure that Bee is just,” said the older lady. “She would not -condemn anyone unheard. Aubrey Leigh is my son, but we have been -separated for many years, and I think I judge him impartially. He does -not always please me, and I am sure that at some time or other he has -much displeased you. Your eyes tell me, though you have not said a -word. But, my dear, I have never, since he was a child, found him out in -anything except the one thing you know, in which he was so sorely, -sorely tried. He has always been kind. He gets into trouble by his -kindness as other men do by ill-behaviour. I don’t know what you have -against him, but I feel sure that he will clear himself if you will let -him speak. Bee----” - -“I do not want,” cried Bee, “to seem rude. Oh, I don’t want to be rude! -I am sure, quite sure, that you are kind; but I have nothing to say, oh! -nothing to say to anyone. I am not able to discuss any subject, or enter -into things. I have a great deal to think of, for I am the eldest and it -will not do for me to--to break down, or to have any more to bear. I am -very, very sorry--and you are so kind. But I must go in now--I must go -in now.” - -“Bee, Bee----” - -“You can stay, Betty, and talk to the lady. You can stay, but--oh, -forgive me--I cannot--cannot help it! I must go in now.” - -This was the end of Mrs. Leigh’s embassy. She had a long talk with -Betty, who was but too glad to pour into this kind woman’s bosom all her -troubles. Betty could not tell what had happened to Bee. She was not the -Bee of old, and she did not know what it was that had happened about -Aubrey, or if Bee had heard anything against him. She was as much in the -dark as Mrs. Leigh herself. But she made it very evident that Bee had a -grievance, a real or supposed ground of complaint which made her very -angry, and which she resented bitterly. What was it? But this Betty did -not know. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -MRS. LEIGH went back to her son with a sense of humiliation which was -rare in her consciousness. She had been completely unsuccessful, which -was a thing which had very rarely happened to her. She had expected if -she got admission at all that anything which so young a girl might have -on her mind must have burst forth and all have been made clear. She had -expected at once to overawe and to soothe a young creature who loved -Aubrey, and who had some untold grievance against Aubrey. But she was -not prepared for the dual personality, so to speak, of Bee, or the power -she had of retreating, herself, and leaving her little sister as her -representative to fulfil all necessary civilities without the power of -betraying anything that the visitor wanted to know. She went back to -town very angry with Bee; turned against her; very little disposed to -sympathise with Aubrey, which she had so freely done before. “My dear -boy,” she said, “you have made a mistake, that’s all. The elder sister -has a temper like her father. Everybody will tell you that Colonel -Kingsward is a sharp-tempered man. But Betty is a little darling. It is -she that should have been the mistress of Forest-leigh.” - -In answer to this, Aubrey simply turned his back upon his mother. He was -deeply disappointed, but this speech turned his disappointment into a -kind of rage. She had mismanaged the whole matter. That was as clear as -daylight, and such a suggestion was an added insult. Betty! a child--a -little girl--a nobody. His Bee seemed to tower over her in his -imagination, so different, so high above her, another species. It was -some minutes before he could trust himself to speak. - -“Of course, you think me a fool,” said Mrs. Leigh, “and so I am, to -tell a young man that there is another in the world equal to the object -of his fancy.” - -“Mother,” said Aubrey, in a choked voice, “you mistake the matter -altogether. That is not what is in question. What I want to know is, -what has been said against me, what new thing she has heard, or in what -new light she has been taught to see me. You might as well suggest,” he -cried, angrily, “that another person might have been better in your -place--as in hers.” - -“If that is all I don’t mind allowing it,” said Mrs. Leigh, with an -aggravation peculiar to mothers. “You might have had some one who would -have been, all round, of more use to you as a mother--only it’s a little -late to think of that. However, without any persiflage, here is one -thing evident, that she has some grievance against you, something new, -something definite, which she believes you to be conscious of, which she -is too proud to discuss--I suppose?” said Mrs. Leigh, looking at him -with the look of the too-profoundly experienced, never sure how far -human weakness may go. - -“Mother!” Aubrey cried. He was as indignant as she was unassured. - -“Well, my dear, don’t be angry. I am not imagining anything. I only ask -whether you are quite sure that there is nothing which might be twisted -into a new accusation against you? There might be many incidents, in -which you were quite blameless, which an enemy might twist--” - -“You need not be melo-dramatic, mother. I have nothing in the world that -could be an enemy--so far as I know.” - -“Oh, as for that, there are people who make up stories out of pure -devilry. And I had no intention of being melo-dramatic,” said Mrs. Leigh -with displeasure. She added, after a moment, “Examine--I don’t say your -conscience, which probably has nothing to do with it--but what has -occurred for the last six months? See if there is anything which admits -of a wrong interpretation, which could be, as I say, twisted.” - -Aubrey paused a moment to attempt to do as she said, but the little -episode of the railway station, the poor woman and her babies, he did -not think of. If truth must be told, he thought that incident was one -of the most creditable things in his life. He felt a little pleased with -himself when he thought of it. It was one of those things which to -mention might seem like a brag of his own generosity. He felt that it -was really one of the few incidents in his life which modesty kept him -from telling, one of the things in which the right hand should not know -what the left hand did. Had he thought of it that would have been his -feeling; but when he was asked suddenly to endeavour to recollect -something which might be twisted to his disadvantage, naturally this -good deed--a deed of charity if ever one was--did not come into his mind -at all. He shook his head. “You know whether I am that kind of man, -mother.” - -“Don’t refer it to me, Aubrey--a young man’s mother probably is the very -last person to know. I know you, my dear, _au fond_. I know a great deal -about you; but I know, too, that you have done many things which I never -could have supposed you would have done: consult your own recollection. -Probably it is something so insignificant that you will have difficulty -in recalling it. One can never calculate what trifle may move a young -girl’s imagination. A grain of sand is enough to put a watch all wrong.” - -Thus it will be seen that Mrs. Leigh’s long experience was after all -good for something. She divined the character of the dreadful obstacle -which had come in her son’s way and shattered all his hopes. If he had -recounted to her that incident which it would have seemed ostentation to -him to refer to, probably she would have pierced the _imbroglio_ at -once--or could she have seen into his life and his memory, she would, no -doubt, have put her finger at once on that place. But there they stood, -two human creatures in the closest relation to each other that nature -can make, anxious to find out between them the key to a puzzle which -neither of them could divine, but the secret of which lay certainly -between them, could they but find it--and could make out nothing. A word -from the son might have set the keen-witted mother, better acquainted -than he with the manner in which scandals arise, on the scent. But it -never occurred to him to say that word. They looked into each other’s -faces and made out nothing. Strange veil of individuality which is -between two human creatures, as the sea is between two worlds, and more -confusing, more impenetrable still than any distance! Aubrey made the -most conscientious efforts to lay bare his heart, to discover something -that might be twisted, as she said; but he found nothing. His thoughts -since he met the Kingswards first had been full of nothing but Bee--his -very dreams had been full of her. He wandered vaguely through his own -recollections, not knowing what to look for--what was there? There was -nothing. His mother sat by, and, notwithstanding her anxiety, could -scarcely refrain from smiling at his puzzled, troubled endeavour to find -out something against himself. But there was nothing to find out. He -shook his head at last, with a sort of appeal to her out of his troubled -eyes. He was distressed not to find what he sought. “I know nothing,” he -said, shaking his head. “One never does anything very good indeed--but -not very bad either. I have just been as I always am--not much to brag -of--but nothing to be ashamed of, between one man and another.” - -“The question is between one man and one woman, Aubrey, which is -different.” - -“Then,” he cried, with a short laugh, “I defy discovery. There has been -nothing in all my thoughts that need have been hidden. You do me -grievous wrong, mother, if you can think--even if I had been inclined -that way.” - -“I don’t think. I have the most complete faith in you, Aubrey. I -say--anything that could be twisted by a malign interpretation?” - -He shook his head again. “And who would take the trouble to make a -malign interpretation? I assure you, I have no enemy.” - -“Colonel Kingsward is enemy enough.” - -“Ah! Colonel Kingsward. I have no reason, however, to think that he -would do a dishonourable action.” - -“What do you call intercepting letters, Aubrey?” - -“It is very antiquated and out of date, but I don’t know that it need be -called dishonourable; and he has a high idea of his authority; but to -make a false representation of another man----” - -“Aubrey, these distinctions are too fine for me. There is only one thing -that I can do. I will now go and interview Colonel Kingsward. If he -knows of anything new, he will soon reveal it to me. If he goes only -over the old ground, then we may be sure that your _fiancée_ has been -told something in her own ear--something apart from her father--which -she has betrayed to no one. Unless, perhaps, it was got from the -mother----” - -“Not a word about the mother. She is dead, and she is sacred; and -besides she was the last, the very last----” - -“You have yourself said she was very weak, Aubrey.” - -“Weak so far as resisting her husband was concerned, but incapable of an -unkind word; incapable of any treachery or falsehood; a creature, both -in body and soul, whom you could almost see through.” - -Mrs. Leigh shook her head a little. - -“I know those transparent people,” she said. “They are not always -so---- But never mind; I am going to interview Colonel Kingsward now.” - -Colonel Kingsward was very courteous to his visitor. He received her -visit of sympathy with polite gratitude, accepting her excuse that so -nearly connected as the families had been about to be, she could not be -in town without coming to express her great regret and feeling for his -family left motherless. Colonel Kingsward was very _digne_. He had the -fullest sense of what was expected in his position, and he did not allow -any other feeling to come in the way of that. He thanked Mrs. Leigh for -her sympathy, and exaggerated his sense of her goodness in coming to -express it. It was more, much more, than he had any right to expect. If -there was any alleviation to his grief it was in the sense of the great -kindness of friends--“and even of strangers,” he said, with a grave bow, -which seemed to throw Mrs. Leigh indefinitely back into the regions of -the unknown. This put her on her mettle at once. - -“I do not feel like a stranger,” she said. “I have heard so much of your -family--every member of it--through my son, Aubrey. I regret greatly -that the connection which seemed to be so suitable should hang at all in -doubt----” - -“It does not hang in doubt,” said Colonel Kingsward, “I am sorry if you -have got that impression. It is quite broken off--once for all.” - -“That is a hard thing to say to Aubrey Leigh’s mother,” she said; “such -a stigma should not be put upon a young man lightly.” - -“I am sorry to discuss such matters with a lady. But I don’t know what -you call lightly, Mrs. Leigh. I do not believe for a moment that you -would give a daughter of your own--I do not know whether you have -daughters of your own----” - -“Two--happily married, thank heaven, and off my hands.” - -“You will understand me so much the better. (Colonel Kingsward knew -perfectly well all about Mrs. Leigh’s two daughters). I do not believe -that you would have given one of them to a man--to whom another lady put -forth a prior claim.” - -“I am not at all sure of that. I should have ascertained first what -kind of person put forth the claim----” - -“We need not go into these details,” said Colonel Kingsward, waving his -hand. - -“It is most important to go into these details. I can give you every -particular about this lady, Colonel Kingsward; and so can a dozen -people, at least, who have no interest in the matter except to tell the -truth.” - -“The question is closed in my mind, Mrs. Leigh. I have no intention of -opening it again.” - -“And this is the sole ground upon which my son is rejected?” she said, -fixing her keen eyes upon his face. - -“It is the sole ground; it is quite enough, I believe. Supposing even -that the lady was everything you allege, an intimacy between a woman of -that character and your son is quite enough to make him unsuitable for -my daughter.” - -“Who is not of your opinion, however,” Mrs. Leigh said. - -Colonel Kingsward was confused by this speech. He got up and stood -before the fire. He avoided meeting her eye. “My daughter is very young -and very inexperienced,” he said. “She is at present more moved by her -feelings than her reason. I believe that with an increase of maturer -judgment she will fully adopt my view.” - -Colonel Kingsward believed that he had altogether crushed his visitor, -but he was not so right as he thought. Mrs. Leigh went back to her son -with triumph in her eyes. “He knows nothing more,” she said. “He does -not know that she has turned against you. Whatever is her reason, it is -something different from his, and she has not confided it to him. I -thought as much when you told me of the letters stopped. A man does not -intercept a girl’s letters when he knows she has come round to his way -of thinking. Now you have got to find out what she has heard, and to set -her right about it whatever it may be.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -TO set oneself to find out without any clue or guidance what it is which -has affected the thoughts of a girl for or against her lover--without -any knowledge of her surroundings, or from what quarter an adverse -influence, an ill report, could have come--who could have spoken to her -on the subject of Aubrey, or what kind of story to his disadvantage (for -this was what Mrs. Leigh convinced herself must have happened) she had -heard--to discover everything and counteract it, was a mission that -might well have frightened anyone who undertook it. And I don’t doubt -that Mrs. Leigh, to encourage her son, spoke a great deal more -confidently than she felt, and that she really intended to give herself -up to this discovery, and to take no rest until she had made it, and -cleared up the matter which threatened to separate these two young -people for ever, and make havoc in both their lives. - -Aubrey himself shook his head and declared himself to have little hope; -but he was not really more hopeless than his mother was the reverse. -While he shook his head there was a warm sensation of comfort at his -heart. That she should have undertaken to find it out seemed like half -the battle. When a man retains any confidence in his mother at all, -which is by no means always the case, he is apt to be influenced more -than he is aware by the old prejudice of childhood that she can do -anything that is wanted. She by no means felt herself to be so powerful -as he did, though she professed her certainty of success, and he was -much more held up and supported by her supposed convictions than he -himself allowed to appear. Thus they separated, Aubrey remaining in -town, ready to take advantage of any occasion that might present itself, -while she returned to her home, to make every exertion to discover the -cause of Bee’s estrangement. Very easy words to say--but how to do it? -She had not a notion even what kind of story had been told to Bee. She -did not know any special point of weakness on the part of Aubrey which -could have been exaggerated or made to appear worse than it was. There -was no inclination towards dissipation about him; he did not gamble; he -was not addicted to bad company. What was there to say about him? The -episode of Miss Lance--and that was all. And it was not the episode of -Miss Lance which had revolted Bee. Had Mrs. Leigh ever heard of Aubrey’s -adventure at the railway station, it is possible that her mind, excited -in that direction, would have been keen enough to have divined that the -mystery was somehow connected with that; for it was certainly Quixotic -of a young man to put a poor woman and her children into a -sleeping-carriage--the most expensive mode of travelling, and wholly -beyond her condition--by a mere charitable and kindly impulse. And the -world, which believes that nothing is given without an equivalent, might -easily have made a story out of it. But then, Mrs. Leigh was quite -ignorant on this point, which, as has been said, had never occurred -again to Aubrey himself, except as one of the few actions in his life -which he could look back upon with entire satisfaction and even a little -complacence. And thus the only way of setting things right was -hermetically closed. - -Mrs. Leigh went back to her jointure-house. It was near the sea, as has -been said, and near a lively seaside town, where, in the summer, there -were many visitors and a great deal going on, strangers appearing and -disappearing from all parts of the country. But in winter there was -nothing of the kind; the world closed up without, leaving only the -residents, the people who were indigenous, the contracted society of -neighbours who knew all about each other, and were acquainted with the -same pieces of news, and, excepting by long intervals, heard but little -of the outside gossip, or the doings of other circles. Mrs. Leigh -returned to her natural surroundings, which knew no more of Colonel -Kingsward and his family than people in what is called “a certain -position” know of each other--something of his name, something of his -connections, but nothing of his immediate circumstances. There were -indeed many questions about Aubrey’s marriage which she had to answer as -she could. The news of his engagement had been received with many -congratulations. Everybody felt that poor Aubrey’s first essay at -matrimony had been a very unfortunate one. The sooner he brings a nice -wife to Forest-leigh the better, everybody had said. And when Mrs. Leigh -returned after her brief absence, the many callers whom she received -daily were full of inquiries about the marriage. It was generally -supposed that his mother’s hasty expedition had been in some way -connected with it. She had gone about the refurnishing, about the -household linen, which perhaps wanted renewing, and which was not in a -man’s sphere--about something in the settlements; at all events, -whatever it was, her object must have been connected with the -approaching marriage. They came down upon her full of the most eager -questions. “I suppose the day is fixed? I suppose all the arrangements -are made? How nice it will be to see the house opened, and -a new, lively, young married couple to put a little life in -everything”--matrons and little maids all concurred in this speech. - -“You have not heard then?” said Mrs. Leigh, with a very grave -countenance--“everything, alas, is postponed for the moment. Mrs. -Kingsward, a most charming woman, adored by her family, died last week.” - -“I told you it was those Kingswards!” one of the ladies said to another. - -“There are no other Kingswards that I know of,” said Mrs. Leigh, who -always held her head so high. “I went up with Aubrey to pay them a visit -of sympathy. There is a very large young family. I found them quite -broken down with grief. Of course we had not the heart, either Aubrey or -I, to press an arrangement in these dreadful circumstances. I confess I -am rather down about it altogether. Poor little Bee, my future -daughter-in-law, is the eldest. I am quite terrified to hear that she -has taken some tragic resolution, such as girls are so apt to do -now-a-days, and think it her duty to dedicate herself to her little -brothers and sisters.” - -“Oh, but surely she would not be permitted to do that--when everything -was settled!” - -“I hope not. I most sincerely hope not,” said Mrs. Leigh. “Naturally, I -have not said a word to Aubrey. But girls now-a-days are so full of -their ideas, their missions, and their duty, and all that!” - -“Not when they are engaged to be married,” said a scoffing lady. - -“I wish I could be sure of that. Miss Kingsward is only nineteen, just -the self-sacrificing age. I wish I could be sure----. There was -something in her eye. But, however, not a word, not a word about this. I -still hope that as soon as a reasonable time has passed----” - -“It is such a pity,” said another, “where unnecessary delays are made. I -am sure no mother would wish her daughter’s marriage to be put -off--things are so apt to happen. I think it’s tempting Providence when -there is unnecessary delay.” - -“Colonel Kingsward is a very particular man. He will allow nothing to -be done that the most punctilious could object to. He will not have -anything spoken of even. All the arrangements are in abeyance. It is -most trying. Of course, I am very sorry for the family, and for him, who -has lost so excellent a wife. But, at the same time, I can’t help -thinking of my own son kept hanging in suspense, and all his plans -broken up.” - -There was a chorus of regrets from all the visitors, one party after -another; but from more than one group of ladies as they drove away there -arose the most gloomy auguries, spoken amid much shaking of heads. “I -don’t believe it will ever come to a marriage after all,” some said, “if -Colonel Kingsward is so very particular a man, and if he hears of all -that took place at Forest-leigh in the first wife’s time.” “Whatever -took place,” said another, “it was her fault, as everybody knows.” “Ah, -yes,” said the first speaker, who represented more or less the common -voice, “I know the first wife was a little fool, and whatever happened, -brought it all on herself. But there is never any business of that sort -without blame on both sides.” Thus the world generally judges, having -half forgotten what the facts of the case were, though most of the -individuals who constitute the world could have recalled them very -easily with an effort of memory. Still, the blurred general view is the -one that prevails after a time, and works out great injustices without -any evil intention at all. - -It was thus that Mrs. Leigh thought it prudent to forestall all remarks -as to the postponement of her son’s marriage. She succeeded well enough, -perhaps too well. Mrs. Kingsward’s death accounted for everything. -Still, the impression got abroad that Aubrey Leigh, that unlucky fellow, -had somehow broken down again. And as the days went on and silence -closed around, further and further did Aubrey’s mother find herself from -making any discovery. Indeed, she did not try, strong as her resolves to -do so had been. For, indeed, she did not know what to do. How was she to -clear up such a mystery? Had she known the neighbours about Kingswarden, -and heard their talk among themselves, she might have been able to form -some plan of action. But her own neighbours, who did not even know of -Mrs. Kingsward’s death--how could she find out anything from them? She -thought it over a great deal, and when any friend of her son’s drifted -near her expended a great deal of ingenuity in endeavouring to ascertain -whether there was anything in Aubrey’s life which could have injured him -in Bee’s estimation. But Mrs. Leigh was perfectly aware, even while -cautiously making these inquiries, that whatever his friends might know -against him, his mother was the last person who was likely to be told. -As a matter of fact, however, there was nothing to tell, and gradually -this very fruitless quest died from her mind, and she did not even dream -of pursuing it any more. - -And Aubrey remained in town disconsolately getting through the -winter as best he could, neglecting all his duties of hospitality, -keeping his house shut up, and leaving his game to be shot by the -gamekeepers--indifferent to everything. He could not bear the place with -which he had so many painful associations, sharpened now by the loss of -all the hopes that had fallen so quickly of taking Bee to it, and -beginning a real life of happiness and usefulness. What he wanted most -in life was to fulfil all his duties--in the happiest way in which such -duties can be fulfilled, after the methods of an English country -gentleman with sufficient, but not too great position, money, and all -that accompanies them. He was not an _enragé_ foxhunter, or sportsman, -but he was quite disposed to follow all the occupations and recreations -of country life, to maintain a hospitable house, to take his part of -everything that was going on in the county, and above all, to efface the -recollection of that first chapter of his life which had not been happy. -But all these hopes and intentions seemed to have been killed in him by -the cutting off of his new hopes. He kept up his confidence in his -mother until he went to her at Christmas to spend with her those days of -enforced family life which, when they are not more, are so much less -happy than the ordinary course of life. He went down still full of hope, -and though Mrs. Leigh received him with professions of unimpaired -confidence, he was quick to see that she had in reality done -nothing--for that best of all reasons, that there was nothing to do. -“You don’t seem to have made progress, however,” he said, on the first -night. - -“No, perhaps I have not made much progress. I don’t know that I expected -to make much progress--at this time of the year. You know in winter one -only sees one’s neighbours, who know nothing. Later on, when the weather -improves, when there is more coming and going, when I have more -opportunities----” - -This did not sound very cheerful, but it was still less cheerful when he -saw how little even his mother’s mind was occupied with his affairs. It -was not her fault; all the thinking in the world could not make Bee’s -motives more clear to a woman living at a distance of three or four -broad counties from Bee. And one of Aubrey’s married sisters was in some -family difficulty which occupied all her mother’s thoughts. Aubrey did -not refuse to be interested in his sister. He was willing to give -anything he could, either of sympathy or help, to the solving of her -problem; but, conscious of so much in his own fate that was harder than -could fall to the lot of any comfortable, middle-aged person, it must be -allowed that he got very tired of hearing of Mary’s troubles. He -answered rather curtly on one or two occasions, and chilled his mother, -whose heart was full of Mary, and who was already disposed to blame -herself in respect to Aubrey, yet to be irritated by any suspicion of -blame from him. On the last morning of his stay he had begged her, if -she could abstract her thoughts for a moment from Mary, to think of him. -“I don’t want to trouble you further, mother. I only want you to tell me -if you think my whole business so hopeless that I had better give every -expectation up?” - -“Think your business hopeless, Aubrey? Oh, no; I don’t think that.” - -“But we know just as much now as we did in October. I do not think we -have advanced a step----” - -“If you mean to reproach me with my want of success, Aubrey!” - -“No--I don’t mean to reproach you with anything, mother. But I think it -seems just as hopeless as ever--and not a step nearer.” - -“Things cannot be done in a moment,” she said, hurriedly. “I never -expected--When the summer comes round, when one sees more people, when -one can really pursue one’s inquiries----.” Mrs. Leigh was very -conscious that she had pursued few inquiries, and the thought made her -angry. “Rome,” she added, “was not built in a day.” - -Aubrey Leigh said no more--but he went back to London feeling that he -was a beaten man, and the battle once more lost. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -THERE is nothing more curious in life than the way in which it closes -over those great incidents that shape its course. Like a stone -disappearing in a pool, the slow circles of commotion widen and melt -away, the missile sinks into the depths of the water, and tranquility -comes back to its surface. Every ripple is gone, and yet the stone is -always there. - -This curious calm came into the life of Bee Kingsward after the -incidents related above. The man with whom she had expected to share -everything disappeared from her existence as if he had never entered -into it, and a dead peace fell over her, and all things around her. It -was at once better for Bee and worse that the mourning for her mother -swept her away out of all the coming and going of ordinary life for a -time--better because she was saved the torment of a perpetual struggle -with her trouble, and worse because it shut her up to a perpetual -recollection of that trouble. The Kingsward family remained at -Kingswarden for the whole of that winter and spring. When the season -began there was some question of removing to town, which Bee opposed -strongly. “I have no wish to go out,” she said. “I could not, papa, so -soon---- And we have no one to take us.” - -“You will find plenty of people ready to take you,” he said. - -And then Bee took refuge in tears. “Nobody--that we could endure to go -with--so soon, so soon!--not yet a year,” she said. Betty followed her -sister dubiously. It was natural that she should always echo what Bee -said, but this time she was not quite so sure as usual. Not to balls? -Oh, not to balls! was Betty’s secret comment, but--Betty felt that to -speak occasionally to some one who was not of her own family--not the -Rector or the Rector’s wife, the Curate or the Doctor--would be an -advantage; but she did not utter that sentiment. After all, what was one -season to the measureless horizon of eighteen? Bee renounced her season -eagerly, and uttered exclamations of content when Colonel Kingsward -announced that, in those circumstances, he had let their house in town. -But I am not sure that she was so completely satisfied as she professed -to be. She had dismissed Aubrey “for ever”--and yet, when the deed was -done, a longing seized her sometimes to hear his name, that someone -should speak of him in her presence, that she should hear accidentally -where he was, and what he was doing. She had imagined little scenes to -herself in which she had heard strangers saying to each other that -Aubrey Leigh had soon got over his disappointment, that he was going to -be married to So-and-So; or that he was going to make the tour of the -world, or to shoot big game in Africa; or, anything in short, so long as -it was about him. Even when she had been so determined against going -out, there had been a hope in her mind that somehow, she did not know -how, some news of him and what he was doing might be wafted her way -accidentally. She did not want, she said to herself passionately, ever -to hear his name again! Yet she had calculated on hearing as much as -that, hearing quite accidentally, at the Royal Academy, perhaps, or -somewhere where she might happen to be calling, that he was going to the -ends of the earth, or that he was going to be married--things which the -speakers might suppose were not of the slightest interest to her. She -said all the same that she was delighted when Colonel Kingsward informed -them that he had let the house in town--very glad! before it had time to -get shabby, the poor old house; yet, when she retired to her room for -the night, Bee cried, shedding many salt tears. - -But nothing of this was apparent in her life. The circles had all melted -away from the still bosom of the pool. The household resumed its former -regularity, quickened a little, perhaps, by the energetic sweeping of -the new broom. Mrs. Kingsward had been an easy mistress about many -trifles, which Bee, new to authority, and more enterprising than her -mother, exacted a rigid account of. At the beginning she set all the -servants by the ears, each of them being anxious to show that their own -conscientiousness was perfect, and their desire to consider their -master’s interests; but, by degrees, matters settled down with an -increased strictness of order. “As mamma would have wished it,” Bee -said; and she herself changed in a way that would be almost miraculous -were it not a transformation commonly visible from time to time, from a -light-hearted girl, full of little amusing misdemeanours and mistakes, -into that sweet serious figure of the eldest daughter, the -mother-sister, so often visible in England when the mistress of the -household has been removed in early life. There is no more beautiful or -more tender vision; it is fine at all ages, but in the first bloom of -youth it has a pathetic grace which goes to the heart. Bee underwent -this change quite suddenly, after a period of trouble and agitation and -over activity. It might not perhaps have come but for the letting for -the season of the town house, which seemed to make so complete a -severance between her and the ordinary current of life. - -It was perhaps this that opened what might almost be called a new -relationship between Bee and her brother Charlie, who was the nearest to -her in the family, though there had not been hitherto an unusual -sympathy between them. For one thing, Betty feeling herself a little -forlorn in the country with all the echoes of London, which occasionally -came to her ears, had been permitted to accept an invitation to Portman -Square to visit a quiet elderly family, not likely to lead her into any -dissipation out of keeping with her black frock, and Bee was virtually -alone with the children, to whom she gave herself up with a devotion -which was the very quintessence of motherhood. Colonel Kingsward also -was in town--a man cannot shut himself up (this was what he said) -whatever his private griefs may be. He must keep a calm face before the -world, he must not allow himself to be hustled out of the way. For this -reason, he remained in London, living in chambers, to which he had an -official right, in the dingy official grandeur of Pall Mall, and coming -to Kingswarden only now and then from Saturday to Monday. This sundered -Bee still more completely from the world. And when Charlie came back -from Oxford she was more eager to meet him, more pleased with his -company than ever before. This was not perhaps entirely the young man’s -mind. That he should choose to shut himself up in the country in June -was perhaps scarcely to be expected. According to the curious rule which -prevails in England he “did not mind” the country in January. But in -June! However, it was soon apparent that there were other things than -the season in Charlie’s mind. He began a series of lamentations to Bee -upon the situation of the family and things in general, by the usual -complaint of a young man in the country of having “nothing to do.” - -“A man cannot sit at home and dot up the accounts like you,” he said, -“though I don’t say but that it’s hard upon you, too. Still, women like -to tie up children’s sashes and that sort of thing, and calculate how -much their boots cost in a year. I say, mother can’t have had half such -an easy life as we all thought.” - -“I never thought she had an easy life,” said Bee, which was perhaps not -exactly true, but the things that Bee had thought a year ago were so -unlike the things she thought now that she did not believe life had ever -appeared to her in a different light. - -“Well,” said Charlie, “she had a way of making it appear so. Do you -remember that last time at the Baths? What a little thing you seemed -then, Bee, and now here I am talking to you quite seriously, as if you -were mother. Look here, I want you to speak to the governor for me. I am -doing no good here. In fact, there’s nothing to do--unless I am to drop -into drinking and that sort of thing in the village.” - -“Charlie!” - -“Well,” he said, “I can’t sit and sew strings on pinafores like you. A -man must do something at my age.” - -“And what should you do at Oxford? And why do you want to go there when -everybody is away?” - -“Everybody away! That is all you know. The dons are away, if that is -what you mean. There are no lectures going on. But lectures are a mere -loss of time. There are lots of fellows up there reading. If you want to -read hard, now is the best time.” - -“How curious,” said Bee, in genuine surprise, “when all the people who -teach are away! And I never knew that you wanted to read hard.” - -“No. I never was made to think that I ought to,” said Charlie, with -rising colour. “In this house nobody thinks of anything more than just -getting through.” - -Bee was a little angry as well as surprised by this censure upon the -family. She said, “The rest of us may not be clever--but everybody says -there are few men that know as much as papa.” - -“Oh, in his special subjects, I suppose, but I am not going in for the -army, Bee,” said Charlie, the colour rising higher on his young face, -which was still an ingenuous face, though not of a very high order. “It -is such a wonderful thing to have your duty set before you, and how you -ought to make the best of your life. I, for one, never thought of it -before. I was always quite satisfied to get through and to have plenty -of time to amuse myself; but if you come to think of it that’s a very -poor sort of ideal for a life.” - -Bee looked up at Charlie with more and more surprise. He was pulling his -young moustache nervously, and there was a great deal of emotion in his -face. It seemed amazing to his sister that Charlie--Charlie who had -always been on the unemotional side, should take this heroic tone, or do -anything but laugh at the suggestion of an ideal in life. She gazed at -him in some bewilderment. “What are you going to read?” she asked, with -doubt and wonder in her voice. - -“It is just like a girl to ask a man what he is going to read! Why, -everything. I just pushed through my mods., you know--a pass--which it -covers me with shame to think of now. I must do something better than -that. I don’t know that I’m very good at anything, but work, after all, -steady work, is the great thing; and if work can do it----!” cried -Charley, breaking off, a little breathless, with a strange light in his -eyes. - -“You almost frighten me, Charlie. You were never meant for honours or a -high degree, were you? Papa said you need not go in for honours, it -would lose time; and you thought so, too.” - -“I have changed my mind,” said Charlie, nervously. “I thought, like -other asses, that in diplomacy you don’t want much; but now I think -differently. How are you to understand how to conduct national affairs -and all that, and reconcile conflicting claims, and so forth, and settle -the real business of the world----” - -“But Charlie, I thought it was languages, and great politeness, and--and -even dancing, and that sort of thing, that was wanted in an attaché----” - -“Attachés,” said the young man, with a gravity which, serious as she -also was, almost made Bee laugh, “are the material out of which -ambassadors are made. Of course, it takes time----” - -Here Bee burst, without meaning it, into a nervous laugh. - -“You are so dreadfully serious about it,” she cried. - -“And what should a man be serious about, if not that?” the young man -replied. - -Here for the moment, in great impatience on his part, and in the call -of some little household necessity on hers, the conversation closed; but -it was resumed as soon as the brother and sister were together again. -The big boys were still at school, the little ones engaged with their -lessons, and baby walking up and down in his nurse’s arms, did not -interrupt the talk which went on between the elders of the family. And -there is nothing with which it is so easy to indoctrinate a girl than -enthusiasm about an ideal, whatever that may be, or sympathy in a lofty -view of duty such as this, which had dawned, it seemed, upon her -brother. Bee took fire, as was so natural. She said to herself, that in -the utter downfall of her own life, it would be a fine thing to be able -to further his, and kept to the idea of Charlie as ambassador, settling -all sorts of difficulties and deciding the fortunes of the world for war -or for peace, as easily as if the question had been one of leading a -cotillion. How splendid it would be! She thought of herself as an old -lady, white-haired, in a cap and shawl--for, in an imagination of -twenty, there are few gradations between youth and that pathetic, yet -satisfactory ultimate period--seated in a particular corner of a -magnificent room at the Embassy, looking on at her brother’s triumph. -These sort of reflected successes were the only ones she thought that -would ever come to Bee. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -“CHARLIE wishes to go up to Oxford to read. Why does he wish to go up to -Oxford to read? And what reading is it necessary to do there?” - -“He says, papa, that it is easier to get on when you have all your books -about you--and when you can arrange all your way of living for that, -instead of the interruptions at home.” - -“Oh, there are too many interruptions at home? I should have thought you -were quiet enough here. I hope you have not thrown yourself into lawn -tennis parties, and tea parties, and that sort of thing--so soon, Bee.” - -Her father looked at her with a seriously reproachful air. He had begun -to dine out pretty freely, though only in serious houses, and where, he -explained, it would be prejudicial to him in his profession not to -appear. - -The undeserved reproach brought quick tears to Bee’s eyes. “I have -thrown myself into no parties,” she said, hastily. “Nobody has been -here. What Charlie means is the meal times, and hours for everything, -and all the children about. I have often heard you say that you couldn’t -work when the children were playing about.” - -“My work and Charlie’s are rather different,” Colonel Kingsward said, -with a smile. - -“Well, papa! but to read for a good degree, so that you may distinguish -yourself, must want a great deal of application----” - -“Oh, he wants a good degree, does he? He should have thought of it a -little earlier. And what use will that be to him in the Foreign Office? -Let him learn French and German--that’s what he has got to do.” - -“But even for French and German,” said Bee. “German is dreadfully -difficult, and Charlie does not pick up a language easily; and, -besides,” she added, “he has nobody to teach him at home----” - -“And who would he have at Oxford? Why, in the Long, even the shopkeepers -go away!” - -“But that is just the time for good, hard reading,” said Bee, acting on -her instructions, “when there are no lectures or anything formal to -interrupt you.” - -“He means, I suppose, when he can do whatever he likes, and there are no -proctors nor gate bills to keep him right.” - -“Papa,” said Bee, earnestly, “I don’t think that is at all what Charlie -means. I am sure that he has a real desire to get on. He says that he -feels he has been wasting his time, and--and not--not responding -properly to all you have done for him. He wants to make himself fit for -anything that may happen. If you will think, papa,” she added, with the -deepest gravity, “what a great deal of study and reading an ambassador -must require----” - -“An ambassador!” Colonel Kingsward was not given to laughter, but he -laughed now. “He may think himself fortunate if he is anything but an -unpaid attaché for the next ten years--which is an office which does not -require a great deal of study.” - -“But, papa----” - -“Nonsense, Bee. He wants, I suppose, complete freedom, and to amuse -himself as he pleases, with no control. I know what it means to stay up -at Oxford to read during the Long. Oh, yes. I don’t doubt men who know -how to grind, grind, but Charlie is not one of them. Let him stay at -home. You are a great deal sharper than he is at languages; you can help -him with his German as well as anyone.” - -“Oh,” cried Bee, from the bottom of her heart, “not with German, not -with German, papa!” - -And there came over her a sudden vision of the gardens at the Baths, the -murmur of talk in the air, the German officers with their spurs, and one -Englishman coming forward among them, an Englishman without spurs, -without uniform, so much more distinguished, it had been Bee’s pride to -think, in his simplicity, than all these bedizened warriors--and now! A -gush of hot tears came to her eyes. There was reason enough for them -without Aubrey Leigh, and Colonel Kingsward, whose heart was still -tender to every recollection of his wife, did not think of the other -memory that thrilled poor Bee’s heart. He walked up and down through the -room for a moment saying nothing, and then he paused by her side and put -his hand with an unusual caress upon his daughter’s bowed head. - -“You are right, you are right,” he said. “I could not ask that of you, -Bee.” - -Oh! if I had but known! Bee felt not only miserable, but guilty, when -her father’s touch came upon her hair. To think how little the dear -mother’s presence told in that picture, and how much, how much! that of -the man--who had been vulgarly untrue to her, a man without sense of -purity or honour! One whose name she never desired to hear again. She -could hardly accept the imputation of so much higher and nobler feeling -which her father’s touch conveyed. The dear mother! who never condemned, -who was always kind. She was moved to cry out in self-abasement, “It -was not mamma I was thinking of, it was him! him!” But she did not do -this. She raised her head and took up her work again with a trembling -hand. - -“I suppose,” said Colonel Kingsward, as anxious as his daughter was to -get away from a subject which was too moving for discussion, “that -Charlie finds Kingswarden dull. It is not unnatural at his age, and I -shall not object if he wishes to come to town for a week or so. His own -good feeling, I hope, would keep him from anything unbecoming in the -circumstances. But I must hear no more of this going to Oxford. It is -quite out of the question. If he had shown any desire to go in for -honours at the right time----. But now it is worse than folly. He must -get through as quickly as he can, and take advantage of his nomination -at once. Who can tell how soon it may be of no value? The Foreign Office -may be thrown open, like all the rest, to every costermonger in the -country, in a year or two, for anything one knows.” - -Charlie received this conclusion with disappointment, rapidly turning -into rage and rebellion. “I should have thought the most old-fashioned -old fogey in the world would have known better,” he cried. “What, -prevent a man from reading when he is at the University! Did you ever -hear of such a thing, Bee? Why, even a military man, though they are the -most obstinate in the world, must know that to be really educated is -everything in these days. A week in town! What do I care for a week in -town? It is exactly like the man in the Bible who, being asked for -bread, gave a stone.” - -Bee was greatly impressed by her brother’s anxiety to continue his -studies. It filled her with a respect and admiration which up to this -time she had never entertained for Charlie, and occupied her mind much -with the question how, if her father were obdurate, he might be aided at -home in those studies. She remembered suddenly that Mr. Burton’s curate -had been spoken of as a great scholar when he came first to the parish. -He had taken tremendous honours she had heard. And why might not he be -secured as an aid to Charlie in his most laudable ambition? She thought -this over a great deal as she moved about her household duties. Bee as a -housekeeper was much more anxious than her mother had been for many -years. She thought that everything that was done required her personal -attention. She had prolonged interviews every morning with the cook, who -had been more or less the housekeeper for a long time, and who (with a -secret sense of humour) perplexed Bee with technicalities which she -would not allow that she did not understand. The girl ordered everything -minutely for dinner and lunch and breakfast, and decided what was to be -for the nursery as if she knew all about it, and reproved cook gravely -when she found that certain alterations had been made in the menu when -those meals were served. “I assure you as that is what you ordered, -miss,” cook said, with a twinkle in her eye. All this Bee did, not only -because of her strong determination to do her duty, but also because -preoccupation with all these details was her great salvation from -thoughts which, do what she would, claimed her attention more than -nursery puddings and the entrées that pleased papa. But while she -pursued these labours there was still time for other thoughts, and she -occupied herself very much with this question about Charlie. Why could -not Mr. Delaine come to read with him? Mr. Delaine had shown an -inclination to flirt with Betty, but Betty was now absent, so that no -harm could be done in that direction. She thought it all out during the -somewhat gloomy days which Colonel Kingsward spent with his family in -the country. It rained all the Sunday, which is a doleful addition to -the usual heaviness of a day in which all usual occupations are put -away. Colonel Kingsward himself wrote letters, and was very fully -occupied on Sunday afternoon, after the Church parade on Sunday morning, -which was as vigorously maintained as if the lessening rows of little -ones all marshalled for morning service had been a regiment--but he did -not like to see Bee doing anything but “reading a book” on Sunday. And -it had always been a rule in that well-ordered house that the toys -should be put away on Saturday evening, so that the day hung rather -heavily, especially when it rained, on the young ones’ heads. Colonel -Kingsward did not mean to be a gloomy visitor. He was always kind to his -children, and willing to be interested in what they did and said; but, -as a matter of fact, those three days were the longest and the most -severe of any that passed over the widowed and motherless house. When -Bee came downstairs from the Sunday lesson, which she gave in the -nursery, she found her brother at the writing-table in the drawing-room, -composing what seemed a very long letter. His pen was hurrying over the -page; he was at the fourth side of a sheet of large paper--and opened -out on the table before him were several sheets of a very long, -closely-written letter, to which he was evidently replying. When Bee -appeared, Charlie snatched up this letter, and hastily folding it, -thrust it into its envelope, which he placed in his breast pocket. He -put the blotting paper hastily over the letter which he was himself -writing, and the colour mounted to his very forehead as he turned half -round. It was not any colour of guilt, but a glow of mingled enthusiasm -and shamefacedness, beautiful upon the face of a youth. Bee was too -young herself to admire and appreciate this flush of early feeling, but -she was so far sympathetic in her own experience, that she divined -something at least of what it meant. - -“Oh, Charlie!” she said, “you are writing to someone----” - -“Most assuredly, I am writing to someone,” he said, with the half pride, -half shame of a young lover. - -“Who is she?” cried Bee. “Oh, Charlie, tell me! Oh, tell me! Do I know -who it is?” - -“I don’t know,” he said, “what you are making such a fuss about. I am -writing to--a friend.” He paused a moment, and then said with -fervour--“the best friend that ever man had.” - -“A friend,” cried Bee, a little disappointed. “But isn’t it a lady?” she -asked. - -“I hope,” he said, with a haughty air, “that you are not one of those -limited people that think there can be no friendship between a man and a -woman, for if that’s so I’ve got nothing to say.” - -Bee was scarcely philosophical enough to take up this challenge. She -looked at him, bewildered, for a moment, and then said, “Oh, tell me -about her, Charlie! It would do me good--it would, indeed, to hear about -somebody whom there could not be any objection to, who would be, -perhaps, happier than me,” cried poor little Bee, the tears coming to -her eyes. - -“Happier than you? And why shouldn’t you be happy?” said the elder -brother. He made an effort to turn away in dignified silence, but the -effort was too much for the young man, longing to talk of the new thing -in his life. “There is no comparison at all between a little thing like -you and--and the lady I was writing to,” he said, holding his head high. -“If you think it is any sort of nonsense you are very much mistaken. -Why, she--she is as much above me as heaven is from earth. That she -should take the trouble to show any interest in me at all, just proves -what an angel she is. I, an idle, ordinary sort of fellow, and she!--the -sort of woman that one dreams of. Bee, you can’t think what she has done -for me already,” Charlie cried, forgetting his first defiance. “I’m -another fellow ever since she began to take notice of me.” - -Bee stole to her brother’s side and gave him a sympathetic stroke upon -his shoulder. “Oh! Charlie! what is her name?” - -“You wouldn’t know her name if I were to tell you,” he said. And then, -after a moment’s hesitation: “Her name,” he went on, “her real name as I -call it, is Laura, like Petrarch’s Laura, don’t you know, Bee? But I -don’t suppose you do know.” - -“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Bee, eagerly. She added in her turn, “I -shouldn’t have thought you would know anything like that.” - -“No; I’m not up to it,” said Charlie, with unexpected humility; “but I -read it all up as soon as she said it. Don’t you think it’s a beautiful -name?” - -“Yes,” said Bee, yet not with enthusiasm. “But, oh!” she added, “I hope -she is not married, Charlie; for that would not be nice at all.” - -“Married!” cried Charlie. “I wish you were not such a horrid -little--Philistine. But she is not married, if that is any satisfaction -to you.” - -“And is she--beautiful, Charlie? and are you very, very fond of her? Oh, -Charlie!” Bee clasped his arm in both her hands and sobbed. It made her -feel wretched, yet filled her with a delicious tender sense of -fellow-feeling. If he would only tell her all! It would be hard upon -her, and yet it would be a sort of heavenly pang to hear another, and, -oh! surely, this time, a happy love tale. Bee sat down close by him, and -clasped his arm, and sometimes leaned her head upon it in the warmth of -her tenderness and sympathy. And Charlie was persuaded, by degrees, to -speak. But his tale was not like Bee’s. It was a tale of a lady who had -stooped as from her throne to the young fellow of no account--the -ordinary young man, who could not understand how she had come to think -of him at all. It was she who had inspired him with his new ambition, -who had made him so anxious to distinguish himself, to make something of -his life. She had taken the trouble to write to him, to keep him up to -it since he had come “down.” She had promised to let him come to see her -when he came “up” again, to inspire him and encourage him. “One look at -her is better than a dozen coaches,” Charlie cried, in the fervour of -his heart. - -“Do you mean that you are going to see her--in town?” asked Bee, -doubtfully. - -“In town? No. She detests town. It’s all so vain and so hollow, and such -a rush. She came to live in Oxford at the beginning of last term,” -Charlie said. - -“Oh,” said Bee, and she found no more to say. She did not herself -understand how it was that a little chill came upon her great sympathy -with Charlie and this unknown lady of his--friendship, if not love. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -COLONEL KINGSWARD, however, could not be moved either by Bee’s -representations or by anything said by his son to grant to Charlie the -permission, and the funds necessary, to pursue his studies in Oxford by -going “up” to read “in the Long.” It was indeed very little that Charlie -said to his father on the subject. He responded somewhat sullenly to the -Colonel’s questions. - -“So I hear you want to go back to Oxford to read?” - -“Yes,” said the young man. - -“You have generally found before this that by the end of the term you -had had too much reading.” - -No reply. - -“I suppose you want to be free of supervision and do exactly what you -please. And you find it dull at home?” - -“I have never said so,” said Charlie. - -“You ought to feel that in the circumstances it was appropriate that it -should be dull. Good heavens! Were you contemplating amusing yourself, -rioting with your comrades, when your poor mother--” - -“I have never thought of rioting with comrades,” said Charlie, with -averted head. - -“One knows what that means--going up to read in the Long: boats and -billiards and hotels, bands of young men in flannels lounging about, and -every decorum thrown to the winds.” - -The Colonel looked severely at his son, who stood before him turning -over the pages of a book in his hand, with lowering brows and closed -mouth. - -“You think I don’t know,” he said, sharply; “but you are mistaken. What -would have been best for you would have been the discipline of a -regiment. I always thought so, but at least I’m not going to permit -every decent bond to be broken through.” - -“I think, sir,” said Charlie, “that it’s enough to say ‘No,’ without -accusing me of things I never thought of.” - -“I am the best judge of what is enough,” said the angry father. “If you -want a week or so in town, I don’t object; but Oxford in the Long--No. I -only hope,” he added severely, “that there’s no woman in the case.” - -Charlie’s countenance flushed crimson. He gave his father a furious -glance. “If that’s all,” he said, “I may now go, perhaps?” - -“Yes, go,” said the Colonel, angrily. He was himself sorry for that last -insinuation as soon as his son had left the room. His angry -suspiciousness had carried him too far. Not that he blamed himself for -the suspicion, but he was aware that to speak of it was a false step and -could do no good. If there was a woman in the case, that flying dart -would not move the young man to penitence or turn him from any dangerous -way. Colonel Kingsward, however, quickly forgave himself for this -inadvertence, and reflected with satisfaction that, at least, he had -prevented the young fool from making an ass of himself for this summer. -And in such cases absence is the best remedy and hinders much mischief. -Charlie rejected with indignation the week in town which his father -offered. “A week in town!” he said to Bee, contemptuously, “to waste my -time and debase all my ideas! What does he think I want with a week in -town? That’s the way a fellow’s father encourages him to do the best he -can. Cuts off all inspiration, and throws one on the dregs of life! It’s -enough to make a man kick over the traces altogether.” - -“But, Charlie,” said Bee, with timidity, “don’t you think it’s very, -very quiet here. We have nothing to disturb us. If you were to try to do -your work at home?--you would have the library to sit in all the week -while papa is in town.” - -“Out of reach of books, out of reach of any coach--it’s like telling a -mason to build a wall without any stone.” - -“The library is full of books,” said Bee, with a little indignation. - -“What kind of books? Military books, and travels, and things for -reference--old peerages, and so forth--and some of the heavy old -reviews, and a few novels. Much good a man who is going in for real -reading would get out of those!” - -“But you have your own books--all those that you carry about with you, -Charlie.” - -“Oh!” he said, with impatience, “What are they? Horrible cribs and -things, that I promised not to use any more.” - -“Does Laura,” said Bee, with a little awe, “say you are not to use -cribs?” - -“And as for the quiet,” said Charlie, continuing his strain of -complaint, “if you call that quiet! When you never know that next moment -there may not be a rush down the nursery stairs like wild horses let -loose, and shrieks all over the house for Bee or for nurse, sending -every idea out of a man’s head; or else baby screaming fit to bring down -the house. You know nothing about it, to be sure; it is like talking to -the wind to talk to a little thing like you. A man can’t work unless -he’s in the right place for working. If any difficulty arises in a -passage, for instance, what do you think I am to do here?” - -“Do you go to---- Laura, when there is a difficulty about a passage, -Charlie?” - -“No, you little fool!” With a flush of anger and shame he begged her -pardon next minute. “But it is so hard to explain things to you, Bee. -You are so ignorant--naturally, for, of course, you never were taught -anything. Don’t you know that Oxford is full of coaches?” he said. - -“That was just what I was thinking of, Charlie--if you will not be -angry, but let me speak.” - -“Speak away,” he said. This was on Monday, after Colonel Kingsward had -left. The days which he spent at Kingswarden were the heaviest, as has -been said, to the young party; nevertheless when he went away the blank -of that long world of a week, without any communication to speak of from -without, closed down alarmingly upon the elders of the family. Even when -papa was cross, when he was dissatisfied with his dinner or found fault -with the noise of the children, it was more or less an event. But when -he departed there was a sense of being cut off from all events, -separated from the world altogether, shut out from the news and the hum -of society, which was very blank and deadening. Bee and Charlie dined -alone, and it was dreary; they spent the evening together, or else--one -in the library, one in the garden, where the beauty of the summer -evening was terrible to the one poor little girl with her recollections, -incapable of shutting them out in that utter stillness, and trying very -ineffectually not to be unhappy. When Charlie threw open the window of -the library and strolled forth to join her, as he generally did, it was -a little better. Bee had just done very conscientiously all her duties -in the nursery--had heard the children say their prayers, in which they -still, with a little pause of awe, prayed God to bless dear mother--and -had made all the valorous little efforts she could to keep down the -climbing sorrow. When she heard the sound of the library window she -quickly dried her eyes and contrived to smile. And she was a very good -listener. She suffered Charlie to talk about himself as much as he -pleased, and was interested in all he said. She made those little -allusions to Laura which pleased him, though he generally answered with -a scornful word, as who should say that “a little thing like you” was -incapable of comprehending that lady. But this was the sole diversion of -these young people in the evening. People called in the afternoon, and -there was occasionally a game of tennis. But in the evening they were -almost invariably alone. - -They were strolling about the garden on this occasion when the young man -bewailed himself. Bee, though she made those allusions to Laura, had -never got over that little chill in respect to her which had arisen in -the most capricious, causeless way when she knew that Laura lived in -Oxford. Nothing could be more unreasonable, but yet it was so. It -suggested something fictitious in her brother’s eagerness to get back, -and in his supposed devotion to his work. Had his Egeria been anywhere -else Bee would not have felt this; but she did feel it, though she could -not tell why. She was very anxious to please him, to content him, if -possible, with his present life, to make her sympathy sweet to him, -seeing that he had nobody but herself to console him, and must be -separated from Laura until October. Poor Charlie! It was hard indeed -that this should be the case, that he should have so dull a home and no -companion but his sister. But it could not be helped; his sister, at -least, must do what she could. - -“You must not be angry,” said Bee, very humbly. “It is only an idea that -has come into my head--there may be nothing at all in it--but don’t -please shut me up as you do sometimes--hear me out. Charlie! there is -Mr. Delaine.” - -“Mister--what?” said Charlie, which indeed did not show a very -complaisant frame of mind--but a curate in the country is of less -importance in the horizon of the son of a house who is at Oxford than he -is in that of the daughter at home. - -“Mr. Delaine,” repeated Bee. “You don’t remember him, perhaps, at all. -He is the curate. When he came first he was said to be a great scholar. -He took a first class. You need not say, pooh! Everybody said so, and it -is quite true.” - -“A first in theology, I suppose,” said Charlie, disdainfully. - -“No, not that--that’s not what people call a first. Mr. Burton, I have -always heard, is a good scholar himself, and he said a first; of course -you know better than I do what that means.” - -“Well,” said Charlie, “and supposing for the sake of argument that he -took a first--what then?” - -“Why, Charlie dear! He is an Oxford man too; he must know all the things -you want to know--difficult passages and all that. Don’t you think, -perhaps----” - -“Oh, a coach!” cried Charlie. Then he paused, and with withering satire, -added “No doubt, for little boys--your curate might do very well, Bee.” - -“He is not my curate,” said Bee, with indignation; “but I have always -heard he was a great scholar. I thought that was what you wanted.” - -“It is not to be expected,” said her brother, loftily, “that you should -know what I want. It is not a coach that is everything. If that were -all, there need be no such things as universities. What a man needs is -the whole machinery, the ways of thinking, the arrangements, the very -atmosphere.” - -He strolled along the walk with his hands in his pockets and his -shoulders up to his ears. - -“I do not think it is possible,” he added, turning to her with a -softened tone, “that I could make you understand; for it is so different -from anything you have ever known.” - -“I hope I am not so dreadfully stupid!” said Bee, incensed. “If Laura -understands, why should it be so impossible for me?” - -“Oh, for goodness’ sake talk of things you can know something about; as -if there was any comparison between her and you.” - -“I think you are very uncivil,” said Bee, ready to weep. “I may not be -clever, but yet I am your sister, and it is only because I wanted to -help you that I took the trouble to speak at all.” - -“You are very well meaning, Bee, I am sure,” said Charlie, with -condescension; “I do full justice to your good intentions. Another -fellow might think you wanted to have Delaine here for yourself.” - -“Me!” cried Bee, with a wild pang of injured feeling and a sense of the -injustice, and inappropriateness, the cruel wrong of such a suggestion. -And that Charlie could speak like that--who knew everything! It was -almost more than she could bear. - -“But I don’t say that,” he went on in his lofty tones. “I know you mean -well. It is only that you don’t--that you can’t understand.” How should -she? he said to himself with amusing superiority, and a nod of his head -as if agreeing to the impossibility. Bee resented the tone, the -assumption, the comparison that was implied in every word. - -“I wonder,” she cried, “if you ever tell Laura that she doesn’t and -can’t understand?” - -He stopped short opposite to her, and grasped her arm. “Bee,” he said -almost solemnly, “Don’t! If you knew her you would know what folly it is -and presumption to compare yourself for one moment!--and do me the -favour not to profane that name, as if it were only a girl’s name like -your own.” - -“Is she a princess, then?” cried Bee, “or an angel? Or what is she?” - -“She is both, I think,” said Charlie, in a voice full of awe, “at least -to me. I wish you wouldn’t talk of her in that way. I am sorry I ever -told you her name. And please just let my affairs alone. You haven’t -been able to do anything for me with my father, which is the only thing -you might have done--and I don’t want to discuss other things with you. -So please just let my concerns alone from this day.” - -“It was not I that ever wished to interfere!” cried Bee, with great -mortification and resentment, and after a few minutes’ silent walk -together in much gloom and stateliness the brother and sister bade each -other an offended and angry good-night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -THIS made, however, but a very temporary breach between Bee and her -brother. They were a little stiff next morning at breakfast, and -elaborately refrained from talking on any but the most trivial things, -but by noon this reserve had broken down, and in the evening, though Bee -proudly refrained from any reference to Laura, they were as confidential -as ever. Bee’s mind had passed through various vicissitudes in respect -to the object of Charlie’s adoration. Her first overwhelming interest -had given way to a little doubt, and this was naturally strengthened by -the overweaning estimate of the unknown which Charlie thrust upon her. A -girl is very willing to admire at second-hand her brother’s love, but -when she is told that it is presumption to compare herself with that -divinity, her sympathy is strained too far. Bee began to have an uneasy -feeling about this unknown Laura. It was one thing to stimulate Charlie -to work, to stir up all that was best in him, to urge him to distinguish -himself, for Charlie’s sake or for their joint sakes, if they married -and became one--which was the only thing that could happen in Bee’s -idea--but it was quite another thing to pretend an enthusiasm for this -in order that Charlie should be kept within her reach and at her feet -during that quiet time of the long vacation. Bee knew enough to know -that severe work is not compatible with much love-making. She imagined -her brother strolling away from his books to take Laura out on the -river, or lie at her feet in the garden, which had become the habit of -his life, as he betrayed to her accidentally. Bee thought, with a little -indignation, that the lofty intentions which would probably end in these -proceedings were of the nature of false pretences, and that the girl -whom Charlie endowed with the most superlative qualities should not -attempt to take him from his home for such reason; or, at least, if she -did should do it frankly for love’s sake--which was always a thing to be -forgiven--and not on any fictitious pretence. - -For Charlie, being refused that heroic way of working, “going up to -read,” did not read at all, as was apparent to his sister’s keen eyes. -He did not attempt to do the best he could, being prevented from doing -what he desired. He settled himself, it is true, in the library after -breakfast, with his books, as if with the intention of working, but -before Bee got through the little lesson which she gave every morning to -the little ones, Charlie was out strolling about the garden, or lying on -the grass in the shade with a book, which was usually a novel, or one -which lay closed by his side while he abandoned himself to thought--to -thought, not about his books it was to be feared, for Bee, with tremors -of sympathy in her heart, recognised too well the dreamy look, the -drooped eyelids, the air astray from anything going on around. From -questions of study, as far as Bee had perceived in her short experience, -the merest footstep on a path, the dropping of a leaf, was enough to -rouse the student. Charlie’s thoughts were of a far more absorbing kind. - -Colonel Kingsward suggested once more the week in town, when he came on -another Saturday evening to Kingswarden. He was a man not very open to a -perception of the wants of others, but as time went on, and he himself -became more and more sensible of the ameliorating influences of society -and occupation, the stagnant atmosphere at home, where his two elder -children were vegetating, so much against all their previous habits, -struck him with a sensation which he could not wholly get the better of. -It was only right that Bee, at least, should remain in the country and -in retirement the first summer after her mother’s death. It would have -been most unbecoming had she been in town seeing people, and -necessarily, more or less, been seen by the world. But yet he felt the -stillness close round him like a sensible chill, and was aware of the -great quiet--aggravated by his own presence, though of this he was -scarcely aware--as if it had been a blight in the air. It made him angry -for the moment. In other times his house in the country had always been -refreshing and delightful to him. Now, the air, notwithstanding that it -was full summer, chilled him to the bone. - -When you are escaping from the atmosphere of grief, anything that draws -you back to it feels like an injury. He was very cross, very impatient -with the silence at table, the subdued looks of the young people, and -that they had nothing to say. Was it not worse for him than for them? He -was the one who had lost the most, and to whom all ministrations were -due, to soften the smart of sorrow. But afterwards his thoughts towards -his children softened. It was very dull for them. On the Sunday evening -he took the trouble to press that week in town upon Charlie. “There’s a -spare closet you can have at my rooms at the office,” he said. “It’s -very central if not much else, and I daresay your friends will ask you -out quietly as they do me. I think even you might bring up Bee for the -day to see the pictures. She could stay the night with the Hammonds and -see Betty.” - -“Oh, don’t think of me, papa,” cried Bee. “I would rather, far rather, -stay at home. I don’t care for the pictures--this year.” - -“That is foolish, my dear,” said the Colonel. “There is nothing in the -least unbecoming to your mourning in going there. Indeed, I wish you to -go. You ought not to miss the pictures, and it will be a little change. -Of course, I cannot go with you myself, but Charlie will take you, and -you can go to Portman Square to sleep. You will see Betty, who must be -thinking of coming home about now; indeed, it is quite necessary you -should settle that with her. She can’t stay there all the season, and it -is rather heartless leaving you like this alone.” - -“Oh, no, papa. It is I that wish her to stay. She would have come back -long ago but for me.” - -Bee’s generous assumption of the blame, if there was any blame, excited -her father’s suspicion rather than admiration. He looked at her somewhat -severely. “I cannot conceive what object you can have in preferring to -be alone,” he said. “It is either morbid, or--In either case it makes it -more desirable that Betty should come back. You can arrange that. We -will say Wednesday. I suppose you will not be nervous about returning -home alone?” - -“But, papa--” - -“I consider the question settled, Bee,” said Colonel Kingsward, and -after that there was nothing more to be said. - -Poor Bee wept many tears over this compulsory first step back into the -world--without her mother, without---- She did not mean (as she said in -her inmost thoughts) _anyone else_; but it made the whole world vacant -around her to think that neither on one side nor the other was there -anyone to walk by her side, to take her hand, to make her feel that she -was not alone. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that, in the morning, -this was the first thought that came into her mind, with a faint -expansion of her young being. The change, though it was not joyful, was -still something; and when she set out with Charlie on Wednesday morning -her heart, in spite of herself, rose a little. To see the pictures! The -pictures are not generally very exciting, and there was not, as it -happened, a sensation in any one of them in this particular year, even -had Bee been capable of it, which she was not. But yet she had a -sensation, and one of the most startling description. As she was going -languidly along, looking at one picture after another, mechanically -referring to the catalogue, which conveyed very little idea to her mind, -her attention was suddenly attracted by a lady standing in front of one -of the chief pictures of the year. She was talking with great animation -to some friends who surrounded her, pointing out the qualities and -excellencies (or non-excellencies, for Bee was not near enough to hear) -of the picture. She was picturesquely dressed in black, a tall and -commanding figure, with a great deal of lace about her, and a fine -profile, clearly cut and impressive. Bee’s whole attention was called to -her as by a charm. Where had she seen her before? She seemed acquainted -with every detail of her figure, and penetrated by a vague reminiscence -as of someone who had been of personal importance to herself, though she -could not tell when or how. “Who is she? Oh, who is she?” Bee asked -herself. She was very handsome--indeed Bee thought her a beautiful -woman; not young, which is a thing always noted with a certain pain and -compassion by a young girl--but full of grace and interest. While Bee -gazed, open-eyed, forgetful of herself--a young figure, very -interesting, too, to behold, in her deep mourning, and with the complete -forgetfulness of herself involved in that wistful, inquiring, and -admiring gaze--the lady turned round, presenting her full face to the -girl’s troubled vision. Bee felt her breath come short, her heart beat. -She fell back hurriedly upon a vacant place on one of the benches which -someone had charitably left empty. Bee did not know who the woman was, -nor what possible connections she could have with her own fate, and yet -there was a conviction in the girl’s heart that she had to do with it, -that somehow or other her life was in this woman’s hands. It was the -lady whom she had met that autumn morning last year in the firwoods -round the Baths, where Bee had gone to finish her sketch--the lady who -had appeared suddenly from among the trees, who had sat down by her, and -pointed out the errors in the little picture, and advised her how to -put them right. The black lace which was so conspicuous in the -stranger’s dress, seemed to sweep over Bee as she passed, with the same -faint, penetrating odour, the same thrill of unaccountable sensation. -Bee could not take her eyes from this figure as it moved slowly along, -pausing here and there with the air of a connoisseur. Who was she? Who -was she? Bee turned as she turned, following her with her eyes. - -And then there occurred the most wonderful incident, so strange, so -unsuspected, so unaccountable, that Bee could scarcely suppress a cry of -astonishment. Charlie had been “doing” the pictures in his way, going -faster than his sister, and had been roaming down the whole side of the -long gallery while Bee occupied herself with one or two favourites. He -appeared now at a little distance, having made the round of the room, -and Bee was the involuntary, much surprised witness of the effect -produced upon Charlie by the sudden appearance which had so much excited -herself. He stopped short, with it seemed a sudden exclamation, let the -book in his hands drop in his amazement, then, cleaving the crowd, -precipitated himself upon the group in which the lady stood. Bee watched -with consternation the hurried, eager greeting, the illumination of his -boyish face, even the gesture--both hands put forth, and the quiver of -his whole eager figure. She even heard a little cry of surprise from the -lady, who presently separated herself from her friends and went on with -Charlie in the closest conversation. It seemed to Bee as she watched, -following them as well as she could through the crowd which got between -her and these two figures, that there were no two heads so close -together in all the throng. They seemed to drift into a corner where the -pictures were of no importance, where they were comparatively -undisturbed as if for the most confidential talk. It was not mere -acquaintanceship, a chance meeting with some one he knew, it was utter -forgetfulness of everything else, complete absorption in this new -interest that seemed to move her brother. For a time Bee formed no -conclusion, thought of no explanation, but watched them only with all -her faculties. The catalogue which Charlie had dropped was shuffled and -kicked to her feet by the passers by, a visible sign that something -unusual had happened. What was it? Who was she? - -And then there darted into Bee’s mind a suggestion, an idea which she -could not, would not entertain. Laura! Was it possible that this could -be Laura? The thought sent a thrill through and through her. But no! no! -no! she cried within herself; impossible! This lady was years older than -Charlie--of another generation altogether--not a girl at all. She gazed -through the crowd at the two heads in the corner of the room, standing -as if they were looking at the pictures. They had their backs to Bee, -and she could see nothing but occasionally a side glimpse of Charlie’s -cheek and the lace bonnet, with the unusual accompaniment of a floating -veil, which covered his companion’s head. She had remembered the veil at -once--not primly fastened over her face, as most ladies wore them, but -thrown back and falling behind, a head-dress such as nobody else wore. -It distinguished from every other head that of the woman who, Bee now -felt sure, was like somebody in a tragedy of Fate--somebody who had to -do, she could not tell how, with the shipwreck of her own life--for had -she not appeared mysteriously, from she knew not where, on the very eve -of misery and ruin?--and now was overshadowing Charlie’s, bringing him -some calamity. Bee shivered and trembled among all the crowding people -on the seat which so many people envied her, and felt that she was -retaining far longer than her share. She was too much frightened to do -as she could have wished to do, to rush after them, to draw her brother -away, to break the spell. Such a dark lady had been known in story long -before Bee was born. Could it be true that hateful beings were permitted -to stray about even in the brightest scenes, bringing evil augury and -all kinds of trouble with them? Many a time had Bee thought of this -lady--of her sudden appearance, and of her questions about the Leighs; -of something in her look, an air of meaning which even at the moment had -confused the unsuspicious, unalarmed girl. And now, What was she? Who -was she? Laura? Oh, no, no; a hundred times no. If Bee could have -supposed that her respectable father or any member of her innocent -family could have wronged anyone, she would have thought it was a -ghost-lady ominous of trouble. Oh, what a silly thought in broad -daylight, in the Academy of all places in the world! There was very -little that was visionary or superstitious in such a place. - -Charlie came back to join his sister after a considerable time with a -glowing face. “Oh, you are there!” he cried. “I’ve been looking -everywhere for you. I couldn’t think where you could have gone----” - -“I should have seen you had you been looking for me,” said Bee. - -“Well, never mind, now that I have found you. Have you seen as much as -you wish? It’s time to be moving off if you mean to get to Portman -Square in time for tea.” - -“Charlie,” said Bee, very gravely, getting up and moving with him -towards the door, “who is that lady you were talking to with the black -lace about her head?” - -“What lady?” said Charlie, with a very fictitious look of surprise, and -the colour mounting all over his face. “Oh, the lady I met--that lady? -Well, she is a lady--whom I have met elsewhere----” - -“I have met her, too,” cried Bee, breathless, “down at the Baths just -before---- Oh, who is she--who is she, Charlie? I think she is one of -the Fates.” - -“You little goose,” cried her brother, and then he laughed in an -unsteady way. “Perhaps she is--if there was a good one,” he cried. “She -is,” he added, in a different tone, and then paused again; “but I -couldn’t tell you half what she is if I were to talk till next week--and -never in such a noisy, vulgar place as this.” - -Then Bee’s mind, driven from one thought to another, came suddenly back -with a jar and strain of her nerves to the question about Laura; was it -possible that this should be she?--for it was the tone sacred to Laura -in which her brother now spoke. “Oh! tell me about her, tell me about -her!” she cried, involuntarily clasping her hands--“she isn’t--is she? -Oh, Charlie, you will have time to tell me when we get into the park. -Didn’t she want to speak to me? Why didn’t you introduce me to her if -she is such a great friend of yours?” - -“Hush! for goodness’ sake, now; you are making people stare,” said -Charlie. He hurried down the stairs and across the road outside, making -her almost run to keep up with him. “I say, Bee,” he cried hurriedly, -when he had signalled to a hansom, “should you mind going by yourself? I -hate driving when I can walk. Why, you’ve been in a hansom by yourself -before! You’re not going to be such a little goose as to make a fuss -about it now.” - -“Oh, but Charlie--I’d rather walk too, and then you can tell me--” - -“Oh, nonsense,” he cried, “you’re tired already. It would be too much -for you. Portman Square, No.--. Good-bye, Bee. I’ll look up later,” he -cried, as, to Bee’s consternation, the wheels of the hansom jarred upon -the curb and she felt herself carried rapidly away. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -PORTMAN SQUARE had seemed to Bee the first step into the world, after -all that had happened, but when she was there this gentle illusion -faded. It was not the world, but only another dry and faded corner out -of the world, more silent and recluse than even Kingswarden had become, -for there were no voices of children within, and no rustle of trees and -singing of birds without. The meeting with Betty was sweet, but the air -of the little old-fashioned tea-table, the long, solemn dinner, with the -butler and the footman stealing like ghosts about the table, which was -laid out with heavy silver and cut glass, with only one small bunch of -flowers as a sacrifice to modern ideas in the middle, and the silence -of the great drawing-room afterwards, half lighted and dreary, came with -a chill upon the girl who had been afraid of being dazzled by too much -brightness. There were only the old lady and the old gentleman, Betty -and herself, around the big table, and only the same party without the -old gentleman afterwards. Mrs. Lyon asked Bee questions about her -excellent father, and she examined Bee closely about her dear mother, -wishing to know all the particulars of Mrs. Kingsward’s illness. - -“I can’t get a nice serious answer from Betty. She is such a little -thing; and she tells me she was not at home through the worst,” Mrs. -Lyon said. - -It was not a subject to inspire Bee, or enable her to rise above the -level of her home thoughts. Betty did not seem to feel it in the same -way. She was in a white frock with black ribbons, for Mrs. Lyon did not -like to see her in black, “such a little thing, you know.” Bee wondered -vaguely whether she herself, only a year-and-a-half the elder, was -supposed to be quite middle-aged and beyond all the happier surroundings -of life. Mrs. Lyon gave her a great deal of advice as to what she ought -to do, and talked much of the responsibilities of the elder sister. “You -must teach them to obey you, my dear. You must not let down the habit of -obedience, you must be very strict with them; a sister has more need -even than a mother to be very strict, to keep them in a good way.” Bee -sat very still, while the old lady prosed. It was so silent but for that -voice, that the ticking of the clock became quite an important sound in -the large dim room. And Bee strained her ears for the sound of a hansom -drawing up, for Charlie’s step on the pavement. Many hansoms stopped at -neighbouring houses, and footsteps sounded, but Charlie did not make his -appearance. “My brother said he would look in later,” she had told Mrs. -Lyon when she arrived. “Well, my dear, we shall hope he will,” the old -lady had said, “but a young man in London finds a hundred engagements.” -And Betty, who had been so serious, who had been so sweet, a perfect -companion at the time of their mother’s death, more deeply penetrated by -all the influences of the time than Bee herself, now flitted about in -her white frock, with all her old brightness, and sang her little song -without faltering, to show Bee what progress she had made since she had -been taking lessons. Bee could scarcely yet sing the hymns in church -without breaking down, though to be sure a girl who was having the best -lessons would be obliged to get over that. After the long evening when -they were at last alone together, Betty did not respond warmly to Bee’s -suggestion that she should now be thinking of returning home. “You seem -to think of nothing but the children,” she said; “you can’t want me,” to -which Bee could only reply that there were more things than the children -to think of, and that she was very lonely and had no one to talk to---- - -“But you have Charlie,” said Betty. - -“Charlie is very full of his own concerns. He has not much sympathy with -me. All that he wants is to get back to Oxford.” - -“To Oxford in the vacation? What would he do there?” - -“He says he would work,” said Bee. - -“Oh, Bee, how nice of Charlie! I know they do sometimes, Gerald Lyon -tells me; but I never thought that Charlie----” - -“No,” said Bee, “and I don’t feel very sure now, there is someone---- to -whom he writes such long letters----” - -“Oh, Bee! This is far, far more interesting than reading! Do you know -who she is? Does he tell you about her?” - -“Her name is Laura,” said Bee, “that is all I know.” - -“Oh,” cried Betty, “Charlie too!” And then a flush came over the girl’s -uplifted face. Bee, poor Bee, absorbed in the many things which had -dawned upon her which were beyond Betty, did not observe the colour nor -even that significant “too” which had come to Betty’s lips in spite of -herself. - -“I think he met her or someone belonging to her--at the Academy to-day; -and that’s why he hasn’t come---- Oh, Betty, I am not happy about it--I -am not happy at all!” - -Betty put her arms round Bee and kissed her. She thought it was the -remembrance of her own disappointment and disaster which made her sister -cry out in this heart-broken way. Betty looked very wistfully in Bee’s -eyes. She was more sorry than words could say. If she could have done -anything in the world “to make it all come right” she would have done -so, and in the bottom of her heart she still had a conviction that all -would “come right.” “Oh, Bee, Bee!” she cried, “cannot anything be done? -If only--only you would have listened to his mother!--Bee----” - -Bee held up a warning finger. “Do you think it is myself I am thinking -of?” she said, and then, wringing her hands, she added, “I don’t know -what harm we have done to bring it on, but, oh! I think we are in the -hands of fate.” - -What did this mean? Betty thought her sister had gone out of her mind, -and Bee would make no explanation. But I think this strange conversation -made Betty rather less willing to return home. She was the darling of -the house in Portman Square; though they did not go into society, they -had all manner of indulgences for Betty, and took her to the Park, and -encouraged the visits of their nephew, Gerald, who was a very merry -companion for the girl. He was permitted to take her to see various -sights, and the old people, as usual, did not perceive what was -beginning to dawn under their very eyes. Betty was such a little thing. -The consequence was that, though Bee thought Portman Square still duller -than Kingswarden, her little sister was not of that opinion. Bee -accordingly went back alone next day, Betty accompanying her to the -railway station. Neither at Portman Square nor at the railway station -did Charlie appear, and it was with a heavy heart that Bee went home. It -seemed to her as she travelled alone, for, I think, the first time in -her life--she was not yet quite twenty--that everyone was following his -or her own way, and that only she was bearing the whole burden of the -family. Her father had returned to his own world, his club, his dinners, -official and otherwise. It was indispensable that he should do so. Bee -had understood, it being impossible for a man in his position to -withdraw from the world on account of any private feeling of his own. -And Betty had flashed back again into her music, and her white frock, -and was seeing everything as of old. And Charlie--oh, what was Charlie -doing, drifting off into some tragic enchantment? The poor girl’s heart -was very heavy. There seemed only herself to think of them all in their -separate paths, one here and another there, going further and further -off in so many different directions from the event which had broken the -unity of the family, yet surely should have held them together in their -common trouble. That event had gone into the regions of the past. The -time of the mother was over, like a tale that is told. There were still -the children in the nursery, and Bee, their guardian, watching over -them--but the others all going off, each at their separate angle. It is -hard enough to realise this, even when age has gained a certain -insensibility, but to the girl, this breaking up of the family was -terrible. “I--even I alone remain,” she was inclined to say with the -prophet, and what could she do to stop the closing of these toils of -Fate? Her mind gradually concentrated on that last and most alarming -theme of all--the woman, the lady, without a name or history, or any -evident link with the family, who had thus, for the second time, -appeared in the path. Bee tried to fall back upon her reason, to -represent to herself that she had no real cause for assuming that the -stranger of whom she knew nothing, who might simply have been walking -through that German wood, and have stopped by chance to speak to the -little English girl with her stupid sketch, had anything to do with the -disaster which so soon overtook that poor little English girl in the -midst of her happy love. She had no reason, none, for thinking so. She -tried to represent to herself how foolish she had been to entertain such -a notion, how natural and without meaning the incident had been. And now -again, for the second time, what reason had she to believe that anything -fatal or even dangerous to Charlie was in this lady’s appearance now? -She was a distinguished-looking woman, much older than Charlie. What was -more likely than that such a woman, probably by her looks a married -lady, a person of importance, should have a great deal of influence over -a youth like Charlie if she took notice of him at all? All this was -very reasonable. There was far more sense in it than in that foolish -terror and alarm which had taken possession of her mind. She had almost -persuaded herself that these apprehensions were foolish before she -reached home, and yet the moment after she had succeeded in reasoning it -all out, and convincing herself how foolish they had been, they had -risen up in a crowd and seized her anxious mind again. - -It was some days beyond the week which Charlie had been allowed in town -when he came back. He was in agitated spirits, with a look of mingled -excitement and exhaustion, which gave Bee many alarms, but which she was -not sufficiently skilled or experienced to interpret. Colonel Kingsward -had not come home in the interval, having gone somewhere else to spend -his weekly holiday, and when he did come there were various colloquies -between him and his son, which were evidently of a disturbing kind. Some -of these were about money, as was to be made out by various allusions. -Charlie had either been spending too much, or had set up a claim to -more in the future, a claim which his father was reluctant to allow. But -it seemed that he had come out triumphant in the end, to judge by their -respective looks, when they issued from the library together, just -before Colonel Kingsward left for town. - -“I hope, at least, you’ll make good use of it,” were the father’s last -words--and “you may trust me, sir,” said Charlie, with all the elation -of victory. - -He was in great spirits all day, teasing the children, and giving Bee -half confidences as to the great things he meant to do. - -“They shan’t put me off with any of their beastly Governorships at the -end of the world,” said Charlie. “I shall play for high stakes, Bee, I -can’t afford to be a mere attaché long, but they shan’t shelve me at -some horrible African station, I can tell you. That’s not a kind of -promotion that will suit me.” - -“But you will have to go where you are sent,” said Bee. - -“Oh, shall I?” cried Charlie, “that is all you know about it. Besides, -when a man has a particularly charming wi----” He stopped and coughed -over the words, and laughed and grew red. - -“Do you think your manners are so particularly charming?” said Bee, with -familiar scorn, upon which Charlie laughed louder than ever and walked -away. - -Next day he left home hurriedly, saying he was going to make a run for a -day or two to “see a man,” and came back in the same excited, exhausted -state on Saturday morning, before his father returned--a process which -was repeated almost every week, to the great consternation and trouble -of Bee. For Charlie never mentioned these absences to his father, and -Bee felt herself spell-bound, as if she were incapable of doing so. How -could she betray her brother? And the letters to Laura ceased. He had no -time now to write these long letters. Neither did he receive them as -used to be the case. Had the correspondence ceased, or was there any -other explanation? But Charlie talked but little to his sister now, and -not at all on this subject, and thus the web of mystery seemed to be -woven more and more about his feet--Bee alone suspecting or fearing -anything, Bee alone entirely unable to make it clear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -THE year went on in its usual routine, the boys came back from school, -there was the usual move to the seaside, all mechanically performed -under the impulse of use, and when the anniversary came round of the -mother’s death, it passed, and the black dresses were gradually laid -aside. And everything came back, and everybody referred to Bee as if -there had always been a slim elder sister at the head of affairs. Betty -came home at the end of the season with a sentiment in respect to Gerald -Lyon, and with the prospect of many returns to Portman Square, but -nothing final in her little case, nothing that prevented her from being -one of the ringleaders in all the mischief which inevitably occurred -when the family were gathered together. Bee had become so prematurely -serious, so over-wrought with the cares of the family, that Betty, who -was too energetic to be suppressed, gradually came to belong rather to -the faction of the boys than to share the responsibilities of the elder -sister, which might have been her natural place. The second Christmas, -instead of being forlorn, like the first, was almost the gayest that had -been known in Kingswarden for many years. For the boys were growing, and -demanded invitations for their friends, and great skating while the -frost lasted, which, as the pond at Kingswarden was the best for a great -number of miles round, brought many cheerful youthful visitors about the -house. Colonel Kingsward was nothing if not correct; he did not neglect -the interests of any of his children. He perceived at once that to have -Bee alone at the head of affairs, without any support, especially when -his own time at home was so much broken by visits, would be bad at once -for her “prospects,” and for the discipline of the family. He procured -a harmless, necessary aunt accordingly, a permanent member of the -household, yet only a visitor, who could be displaced at any time, to -provide for all necessary proprieties, an arrangement which left him -very free to go and come as he pleased. And thus life resumed its usual -lightness, and youth triumphed, and things at Kingswarden went on as of -old, with a little more instead of less commotion and company and -entertainment as the young people developed and advanced. - -It was perhaps natural enough, too, in the circumstances that Charlie, -though the oldest son, should be so little at home. He came for -Christmas, but he did not throw himself into the festivities with the -spirit he ought to have shown. He was in a fitful state of mind, -sometimes in high spirits, sometimes overclouded and impatient, -contemptuous of the boys, as having himself reached so different a line -of development, and indifferent to all the family re-unions and -pleasures. Sometimes it seemed to Bee, who was the only one in the -family who concerned herself about Charlie’s moods, that he was anxious -and unhappy, and that the air of being bored which he put on so readily, -and the hurried way in which he rushed out and in, impatient of the -family calls upon him, concealed a secret trouble. He complained to her -of want of money, of his father’s niggardliness, of the unhappy lot of -young men who never had any “margin,” who dared not spend an extra -shilling without thinking where it was to come from. But whether this -was the only trouble, or how it came about that he had discovered -himself to be so poor, Bee, poor child, who knew so little, could not -divine. How miserable it was that it was she who was in the mother’s -place! Mamma would have divined, she would have understood, she would -have helped him through that difficult passage, but what could Bee do, -who knew nothing about life, who thought it very likely that she was -making mountains out of molehills, and that all young men were bored and -uneasy at home--oh, if people would only be all good, all happy with -each other, all ready to do what pleased the whole, instead of merely -what pleased themselves! - -To Bee, so prematurely introduced into the midst of those jars and -individual strivings of will and fancy, it seemed as if everything might -be made so easy in life by this simple method. If only everybody would -be good! The reader may think it was a nursery view of human life, and -yet what a solution it would give to every problem! Colonel Kingsward -then would have been more at home, would have been the real father who -commanded his children’s confidence, instead of papa, whose -peculiarities had to be studied, and in whose presence the children had -to be hushed and every occasion of disturbance avoided, and of whom they -were all more or less afraid. And Charlie would have been more or less a -second to him, thoughtful of all, chivalrous to the girls, fond of home, -instead of, as he was, pausing as it were on one foot while he was with -his family, anxious only to get away. And Bee--well, Bee perhaps would -have been different too had that new, yet old, golden rule come into -full efficacy. Oh, if everybody, including always one’s own self, would -only be good! - -It makes the head go round to think what a wonderful revolution in the -world generally the adoption of that simplest method would produce. But -in poor Bee’s experience it was the last rule likely to be adopted in -Kingswarden, where, more and more to the puzzled consciousness of the -girl not able to cope with so many warring individualities, everyone was -going his own way. - -It was in the early spring that Colonel Kingsward came down from town to -Kingswarden, looking less like the adoption of this method than ever -before. The children were in the hall when he came, busy with some great -game in which various skins which were generally laid out there were in -use as properties, making, it must be allowed, a scene of confusion in -that place. The Colonel was not expected. He had walked from the -station, and the sound of his voice stopped the fun with a sudden horror -of silence and fright, which, indeed, was not complimentary to a father. -Instead of greetings, he asked why the children were allowed to make -such a confusion in the place, with a voice which penetrated to the -depths of the house and brought Bee and Betty flying from the -drawing-room. - -“Papa!” they both cried, in surprise, mingled with alarm. Colonel -Kingsward walked into the room they had left, ordering peremptorily the -children to the nursery, but finding certain friends of Betty’s there, -in full enjoyment of talk and tea, retreated again to his library, Bee -following nervously. - -“Is your brother here?” he asked, harshly, establishing himself with his -back to the fire. - -“My brother?” echoed Bee, for indeed there were half-a-dozen, and how -was she to know on the spur of the moment which he meant. - -Colonel Kingsward looked, in the partial light (for a lamp which smoked -had been brought in hurriedly, to make things worse), as if he would -have liked to seize his daughter and wring her slender neck. He went on -with additional irritation: “I said your brother. The others, I have no -doubt, will provide trouble enough in their turn. For the moment it is, -of course, Charlie I mean. Is he here?” - -“Papa! Why, he is at Oxford, you know, in the schools----” - -Colonel Kingsward laughed harshly. “He was going in for honours, wasn’t -he? Wanted to go up to read in the long vacation--was full of what he -was going to do? Well, it has all ended in less than nothing, as I might -have known it would. Read that!” he cried, tossing a letter on the -table. - -Bee, with her heart sick, took up and opened the letter, and struggled -to read, in her agitation, an exceedingly bad hand by an indifferent -light. She made out enough to see that Charlie had not succeeded in his -“schools,” that he had not even secured a “pass,” that he had incurred -the continual censure of his college authorities by shirking lectures, -failing in engagements, and doing absolutely no work. So far as was -known there was nothing against his moral character, but---- Bee, to -whom the censure of the college sounded like a sentence of death, put -down the dreadful letter carefully, as if it might explode, and raised -large eyes, widened with alarm and misery, to her father’s face. - -“Oh, papa!” was all that she could say. - -“I telegraphed to him to come home at once and meet me here. The fool,” -said Colonel Kingsward, pacing about the room, “is capable of not doing -that--of going away--of----” - -“Papa, they say there is nothing against his character. Oh! you couldn’t -think that he would--do anything dreadful; not disappear, not----” Bee -said the rest in an anguish of suspicion and ignorance with her eyes. - -“God knows what an idiot like that may do! Things are bad enough, but he -will, of course, think them worse than they are. There is one thing we -may be sure of,” he said, with a fierce laugh, “Charlie will do nothing -to make himself uncomfortable. He knows how to take care of himself.” -Colonel Kingsward walked up and down the room, gnawing the end of his -moustache. The lamp smoked, but he took no notice of it. “There is one -thing certain,” he said, “and that is, there’s a woman in it. I remember -now, he was always thinking of something; like an ass, I supposed it was -his studies. No doubt it was some Jezebel or other.” - -“Papa,” said Bee. - -“Speak out! Has he told you anything?” He stopped in front of her, and -stood looking with threatening eyes into her face. “If you keep back -anything from me,” he said, “your brother’s ruin will be on your head.” - -“Papa,” said Bee, faltering, “it is not much I know. I know that there -was a lady who lived in Oxford----” - -“Ah! The long vacation,” he exclaimed, with another angry laugh. - -“He used to write long letters to her, and he told me her name.” - -“That is something to the purpose. What was her name?” - -“He said,” said Bee, in a horror of betraying her brother, yet impelled -to speak, “he said that she was called--Laura, papa.” - -“What?” he cried, for Bee’s voice had sunk very low; and then he turned -away again with an impatient exclamation, calling her again a little -fool. “Laura, confound her! What does that matter? I thought you had -some real information to give.” - -“Papa,” said Bee, timidly, “there is a little more, though perhaps it -isn’t information. When he took me to the Academy in summer I saw him -meet a lady. Oh, not a common person, a beautiful, grand-looking lady. -But it could not be the same,” Bee added, after a pause, “for she was -much older than Charlie--not a young lady at all.” - -“Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” cried Colonel Kingsward. “Can -one never secure the truth even from one’s own children? I should have -sent him off at once had I known. What do you mean by not young at all?” - -“I should think,” said Bee, with diffidence and a great anxiety not to -exaggerate such a dreadful statement, “that she might perhaps have -been--thirty, papa.” - -“You little idiot,” her father kindly replied. - -Why was she a little idiot? But Bee had not time to go into that -question. The evening was full of agitation and anxiety. The poor little -girl, unused to such sensations, sat through dinner in a quiver of -anxious abstraction, listening for every sound. There were several -trains by which he might still come, and at any moment when the door -opened Charlie might present himself, pale with downfall and distress, -to meet his father’s angry look, whose eyes were fixed on the door -whenever it opened with as much preoccupation as Bee’s--with this -difference, that Bee’s eyes were soft with excuses and pity, while those -brilliant steely eyes which shone from beneath her father’s dark brows, -and which were the originals of her own, blazed with anger. When dinner -was over, which he hurried through, disturbing the servants in their -leisurely routine, Colonel Kingsward again called Bee to him into the -library. She was the only person to whom he could talk of the subject of -which his mind was full, which was the sole reason for this great -distinction, for he had very little patience with Bee’s trembling -remarks. “Don’t be a little fool,” was the answer he made to any timid -suggestion upon which she ventured; but yet there was a necessity upon -him to discuss it with someone, and Bee, however inadequate, had this -burden to bear. - -“If the woman is the kind you say, and if she thinks there’s anything to -be made by it--why the fool may have married her,” he cried. “Heavens! -Think of it; married at three and twenty, without a penny! But,” he -added, colouring a little, “they are very knowing, these women. She -would find out that he was not worth her while, and probably throw him -off in time.” - -“Oh, papa!” cried Bee, horrified by the thought that her brother might -be deserted in the moment of his downfall. - -“That is the best we can hope. He will have Kingswarden, of course, when -I die, but not a penny--not a penny in the meantime to keep up any such -ridiculous--Listen! Is that the train?” - -There was a cutting near Kingswarden through which the thundering of the -train was heard as it passed. This had been a great grievance at first, -but it was not without its conveniences to the accustomed ears of the -household now. They both listened with anxiety, knowing that by this -time it must have stopped at the station and deposited any passenger, -and for the next half-hour watched and waited; Bee, with all her being -in her ears, listened with an intensity of attention such as she had -never known before, holding her breath; while Captain Kingsward himself, -though he kept walking up and down the room, did so with a softened -step which made no sound on the thick carpet, not uttering a word, -listening too. To describe all the sounds they heard, or thought they -heard, how often the gate seemed to swing in the distance, and the -gravel start under a quick foot, would be endless. It was the last -train; if he did not come now it would be clear that he did not mean to -come. And it was now too late for any telegram. When it was no longer -possible to believe that he could have been detained on the way, Colonel -Kingsward drew a long breath of that disappointment which, in the -yielding of nervous tension, is almost for the moment a relief. - -“If there is no letter to-morrow morning I shall go up to Oxford,” he -said, “and, Bee, if you like, you can come with me. You might be of use. -Don’t say anything to Betty or your aunt. Say you are going with me to -town by the early train, and that you may possibly not return till next -day. There is no need for saying any more.” - -“Yes, papa,” said Bee, submissively. That was all he knew! No need for -saying any more to Betty, who had known every movement her sister made -since ever she was born! But, at all events, Bee made up her mind to -escape explanation so far as she could to-night. She paused for a moment -at the door of the drawing-room as she passed. No more peaceful scene -could have been presented. Betty was at the piano singing one song after -another, half for practice, half to amuse the aunt, who sat dozing in -her chair by the fire. The others had gone to bed, and careless youth -and still more careless age, knowing nothing of any trouble, pursued -their usual occupations in perfect composure and calm. The aunt knitted -mechanically, and dozed in the warmth and quiet which she loved, and -Betty went on singing her songs, indifferent to her audience, yet -claiming attention, breaking off now and then in the middle of a line to -ask “Do you like that, Aunt Ellen? Are you paying any attention, Aunt -Ellen?” “Yes, my dear, I like it very much,” the old lady said, and -dozed again. Bee turned away with a suppressed sob. Where was Charlie? -In disgrace, perhaps heart-broken, deserted by his love, afraid to meet -his father! It was foolish to think that he was out in the night, -wandering without shelter, without hope, for there was no need of any -such tragic circumstances, but this was the picture that presented -itself to Bee’s aching and inexperienced heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -CHARLIE was not in his rooms at College, he had not been there for some -days, and nobody could furnish any information as to where he was. -Colonel Kingsward had left Bee in the hotel while he went on to make his -inquiries. He was very guarded in the questions he asked, for though he -was himself very angry with his son, he was still careful for Charlie’s -reputation, explaining even to the college porter, who was very well -acquainted with the eccentricities of the gentlemen, that he had no -doubt his son had returned home, though they had unfortunately crossed -each other on the way. The Colonel tried to keep up this fiction even -with the sympathetic Don, who made matters so much worse by his -compassion, but who was very full and detailed in his relation of poor -Charlie’s backslidings, the heaviness of whose gate bill and the amount -of whose sins and penalties were terrible to hear. He had attended no -lectures, he had written no essays, he had been dumb and blank in every -examination. - -“Out of consideration to you, Colonel Kingsward, the College has been -very forbearing, and shut its eyes as long as possible.” - -“I wish, sir, the College had shown more common sense and let me know,” -the Colonel cried, in wrath; but that did not throw any light upon the -subject. - -As it turned out, Charlie had not “gone in” for his “schools” at all. He -had done nothing that he ought to have done. What things he had done -which he ought not to have done remained to be discovered. His stern -father did not doubt that a sufficient number of these actual offences -would soon be found to add to the virtues omitted. He went back to the -hotel where Bee had been spending a miserable morning, and they sat -together in gloom and silence. - -“You had better go home,” he said to her. “He may have got home by this -time, and I don’t see what use you can be here.” - -Bee was very submissive, yet begged hard to return as far as London, at -least, with her father; to wait for another day, in case some trace of -the prodigal might be found. Many such parties have occupied the dreary -hotel rooms and stared in vain out of the windows, and watched with sick -hearts the passing throng, the shoals of undergraduates, to their eyes -all dutiful and well-doing, while the one in whom they are concerned is -absent, in what evil ways they know not. Poor Bee was too young to feel -the full weight of such alarms but she was as miserable as if she had -known everything that could happen in the vagueness of her consciousness -of despair and pain. What Charlie could have done, what would become of -him, what his father would do or could do, were all hidden from Bee. But -there was in it all a vague misery which was almost worse than clear -perception. Colonel Kingsward, with all his knowledge of the world, was -scarcely less vague. He did not know how to find out the secrets of an -under-graduate. Charlie had friends, but all of them protested that -they had seen very little of him of late. He had fallen off from sports -and exercise as much as from study. He had scarcely been on the cricket -ground all the summer; he had given up football; “boating on the river -with ladies,” he had been seen, but not recently, for the floods were -out and such amusements were no longer practicable. At night the Colonel -knew almost as little about his son as when he had arrived full of -certainty that the whole matter could be cleared up in a few hours. - -Next day began gloomily with another visit to the Don, whom Colonel -Kingsward hoped to have seen the last of on their former exasperating -interview. As he had discovered nothing elsewhere, he went back again to -the authority, who had also hoped on his side to be free from the -anxious but impatient father, and they had another long talk, which -ended like the first in nothing. The college potentate had no idea where -the youth could have gone. Charlie had left most of his property still -in his rooms; he had gone out with only a little bag, nobody suspecting -him of an intention to “go down.” After they had gone over the question -again, the Don being by no means as sympathetic as the first time, and -contributing a good deal to Colonel Kingsward’s acquaintance with his -son’s proceedings--a sudden light was for the first time thrown upon the -question by a chance remark. “You know, of course, that he had friends -in Oxford?” - -“Like other young men, I suppose. I have seen several of them, and they -can give me no information.” - -“I don’t mean undergraduates: people living in the town--ladies,” said -the Don, who was a young man, almost with a blush. And after sending for -Charlie’s scout, and making other inquiries, Colonel Kingsward was -furnished with an address. He went back to the hotel quickly, in some -excitement, to inform Bee of the new clue he had obtained, but he -scarcely reached the room where she was awaiting him when he was told -that a lady had just asked for him downstairs. Bee was sent off -immediately to her room while her father received this unexpected -visitor. Bee had been watching at the window all the morning, looking -down upon that world of young men, all going about their work or their -pleasure, all in their fit place, while Charlie was no one knew where. -The poor girl had been breaking her heart over that thought, wistfully -watching the others among whom he ought to have been, feeling the pang -of that comparison, sometimes imagining she saw a figure like his in the -distance, and watching, as it approached, how every trace died away. -Where was he? Bee’s young heart was very sore. The vacancy was appalling -to her, filling itself with all kinds of visionary shapes of terror. She -could not think of him only as wandering away in misery and despair, -feeling himself to have failed, ashamed and afraid to look anyone in the -face. She scarcely understood her father when he hurried her out of the -sitting-room, but obeyed him with a sense of trouble and injury though -without knowing why. - -Bee spent a very forlorn hour in her room. She heard the sound of the -voices next door. Her father’s well known tones, and a low voice which -she felt must be a woman’s. She would have been much tempted to listen -to what they said if it had been possible, but there was no door between -the rooms, and she could only hear that a long and close conversation -was going on, without making out a word of it. She was very restless in -her anxiety, wandering from the window to the door, which she opened -with a desire to hear better, which defeated itself--and to see better, -though there was nothing to be seen. It seemed to Bee that half the day -was over before the sound of movement in the sitting-room warned her -that the conference was breaking up. Even after that there was a long -pause, and the talking went on, though it moved closer to the door. Bee -had gradually grown in excitement as those sounds went on. She stole to -her own half-open door, as the one next to it was opened, and the -visitor came forth attended with the greatest courtesy by Colonel -Kingsward, who accompanied her to the stairs. There the lady turned -round and gave him her hand, turning her face towards the spot where the -unsuspected watcher stood gazing with eyes of wonder and terror. - -“Not another step,” she said, with a sweet but decided voice. “The only -thing I will ask from you, Colonel Kingsward, will be a line, a single -line, to say that all is well.” - -“You may rely upon that,” the Colonel said, bowing over the hand he -held, “but may not I see you to your carriage, call your servant?” - -“I am walking,” she said, “and I am alone; come no further, please; one -line to say that all is well.” He still held her hand and she gave it a -little, significant pressure, adding in a low tone: “And happy--and -forgiven!” - -Bee stood as if she had been turned to stone; a little, clandestine -figure within the shelter of the door. It was a beautiful face that was -thus turned towards her for a minute, unconscious of her scrutiny, and -the voice was sweet. Oh, not a woman like any other woman! She said to -herself that she remembered the voice and would have known it anywhere; -and the look, half kind, yet with a touch of ridicule, of mockery in it. -This was evidently not what the Colonel felt. He descended a few of the -stairs after her, until turning again with a smile and with her hands -extended as if to drive him back, she forbade his further attendance. He -returned to the sitting-room thoughtfully, yet with a curious, softened -expression upon his face, and a few minutes afterwards, not at once, he -came to the door again and called Bee. There was still a smile lingering -about his lips, though his mouth had stiffened back into its usual -somewhat stern composure. - -“Come in,” he said, “I have something to tell you. I have had a very -strange visit--a visit from a lady.” - -“I saw her,” said Bee, under her breath, but her father was too much -pre-occupied to hear. - -“If this was, as I suppose, the lady whom you and your brother met, you -are right, Bee, in thinking her very remarkable. She is one of the -handsomest women I ever saw, and with a charm about her, which--. But, -of course what you want to hear is about Charlie. I am glad to tell you -that she has very much relieved my mind about Charlie, Bee.” - -Bee stood before her father with her hands folded, with the most -curious sense of revolt and opposition in her mind--looking at him, a -spectator would have said, with something of the sternness that was -habitual to him, but so very inappropriate on her soft brow. She made no -reply to this. Her countenance did not relax. Relieved about Charlie? -No! Bee did not believe it. Pity and terror for Charlie seemed to take -stronger and stronger possession of her heart. - -“It is a long story,” he said. “Sit down, you have got a way of standing -staring, my dear. I wish you had more womanly models like the lady I -have just been talking to--perfectly clear and straightforward in what -she said, but with a feminine grace and sweetness. Well, it appears that -Charlie had the good luck to get introduced to this lady about a year -ago. Sit down, I tell you, I won’t have you staring at me in that rude -way.” - -There was a little pause, and Bee sat down abruptly, and not very -gracefully. Colonel Kingsward could not but remark the difference. He -followed her movements for a moment with his eyes, and then he began -again-- - -“For all I can make out, he has been treated with a kindness which -should have done everything for a young man. He has been invited to the -house of these ladies--he has met all sorts of people who ought to be of -use to him, whom it was a distinct advantage to meet--he has been kept -out of the usual foolish diversions of young men. So far as I can make -out, there is nothing against his character except what these -Don-fellows call idleness--a thing that scarcely tells against a young -man in after-life, unless he is a parson, or a schoolmaster, or -something of that kind. Even the missing of his degree,” said the -Colonel, pulling his moustache reflectively, “is of little importance -among practical men. So long as he can get through in his modern -languages, and so forth, of what importance are the classics? I am very -much relieved in my mind about Charlie. She thinks he must have gone -straight down to London, instead of going home.” - -“Who is the lady, papa?” - -Bee’s interest in Charlie seemed to have dropped, as the Colonel’s had -done, for the moment. His advocate had made herself the first person on -the horizon. - -“The lady? So far as I can make out she is living here with some -friends, up in the district called the Parks, where a great many people -now live. She says she has always taken an interest in the -undergraduates, who are left so sadly to themselves, and that, being of -an age to make it possible, she has wished very much to devote herself -to do what she could for these boys. Unfortunately, with her unusual -personal attractions----.” The Colonel stopped short and bit his -moustache. “After all her kindness to your brother, encouraging him in -his work and setting his duty before him--and no elder sister, no -mother, could have been kinder, from all she tells me--the foolish boy -repaid her good offices by--what do you think? But you will never -guess.” - -“And I will never, never believe it,” cried Bee, “if it was -anything--anything that was not nice on Charlie’s part!” Her voice was -quite hoarse in her emotion, her secret fury against this woman, of whom -she knew nothing, rising more and more. - -“You little fool!” her father said, rising and standing up against the -mantel-piece. He laughed angrily, and looked at her with his most -contemptuous air. “One would think that even in their cradles women must -begin to hate women,” he said. - -Bee, who hated no one unless it was this woman whom she feared but did -not know, grew angry red. Her blue eyes flashed and shone like northern -lights. The cruel and contemptuous assumption which touched her pride of -sex, added vehemence to the other emotion which was already strong -enough, and roused her up into a kind of fury. - -“If she says anything bad of Charlie I don’t believe it,” she cried, -“not a word, not a word! Whatever he has done she has driven him to it!” -Then Bee was suddenly silent, panting, terrified or afraid that her -little outburst of passion would close all further revelations. - -“It seems unnecessary to add another word in face of such fierce -prejudice!” - -“Oh, papa, forgive me. Tell me; I shall say nothing more.” - -“You have said a great deal too much already. After this,” he said, -sarcastically, “you will perhaps think that your brother--of three and -twenty, without a penny or a prospect--did Miss Lance honour by forcing -a proposal upon her, making love to her at the end of all----” - -“Miss Lance!” Bee said, with a sharp cry. - -The Colonel took no notice of the interruption. He went on with a kind -of disdainful comment to himself rather than to her. - -“After all, there are things which a lady has to put up with, which we -don’t take into consideration. A young fool whom she has been kind to, -knowing he has nobody near to look after him, no mother”--his voice even -grew a little tender at this point--“and by way of reward the idiot -falls in love with her, asks a woman like that to share his -insignificant little life! Jove! What a piece of impertinence!” the -Colonel said, with an angry laugh. - -“Did you say,” said Bee, with faltering lips, “Miss Lance, papa?” - -He turned upon her with a look of extreme surprise. - -“Why shouldn’t I have said Miss Lance? What is there unusual in the -name?” - -Bee looked at him with a dumb rebellion, an almost scorn and passion far -greater than his own. He had forgotten the name--but Bee had not -forgotten it. The fact that Bee’s own young life had suffered shipwreck -had perhaps escaped from his memory altogether, though it was she who -had done it. Bee looked at him with her blue eyes blazing, remembering -everything that he had forgotten. Her brother had gone out of her mind, -and all the history of his Laura, and the way in which he had been -enfolded in this fatal web. She went back to her own wrongs--forgetting -that she had keenly confirmed her father’s decision and rejected Aubrey -on what she thought to be other and sufficient grounds. She thought only -of the moment when sudden darkness had fallen upon her in the first -sunshine of her life, and she had struggled against the rigid will of -her father, who would listen to no explanations--who would not -understand. And all for the sake of this woman--the spider who dragged -fly after fly into her net; the witch, the enchantress of whom all -poems and stories spoke! Her exasperation was so intense that she forgot -all the laws of respect and obedience in which her very being had been -bound, and looked at her father as at an equal, an enemy whom she -scorned as well as feared. - -“What is the meaning of these looks,” he said, “I am altogether at a -loss to understand you, Bee. Why this fury at a name--which you have -never heard before, so far as I know.” - -“You think I have never heard it before?” said Bee, in her passion. “It -shows how little you think of me, or care for anything that has happened -to me. Oh, I have heard it before, and I shall hear it again, I know. I -know I shall hear it again. And you don’t mind, though you are our -father! You don’t remember!” Bee was still very young, and she had that -fatal woman’s weakness which spoils every crisis with inevitable tears. -Her exasperation was too great for words. “You don’t remember!” she -cried, flinging the words at him like a storm; and then broke down in a -passion of choking sobs, unable to say more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -TO do Colonel Kingsward justice, he was taken entirely by surprise by -Bee’s outburst. He had no remembrance of the name. The name had been -wholly unimportant to him even at the time when it had come under his -notice. The previous claimant to Aubrey Leigh’s affections had been “the -woman,” no more, to his consciousness. He did not remember anything -about the business now, except that there was a story about a woman, and -that he would not permit his young daughter to marry a man concerning -whom such a story existed. Even after Bee had left him, when he really -made an effort to pursue into the recesses of his mind anything that was -connected with that name, he could not make it out. Was it perhaps a -tyrannical governess? but that would not explain the girl’s vehement -outcry. He had not thought for a long time of Bee’s interrupted love, -and broken-off engagement. Of what consequence is such an episode to so -young a girl? And there were other matters in his mind of what seemed a -great deal more importance. Whatever was the source of Bee’s previous -knowledge of Miss Lance, she hated that singularly attractive woman, as -it is usual for the sex--Colonel Kingsward thought--to hate -instinctively every other woman who is endowed with unusual attractions. - -What a magnificent creature that woman was! How finely she had talked of -the undeveloped boy to whom she had hoped to be of service, and with -what genuine feeling, half-abashed, distressed, yet not without a gleam -of amusement, she had told him of the wonderful scene at the end, when -Charlie had asked her to marry him. - -“Me! A woman who might be his mother!” she had said, with beautiful -candour; though it was not candour, it was more like jest, seeing that -she was still young--young enough to turn any man’s head. And she had -added hastily, “It must have been my fault. Somehow I must have led him -astray, though I was so far from intending it. A boy like your son would -not have done such a wild thing had he not supposed----” She put up her -hands to her face to hide a blush. “That is the worst of us, poor -women,” she had said, “we cannot show an interest even in a boy but he -supposes--oh, Colonel Kingsward, can’t you imagine what I felt, wishing -solely to be of use to your son, who is such a good, ingenuous, _nice_ -boy--and finding in a moment, without the least warning, that he had -mistaken me like _that_!” - -Colonel Kingsward was of opinion, and so was everybody who knew him, -that he was by no means an impressionable man; but it would be -impossible to say how touched he had been by that explanation. And she -was so sorry for Charlie. She avowed that, after what had happened, she -would have considered herself inexcusable if she had not come to his -father, however unpleasant it might be to herself, to show him how -little, how very little, Charlie was to blame. - -“You must not--must not be angry with him,” she had said, joining her -hands in appeal. “Oh, forgive him; it is so much my fault. If I could -but bear the penalty! But I cannot endure to think that the poor boy -should be punished when all the time I, who am so much older than he is, -am the one to blame. I ought to have known better. I am at your mercy, -Colonel Kingsward. You cannot say anything worse to me than I have done -to myself; but he, poor boy, is really not to blame.” - -The Colonel had no wish to say anything to her that was uncomplimentary. -He entered into her position with the most unusual sympathy. Perhaps he -had never had so warm a feeling of understanding and affection for -anyone before. The compassion and the appeal was something quite new and -original to him. He was not a man to be sympathetic with the troubles of -a middle-aged spinster--an elderly flirt, as he would probably have -called her, had he heard the story at second hand; in such a case he -would have denounced the mature siren in the terms usual to men of -experience. But the presence of this lady made all the difference. She -was not like anyone else. The usual phrases brought forward on such -occasions were meaningless or worse in respect to her. He was softened -to Charlie, too, by the story, though he could have raved at his son’s -folly. The puppy!--to think a woman like that could care for him! And -yet, as she said, there was no harm in the boy; only absurdity, -presumption, the last depths of fatuity. Poor young fool! But it was a -different thing from racing towards the bottomless pit for the mere -indulgence of his own appetites, as so many young men did, and if this -was the only reason of Charlie’s downfall it involved no loss of -character and need make no breach in his career, which was the chief -thing. He could make up his lost ground, and the F.O. would care very -little for what the Dons said. The idleness of a boy in love (the puppy! -inexcusable in his presumption, but yet with plenty of justification at -least) could do him no more than temporary harm in any case. - -These thoughts passed through the Colonel’s mind with a great sense of -relief. It did not occur to him that Charlie, when he saw his folly, -could have much difficulty in getting over such a misplaced sentiment. -It must be done, and the boy must feel that such a hope was as much -above him as was the moon in the skies. He must make up his mind to -apply himself, to get through his examination, to begin his real -life--which his father would certainly impress upon him was not mere -amusement or happiness, if he liked to call it so, but work and a sharp -struggle to secure his standing. As for his degree, that was a matter of -complete indifference to Colonel Kingsward. The boy had his experience -of Oxford life to talk of and fall back upon; he was a University man -all the same, though he had not been crowned by any laurels he had made -some friends, and he had gained the necessary familiarity with that -phase of a young man’s existence. What did the details matter, and who -would ever ask about his degree? An attaché does not put B.A. or M.A. -(which was which, or if there was any difference, or on what occasion -such vanities should be displayed the Colonel was quite unaware) to his -name like a schoolmaster. Nothing could be of less importance than this. -He dismissed Charlie from his mind accordingly with much relief. It was -not at all unnatural that the boy should have gone to town instead of -going to Kingswarden. No doubt by this time he had made his way home, -and this reminded the Colonel that it would be as well to send his -sister off at once to meet Charlie there. He called Bee again -accordingly from her room, where she had taken refuge, and instructed -her in what he desired. - -“There is a train in an hour,” he said. “You had better get ready. I -wish you to go home at once. Charlie will be there by this time, I have -no doubt, and I should like you to let him know that if he is reasonable -and drives all folly from his mind, and addresses himself at once to his -preparation for the exam., he shall hear no more from me about the -Oxford business. It depends upon himself whether it is ever alluded to -again.” - -“Papa,” said Bee, faltering a little, “am I to go alone?” - -“Why shouldn’t you go alone? Are you afraid of getting into a cab at -Paddington and driving to Victoria, the most ordinary everyday business? -Why, I thought the girls of your period revolted against being -protected, and were able to take care of themselves wherever they went?” - -Now Colonel Kingsward had always insisted on surrounding his daughters -with quite unnecessary care, being, as he prided himself, on all -questions in respect to women, of the old school. - -“Oh, no,” said Bee, very tremulous, looking at him with eyes full of -meaning, “I am not afraid.” - -“Then why do you make any fuss about it?” he said. “I shall stay behind -for a few hours, perhaps for another night. I must see whether he has -left any debts, and square accounts with the College, and--settle -everything.” Bee was still looking at him with that troubled air of -meaning, and he looked at her with a stern look, putting her down; but -there was in his eyes a certain understanding of her meaning and a -shrinking from her scrutiny all the same. “You have just time to get -ready,” he said, pulling out his watch and holding it up to her. And Bee -had nothing to do but to obey. It was not the drive from Paddington to -Victoria, the change from one railway to another, which frightened her, -though for a girl who had never done anything alone, that was not a -pleasant thought; but the girl was deeply disturbed to leave her father -there within the power of the woman whom more than ever she looked upon -with terror as if she had been an embodied Fate. How ludicrous was the -idea that a girl of twenty should be disturbed and anxious at the -thought of leaving her father unprotected by her poor little -guardianship--and such a father as Colonel Kingsward! Bee saw at once -the folly and futility of such a notion, but she could not rid herself -of the alarm. Her terror of this woman, now fully evident as the same -who had wrecked her own life, was more than ever a superstitious panic. - -Bee’s mind was wholly possessed with this idea. She thought of the -beautiful, dreadful lady in Christabel. She thought of that other -shuddering image in the poem, of “the angel, beautiful and bright,” who -looked the hero in the face; “And how he knew it was a fiend, that -miserable knight----” Aubrey had not known she was a fiend, nor Charlie; -and now papa! What could such a woman do to papa? He was old (Bee -thought) beyond the reach of the influences which had moved the others. -What could Fate do to him? She asked herself this question in her great -alarm, trying to beat down the terror in her bosom, and persuade herself -that it was foolishness. But the more she thought the more her heart -beat with fright and apprehension. It seemed to her, somehow, as if the -former dangers had been nothing in comparison with this, although she -did not know what it was that she feared. - -Colonel Kingsward walked with his daughter to the station, and he was -very affable and kind to her, taking unusual pains to make her feel that -there was nothing to fear. He selected carefully a carriage which was -reserved for ladies, and put her into the charge of the guard, whom he -desired to find a cab for her at Paddington, and look after her in every -way. Nothing could be more fatherly, more thoughtful than he was; but -all these precautions, instead of reassuring Bee, increased her -sensation of danger. For the Colonel, though he had always insisted upon -every precaution, had not been in the habit of personally seeing to the -comfort of his children. She followed him with her eyes as he occupied -himself with all these little cares, and explained to the guard what was -to be done. And then he went to the bookstall and bought her illustrated -papers and a book to amuse her on the journey, Bee watching all the time -with growing wonder. She gave a hurried glance now and then around her, -sweeping the station from one end to another, with a terror of seeing -somewhere appear the woman who had brought such pain and trouble into -her life--though this, too, was folly, as she was aware. And when at -last the carriage door was closed, and the train almost in motion, Bee -gave her father a last look, in which there were unutterable things. He -had not met her eyes hitherto, whether by chance or precaution. But now -he was off his guard and did so. Their looks encountered with a clash, -as if they had been meeting swords, the same eyes, brilliant with that -blue blaze, flashing like lightning. But it was the father’s fiery eyes -which gave way. The girl’s look penetrated into his very being; his -dropped, almost abashed. How did this strange change of position come -about? It was anything but reassuring to Bee. It seemed to her as if -already a new chapter of misery and dismay had opened in life, although -her fears had taken no shape, and she could not tell what calamity was -possible. The very vagueness made it all the more appalling to her -inexperienced heart. - -As for Colonel Kingsward, he saw his little daughter go away with a -relief which he felt to be ridiculous. That Bee’s looks should affect -his movements one way or another was beyond measure absurd, and yet he -was relieved that she was gone, and felt himself more at ease. He had a -great many things to do--to settle his son’s accounts, to take his name -off the college books, to wind up that early unsuccessful chapter of -Charlie’s life. But he now felt very little real anger against -Charlie--this shipwreck of his had suddenly introduced his father to -what seemed a new view and new objects, which indeed he did not in any -way define to himself, but of which he felt the stimulus with vague -exhilaration to the bottom of his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -WHEN Charlie Kingsward fled from Oxford, half mad with disappointment -and misery, he had no idea or intention about the future left in his -mind. He had come to one of those strange passes in life beyond which -the imagination does not go. He had been rejected with that deepest -contumely which takes the aspect of the sweetest kindness, when a woman -affects the most innocent suspicion at the climax to which, consciously -or unconsciously, she has been working up. - -“Oh, my poor boy, was that what you were thinking of?” There is no way -in which a blow can be administered with such sharp and keen effect. It -made the young man’s brain, which was only an ordinary brain, and for -some time had exercised but small restraining power upon him in the -hurry and sweep of his feelings, reel. When he pulled the door upon him -of those gardens of Aminda, that fool’s paradise in which he had been -wasting his youth, and which were represented in his case by a very -ordinary suburban garden in that part of Oxford called the Parks, his -rejected and disappointed passion had every possible auxiliary emotion -to make it unbearable. Keen mortification, humiliation, the sharp sense -of being mocked and deceived; the sudden conviction of having given what -seemed to the half-maddened boy his whole life, for nothing whipped him -like the lashes of the Furies. In most of the crises of life the thought -what to do next occurs with almost the rapidity of lightning after a -great catastrophe, but Charlie felt as if there was nothing beyond. The -whole world had crumbled about him. There was no next step; his very -fooling had failed him. He rushed back to his rooms by instinct, as a -wounded creature would rush to its lair, but on his way was met by eager -groups returning from the “Schools,” in which he ought to have been, -discussing among each other the stiffness of the papers, and how they -had been done. This would scarcely add to his pain, but it added to that -sickening effort of absolute failure of the demolition of everything -around and before him, which was what he felt the most. They made the -impossible more impossible still, and cut off every retreat. When he -stood in his room, amid all the useless books which he had not opened -for days or weeks, and heard the others mounting the staircase outside -his locked door, it seemed to the unhappy young man as though the floor -under his feet was the last spot on which standing ground was possible, -and that beyond and around there was nothing but chaos. For what reason -and on what impulse he rushed to London it would be difficult to tell. -He had little money, few friends--or rather none who were not also the -friends of his family--no idea or intention of doing anything. - -“Perhaps the world will end to-night.” - -He did not even think so much as that, though perhaps it was in some -sort the feeling in his mind. Yet no suggestions of suicide, or of -anything that constitutes a moral suicide, occurred to him. These would -have been something definite, they would have provided for a future, but -Charlie was stupefied and had none. He had not so much sense of any -resource as consisted in a pistol or a plunge into the river. He flung -himself into the train and went to London, because after a time the -sound of his comrades, or of those who ought to have been his comrades, -became intolerable to him. They kept pacing, rushing up and down the -staircase, calling to each other. One or two, indeed, talked at his own -closed door, driving him into a silent frenzy. As soon as they were gone -he seized a travelling bag, thrust something, he did not know what, into -it, and fled--to the desert--to London, where he would be lost and no -one would drive him frantic by calling to him, by making believe that -there was something left in life. - -It occurred to him somehow, by force of that secondary consciousness -which works for us when our minds are past all exertion, to fling -himself into the corner of a third-class carriage as the place where he -was least likely to meet anyone he knew, though indeed the precaution -was scarcely necessary, since he could not have recognised anyone, as he -sat huddled up in his corner, staring blankly at the landscape that flew -past the window and seeing nothing. When he arrived in the midst of the -din and bustle of the great railway station, he fled once more through -the crowd into the greater crowd outside, clutching instinctively at the -bag which lay beside him, but seeing no one, nor whither he went nor -where he was going. He walked fast, and in a fierce unconsciousness -pushing his way through everything, and though he had in reality no aim, -took instinctively the way to his father’s house--his home--though it -was at that time no home for him, being occupied by strangers. When he -got into the park a vague recollection of this penetrated through the -maze in which he was enveloped, and for a moment he paused, but then -went on walking at the same pace, making the circuit of the park which -lay before him in the mists of the afternoon, the frosty sun setting, -the hay taking a rosy tint. He went all round the silences of the -half-deserted walks, beginning to feel vaguely the strange desolate -sentiment of not knowing where to go, though only in the secondary phase -of his consciousness. Until all at once his strength seemed to fail him, -his limbs grew feeble, his steps slow, and he stopped short, -mechanically, as he had walked, not knowing why, and flung himself upon -a bench, where he sat long, motionless, as if that had now become the -only thing solid in the world and there was no step remaining to him -beyond. - -A young man, though he may have numberless friends, may yet make a -despairing transit like this from one place to another through the midst -of a crowd without being seen by anyone who knows him; if the encounters -of life are wonderful, the failures to encounter, the manner in which we -walk alone with friends on all hands, and in our desperate moments, when -help is most necessary, do not meet or come within sight of any, is -equally wonderful. The Kingswards had a large circle of acquaintance, -and Charlie himself had the numberless intimates of a public school boy, -a young university man, acquainted with half the youth of his -period--yet nobody saw him, except one to whom he would scarcely have -accorded a salutation in ordinary circumstances. Aubrey Leigh, who had -been so strangely and closely connected for a moment with the Kingsward -family, and then so swiftly and peremptorily cut off, arrived in London -from a short visit to a suburban house by the same train which brought -Charlie, and caught sight of him as he jumped out of his compartment -with his bag in his hand. A very cool, self-possessed, and trim young -man young Kingsward had always appeared to the other, with whose -brightest and at the same time most painful recollections his figure was -so connected. To see him now suddenly, with that air of desperation -which had triumphed over all his natural habits and laws, that -abstracted look, clutching his bag, half leaping, half stumbling out of -the carriage, going off at a swift, unconscious pace, pushing through -every crowd, filled Aubrey with surprise which soon turned into anxiety. -Charlie Kingsward, with a bag in his hand, rushing through the London -streets conveyed an entirely new idea to the minds of the spectators. -What such an arrival would have meant in ordinary circumstances would -have been the rattling up of a hansom, the careless calling out of an -address, the noisy progress over the stones, of the driver expectant of -something more than his fare, and keenly cognisant of the habits of the -young gentlemen from Oxford. - -Aubrey quickened his own pace to follow the other, whose arrival this -time was in such different guise. A sudden terror seized his mind, -naturally quite unjustified by the outward circumstances. Was anyone -ill?--which meant, was Bee ill? Had anything dreadful happened? A -moment’s reflection would have shown that in such a case the hansom -would be more needed than usual, as conveying her brother the more -quickly to his home. But Aubrey did not pause on probabilities. A moment -more would have made him sure of the unlikelihood that Charlie would be -sent for in case of Bee’s illness, unless, indeed, the question had been -one of life and death. - -But he had not even heard of his love for many months. His heart was -hungry for news of her, and in that case he would have done his best to -intercept Charlie, to extract from him, if possible, some news of his -sister. He followed, accordingly, with something of the same headlong -haste with which Charlie was pushing through the streets, and for a long -time, up to the gates of the park, indeed, kept him in sight. At the -rate at which the young man was going it was impossible to do more. - -Then Aubrey suddenly lost sight of the figure he was pursuing. There was -a group of people collected for some vulgar, unsupportable object or -other at that point, and it was there that Charlie deflected from the -straight road for home, which he had hitherto taken, and which his -pursuer took it for granted he would follow for the rest of the way. -When Aubrey had pushed his way through the little crowd Charlie was no -longer visible. He looked to left and to right in vain, scrutinised the -short cut over the park, and the broad road full of passing carriages -and wayfarers, but saw no trace of the figure he sought. Aubrey then -walked quickly to the point where Charlie, as he supposed, must be -going, and soon came to the gate on the other side and the street itself -in which the house of the Kingswards was. But he saw no sign of Charlie, -nor of anyone looking for him. He himself had no acquaintance with that -house, to which he had never been admitted, but he had passed it many -times in the vain hope of seeing Bee at a window, not knowing that it -was occupied by strangers. While he walked down the street, however, -anxiously gazing to see if there were any signs of illness, asking -himself whether he dared to inquire at the door, he saw a gentleman come -up and enter with a latch key, who certainly did not belong to the -Kingsward family. This changed the whole current of Aubrey’s thoughts. -It was not here then that Charlie was coming. His rapid and wild walk -could not mean any disaster to the family--any trouble to Bee. - -The discovery was at once a disappointment and a relief; a relief from -the anxiety which had gradually been gaining upon him, a disappointment -of the hope of hearing something of her. For if Charlie was not going -home, who could trace out where such a young man might be going? To the -dogs, Aubrey thought, instinctively; to the devil, to judge by his -looks. Yet Charlie Kingsward, the most correct of modern young men, had -surely in him no natural proclivity towards that facile descent. What -could it be that had driven him along like a leaf before the wind? - -Aubrey was himself greatly disturbed and stirred up by this encounter. -He had schooled himself to quiet, and the pangs of his overthrow, though -not quenched, had been kept under with a strong hand. The life which he -desired for himself, which he had so fully planned, so warmly hoped for, -had been broken to pieces and made an end of, leaving the way he had -chosen blank to him, as he thought, for evermore. He had been very -unfortunate in that way, his early venture ending in bitter -disappointment; his other, more wise, more sweet, cut off before it had -ever been. But he was a reasonable being, and knew that life had to be -put to other uses, even when that sole fair path which the heart desired -was closed. He had given it up definitely, neither thinking nor hoping -again for the household life, the patriarchal existence among his own -fields, his own people, under his own roof, and was now doing his best -to conform his life to a more grey and monotonous standard. - -But the sight of Charlie, or rather the sight of Bee’s brother, -evidently under the influence of some strong feeling, and utterly -carried away by it so as to ignore all that regard for appearance and -decorum which had been his leading principle, came suddenly like a touch -upon a wound, reviving all the questions and impatiences of the past. -Aubrey felt that he could not endure the ignorance of her and all her -ways which had fallen over him like a pall, cutting off her being from -him as if they were not still living in the same world, still within -reach of each other. He might endure, he said to himself, to be parted -from her, to give up hope of her, since she willed it so--yet, at -least, he must know something of her, find out if she were ill or well, -what she was doing, where she was even; for that mere outside detail he -did not know. How was it possible he should bear this--not even to know -where she was? This thought took hold of him, and drove him into a fever -of sudden feeling. Oh! yes; he had resigned himself to live without her, -to endure his solitary existence far from her, since she willed it so; -but not even to know where she was, how she was, what she was doing! - -Suddenly, in a moment, the fiery stinging came back, the sword plunged -into the wound. He had not for a moment deluded himself with the idea -that he was cured of it, but yet it had been subdued by necessity, by -the very silence which now he felt to be intolerable. He went back into -the park, where the long lines of the misty paths were now almost -deserted, gleams of the lamps outside shining through the dark tracery -of the branches, and all quiet except in the broad road, still sounding -with a diminished stream of carriages. He dived into the intersections -of the deserted paths, something as Charlie had done, seeking -instinctively a silent place where he could be alone with the -newly-aroused torment of his thoughts. - -When he came suddenly upon the bench upon which Charlie had flung -himself, his first movement was to turn back. He had been walking over -the grass, and his steps were consequently noiseless, and he was in the -mood to which any human presence--the possible encounter of anyone who -might speak to him and disturb his own hurrying passions--was -intolerable. But as he turned, his eye fell on the bag--the dusty, -half-empty thing still clutched by a hand that seemed more or less -unconscious. This insignificant detail arrested Aubrey. He moved a -little way, keeping on the grass, to get a fuller view of the -half-reclining figure. And then he made out in the partial light that it -was the same figure which he had pursued so long. - -What was Charlie doing here in this secluded spot--he, the most unlike -any such retirement, the well-equipped, confident, prosperous young man -of the world, subject to so few delusions, knowing his way so well, both -in the outer and the inner world? - -Aubrey was more startled than tongue can tell. He thought no longer of -family disaster, of illness, or trouble. Whatever was amiss, it was -evidently Charlie who was the sufferer. He paused for a minute or more, -reflecting what he should do. Then he stepped forward upon the gravel, -and sitting down, put his hand suddenly upon that which held the -half-filled bag. - -“Kingsward!” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -MEANWHILE Colonel Kingsward had remained in Oxford. It was necessary -that he should regulate all Charlie’s affairs, find out and pay what -bills he had left, and formally sever his connection with the -University. It is a thing which many fathers have had to do, with pain -and sorrow, and a sense of premature failure, which is one of the -bitterest things in life; but Colonel Kingsward had not this painful -feeling to aggravate the annoyance and vexation which he actually felt. -The fact that his son had been idle in the way of books, and was leaving -Oxford without taking his degree, did not affect his mind much. Many -young fellows did that, especially in the portion of the world to which -Charlie belonged. The Colonel was irritated by having to interfere, by -the trouble he was having, and the deviation from salutary routine, but -he felt no humiliation either for himself or his son. And Charlie’s -liabilities were not large, so far as he could discover. The fellow, at -least, had no vices, he said to himself. Even the unsympathetic Don had -nothing to say against him but that charge of idleness, which the -Colonel rather liked than otherwise. Had he been able to say that it was -his son’s social or even athletic successes which were the causes of the -idleness he would have liked it altogether. He paid Charlie’s bills with -a compensating consciousness that these were the last that would have to -be paid at Oxford, and he was not even sorry that he could not get back -to town by the last train. Indeed, I think he could have managed that -very well had he tried. He remained for the second night with wonderful -equanimity, finding, as a matter of course, a man he knew in the hotel, -and dining not unpleasantly that day. Before he went back to town, he -thought it only civil to go out to the Parks to return, as politeness -demanded, the visit of the lady who had so kindly and courageously gone -to see him, and from whom he had received the only explanation of -Charlie’s strange behaviour. He went forth as soon as he had eaten an -early luncheon, in order to be sure to find Miss Lance before she went -out, and stopped only to throw a rapid glance in passing at a band of -young ruffians--mud up to their eyes, and quite undistinguishable for -the elegant undergraduates which some of them were--who were playing -football in the Parks. The Colonel had, like most men, a warm interest -in athletic sports, but his soldierly instincts disliked the mud. Miss -Lance’s house was beyond that much broken up and down-trampled green. It -was a house in a garden of the order brought into fashion by the late -Randolph Caldecott, red with white “fixings” and pointed roof, and it -bore triumphantly upon its little gate post the name of Wensleydale, -Oxford Dons, and the inhabitants of that district generally, being fond -of such extension titles. Colonel Kingsward unconsciously drew himself -together, settled his head into his collar, and twisted his moustache, -as he knocked at the door, and yet it was not an imposing door. It was -opened, not by a solemn butler, but by a neat maid, who showed Colonel -Kingsward into a trim drawing-room, very feminine and full of flowers -and knick-knacks. Here he waited full five minutes before anyone -appeared, looking about him with much curiosity, examining the little -stands of books, the work-tables, the writing-tables, the corners for -conversation. It was not a large room, and yet space had been found for -two little centres of social intercourse. There were, therefore, the -Colonel divined, two ladies who shared this abode. Colonel Kingsward had -never been what is called a ladies’ man. The feminine element in life -had been supplied to him in that subdued way naturally exhibited by a -yielding and gentle wife in a house where the husband is supreme. He was -quite unacquainted with it in its unalloyed state, and the spectacle -amused and pleasantly affected him with a sense at once of superiority -and of novelty. It was pleasant to see how these little known creatures -arranged themselves in their own private dominion, where they had -everything their own way, and the touch of the artificial which -appeared in all these dainty particulars seemed appropriate and -commended itself agreeably to the man who was accustomed to a broader -and larger style of household economy. A man likes to see the difference -well marked, at least a man who holds Colonel Kingsward’s ideas of life. -He had gone so far as to note the “Laura” with a large and flowing “L” -on the notepaper, which “L” was repeated on various pretty articles -about. When the door opened and Miss Lance appeared, she came up to him -holding out both her hands as to an old friend. - -“Will you forgive me for keeping you waiting, Colonel Kingsward? The -fact is we have just come in, and you know that a woman has always a -toilette to make, not like you lucky people who put on or put off a hat -and all is done.” - -“I did not think you were likely to be out so early,” the Colonel said. - -“My friend has a son at Oriel,” replied Miss Lance. “He is a great -football player as it happens, and we are bound to be present when he -is playing; besides, the Parks are so near.” - -“I did not think it was a game that would interest you.” - -“It does not, except in so far that I am interested in everything that -interests my surroundings. My friend goes into it with enthusiasm; she -even believes that she understands what it is all about.” - -“It seems chiefly mud that is about,” said the Colonel, with a slight -tone of disapproval, for it displeased him to think that a woman like -this should go to a football match, and also it displeased him after his -private amusement and reflections on the feminine character of the house -to find, after all, a man connected with it, even if that man were only -a boy. - -“Come,” said Miss Lance, indicating a certain chair, “sit down here by -me, Colonel Kingsward, and let us not talk commonplaces any longer. You -have been obliged to stay longer than you intended. I had been thinking -of you as in London to-day.” - -“It was very kind to think of me at all.” - -“Oh, don’t say so--that is one of the commonplaces too. Of course, I -have been thinking of you with a great deal of interest, and with some -rather rebellious, undutiful sort of thoughts.” - -“What thoughts?” cried the Colonel, in surprise. - -“Well,” she said, “it is a great blessing, no doubt, to have -children--to women, perhaps, an unalloyed blessing; and yet, you know, -an unattached person like myself cannot help a grudge occasionally. Here -are you, for instance, in the prime of life; your thoughts about -everything matured, your reason more important to the world than any of -the escapades of youth, and yet you are depleted from your own grave -path in life; your mind occupied, your thoughts distracted; really your -use to your country interrupted by--by what are called the cares of a -family,” she concluded, with a short laugh. - -She spoke with much use of her hands in graceful movement that could -scarcely be called gesticulation--clasping them together, spreading them -out, making them emphasise everything. And they were very white and -pretty hands, with a diamond on one, which sparkled at appropriate -moments, and added its special emphasis too. - -The Colonel was flattered with this description of himself and his -capacities. - -“There is great truth,” he said, “in what you say. I have felt it, but -for a father at the head of a family to put forth such sentiments would -shock many good people.” - -“Fortunately there are no good people here, and if there were I might -still express them freely. It is a thing that strikes me every day. In -feeble specimens it destroys the individuality; in strong characters -like yourself----” - -“You do me too much honour, Miss Lance. My position, you are aware, is -doubly unfortunate, for I have all upon my shoulders. Still, one must do -one’s duty at whatever cost.” - -“That would be your feeling, of course,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of -admiring and regretful expression. “For my part, I am the most dreadful -rebel. I kick against duty. I think a man has a duty to himself. To -stint a noble human being for the sake of nourishing some half-dozen -secondary ones, is to me---- Oh, don’t let us talk of it! Tell me, dear -Colonel Kingsward, have you got everything satisfactorily settled, and -heard of the arrival----? Oh,” she cried, clasping those white hands, -“how can I sit here calmly and ask, seeing that I have a share in -causing all this trouble--though, heaven knows, how unintentionally on -my part!” - -“Don’t say so,” said the Colonel, putting his hands for a second on -those clasped white hands. “I am sure that you can have done nothing but -good to my foolish boy. To be admitted here at all was too much honour.” - -“I shall never be able to take an interest in anyone again,” she said, -drooping her head. “It is so strange, so strange to have one’s motives -misunderstood, but you don’t do so. I am so thankful I had the courage -to go to you. My friend dissuaded me strongly from taking such a step. -She said that a parent would naturally blame anyone rather than his own -son----” - -“My dear Miss Lance, who could blame you? I don’t know,” said the -Colonel, “that I blame poor Charlie so much either. To be much in your -company might well be dangerous for any man.” - -“You must not speak so--indeed, indeed, you must not! I feel more and -more ashamed! When a woman comes to a certain age--and has no children -of her own. Surely, surely----” - -“Come!” he cried. “You said a parent’s cares destroyed one’s -individuality----” - -“Not with a woman. What individuality has a woman? The only use of her -is to sink that pride in a better--the pride of being of some use. What -I regretted was for you--and such as you--if there are enough of such to -make a class--. Yes, yes,” she added, looking up, “I acknowledge the -inconsistency. I have not sense enough to see the pity of it in all -cases--but my real principle, my deep belief is that to draw a man like -you away from your career, to trouble and distress you about others, who -are not of half your value--is a thing that ought to be prevented by Act -of Parliament,” she cried, breaking off with a laugh. “But you have not -told me yet how everything has finished,” she added, in a confidential -low tone, after a pause. - -Then he told her in some detail what he had done. It was delightful to -tell her, a woman so sympathising, so quick to understand, with that -approving, consoling, remonstrating action of her white hands which -seemed at the same moment to applaud and deprecate, with a constant -inference that he was too good, that really he ought not to be so good. -She laughed at his description of the Don, adding a graphic touch or two -to make the picture more perfect--till Colonel Kingsward was surprised -at himself to think how cleverly he had done it, and was delighted with -his own success. This gave a slightly comic character to his other -sketches of poor Charlie’s tradesmen, and scout, and an unutterable cad -of a young fellow who had met the Colonel leaving the college and had -told him of a small sum which Charlie owed him. - -“The little beast!” the Colonel said. - -“Worse!” cried Miss Lance, “I would not slander any gentlemanly dog by -calling him of the same species.” - -Altogether, her interest and sympathy changed this not particularly -lively occasion into one of the brightest moments of Colonel -Kingsward’s life. He had not been used to a woman so clever, who took -him up at half a word, and enhanced the interest of everything. Had he -been asked, indeed, he would have said that he did not like clever -women. But then Miss Lance had other qualities. She was very handsome, -and she had an evident and undisguised admiration for him. She was so -very frank and sure of her position as a woman of a certain age--a -qualification which she appropriated to herself constantly, though most -women thought it an insult--that she did not find it needful to conceal -that admiration. When he thanked her for her kindness for the patient -hearing of all his story, and the interest she had shown, to which he -had so little claim, Miss Lance smiled and held out those white hands. - -“I assure you,” she said, “the benefit is all on my side. Living here -among very young men, you must think what it is to talk to, to be -treated confidentially, by a man like yourself. It is like a glance into -another life.” She sighed, and added, “The young are delightful. I am -very fond of young people. Still, to meet now and then with someone of -one’s own age, of one’s own species, if I may say so--” - -“You do me too much honour,” said Colonel Kingsward, feeling with a -curious elation, how superior he was. She went with him to the garden -gate, not afraid of the wintry air, showing no sense of the chill, and -though she had given him her hand before, offered it again with the -sweetest friendliness. - -“And you promised,” she said, looking in his face while he held it, -“that you would send me one line when you got home, to tell me how you -find him--and that all is well--and forgiven.” - -“I shall be too happy to be permitted to write,” Colonel Kingsward said. - -“Forgiven,” she said, “and forgotten!” holding up a finger of the other -hand, the hand with the diamond. She stood for a moment watching while -he closed the low gate, and then, waving her hand to him, turned away. -Colonel Kingsward had never been a finer fellow, in his own estimation, -than when he walked slowly off from that closed door. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -I WILL not repeat the often described scene of anxiety which existed in -Kingswarden for some time after. Colonel Kingsward returned, as Bee had -done, to find that nothing had been seen or heard of Charlie, whom both -had expected to find defiant and wretched at home. It is astonishing how -quickly in such circumstances the tables are turned, and the young -culprit--whom parents and friends have been ready to crush the moment he -appears with well-deserved rebuke--becomes, when he does not appear, the -object of the most eager appeals; forgiveness, and advantages of every -kind all ready to greet him if only he will come back. The girls were -frightened beyond description by their brother’s disappearance, and -conjured up every dreadful image of disaster and misery. They thought of -Charlie in his despair going off to the ends of the earth and never -being seen more. They thought of him as in some wretched condition on -shipboard, sick and miserable, reduced to dreadful work and still more -dreadful privations, he who had lain in the lilies and fed on the roses -of life. They thought of him, Colonel Kingsward’s son, enlisted as a -private soldier, in a crowded barrack-room. They thought of him -wandering about the street, cold, perhaps hungry, without a shelter. The -most dreadful images came before their inexperienced eyes. The old aunt -who was their companion told them dreadful stories of family prodigals -who disappeared and were never heard of again, and terror took hold of -the girls’ minds. - -Their constant walk was to the station, with the idea that he might -perhaps come as far as the village, and that there his heart might fail -him. Except for that melancholy indulgence, they would not be out of the -house at any time together, lest at that moment Charlie might arrive, -and no one be there to welcome him. There was always one who ran to the -door at every sound, scandalising the servant, who could never get there -so fast but one of the young ladies was before him. They had endless -conversations and consultations on the subject, forming a hundred plans -as to how they should go forth into the world to seek for him, all -rendered abortive by the reflection that they knew not where to go. Bee -and Betty were very unhappy during these lingering, chilly days of early -spring. The tranquillity of the family life seemed to be destroyed in a -moment. Where was Charlie? Was there any news of Charlie? This was the -question that filled their minds day and night. - -Colonel Kingsward was not less affectionate, but he was more practical -and experienced. He knew that now and then it does happen that a young -man disappears, sinks under the stream, and goes, as people say, to the -dogs, and is heard of no more--or, at least, only in a shipwrecked -condition, the shame and trouble of his friends. It did not seem to him, -at first, that there could be any such danger for his son. He -anticipated nothing more than a few days’ sullenness, perhaps in some -friend’s house, who would make cautious overtures and intercede for the -rebellious but shame-stricken boy. When, however, the time passed on, -and a longer interval than any judicious friend would permit had -elapsed, a deep anxiety arose also in Colonel Kingsward’s mind. The -_esclandre_ of an Oxford failure did not trouble him much, but, in view -of Charlie’s future career, he could not employ detectives, or advertise -in the papers, or take any steps which might lead to a paragraph as to -the anxiety of a distinguished family on account of a son who had -disappeared. Colonel Kingsward might not be a very tender parent, but he -was fully alive to the advantage of his children, and would allow no -stigma to be attached to them which he could prevent. He went a great -deal about London in these days, going into many a spot where a man of -his dignity was out of place, with an anxious and troubled eye upon the -crowds of young men, the familiars of these confused regions, among -whom, however, no trace was to be found of his son. - -Nobody ever knew how much the Colonel undertook, in how many strange -scenes he found himself, or half of what he really did to recover -Charlie, and save him from the consequences of his folly. The most -devoted father could scarcely have done more, and his mind was almost as -full of the prodigal as were the minds of the girls, who thought of so -many grievous dangers, yet did not think of those that filled their -father’s mind. Colonel Kingsward went about everywhere, groping, saying -not a word to betray his ignorance of Charlie’s whereabouts. To those -who had any right to know his family affairs, he explained that he had -decided not to press Charlie to undergo any examination beyond what was -necessary, that he had given up the thought of taking his degree, and -was studying modern languages and international law, which were so much -more likely to be useful to him. “He is a steady fellow--he has no -vices,” he said, “and I think it is wise to let him have his head.” -Colonel Kingsward was by nature a despotic man, and his friends were -very glad to hear that he was, in respect to Charlie, so amiable--they -said to each other that his wife’s death had softened Kingsward, and -what a good thing it was that he was behaving so judiciously about his -son. - -A pause like this in the life of a family--a period of darkness in which -the life of one of its members is suspended, interrupted, as it were, in -mid career, cut off, yet not with that touch of death which stills all -anxieties--is always a difficult and miserable one. Some, and the number -increases of these uncontrolled persons, cry out to earth and heaven, -and make the lapse public and set all the world talking of their -affairs. But Colonel Kingsward sternly put down even the tears of his -young daughters. - -“If you cannot keep a watch over yourselves before the servants, you had -better leave the house,” he said, all the more stern to them that he was -soft to Charlie; but indeed it was not so much that he was soft to -Charlie as that he was concerned and anxious about Charlie’s career. - -“Betty, I suppose, can go back to the Lyons’ in Portman Square, and -Bee----” - -“If you think that I can go visiting, papa, and no one with the -children, and poor Charlie----” - -“I think--and, indeed, I know, that you can and will do what I think -best for you,” said Colonel Kingsward. - -Bee looked up at him quickly and met her father’s eyes. The two looked -at each other suspiciously, almost fiercely. Bee saw in her father’s -look possibilities and dangers as yet undeveloped, mysteries which she -divined and feared, yet neither could nor would have put into words, -while he looked at her divining her divinations, defying unconsciously -the suspicion which he could not have expressed any more than she. - -“Let it be understood once for all,” he said, “that the children have -their nurses and governess, and that your presence is by no means -indispensable to them. You are their eldest sister, you are not the -mistress of the house. Nothing will happen to the children. In -considering what is best for you----” - -“Papa!” cried Bee, almost fiercely; but she did not pour out upon him -that bitterness which had been collecting in her heart. She paused in -time; but then added, “I have not asked you to consider what was best -for me.” - -“That is enough to show that it is time for me to consider it,” he said. - -And then, once more their looks met, and clashed like the encounter of -two armies. What did she suspect? What did he intend? They both breathed -short, as if with the impulse of battle, but neither, even to -themselves, could have answered that question. Colonel Kingsward cried -“Take care, Bee!” as he went away, a by no means happy man, to his -library, while she threw herself down upon a sofa, and--inevitable -result in a girl of any such rising of passion--burst into tears. - -“Bee,” said the sensible Betty, “you ought not to speak like that to -papa.” - -“I ought to be thankful that he has considered what was best for me, and -spoilt my life!” cried Bee, through her tears. “Oh, it is very easy for -you to speak. You are to go to the Lyons’, where you wish to go--to be -free of all anxiety--for what is Charlie to you but only your brother, -and you know that you can’t do him any good by making yourself miserable -about him? And you will see Gerald Lyon, who is doing well at -Cambridge, and listen to all the talk about him, and smile, and not hate -him for being so smug and prosperous, while poor Charlie----” - -“How unjust you are!” cried Betty, growing red and then pale. “It is not -Gerald Lyon’s fault that Charlie has not done well--even if I cared -anything for Gerald Lyon.” - -“It is you who ought to take care,” said Bee, “if papa thinks it -necessary to consider what is best for you.” - -“There is nothing to consider,” said Betty, with a little movement of -her hands. - -“But it can never be so bad for you,” said Bee, with a tone of regret. -“Never! To think that my life should be ruined and all ended for the -sake of a woman--a woman--who has now ruined Charlie, and whom papa--oh, -papa!” she cried, with a tone indescribable of exasperation and scorn -and contempt. - -“What is it about papa? You look at each other, you and he, like two -tigers. You have got the same dreadful eyes. Yes, they are dreadful -eyes; they give out fire. I wonder often that they don’t make a noise -like an explosion. And Bee, you said yourself that there was something -else. You never would have given in to papa, but there was something of -your own that parted you from Aubrey--for ever. You said so, Bee--when -his mother----” - -“Is there any need for bringing in any gentleman’s name?” cried Bee, -with the dignity of a dowager. And then, ignoring her own rule, she -burst forth, “What I have got against him is nothing to anyone--but that -Aubrey Leigh should be insulted and rejected and turned away from our -door, and that my heart should be broken because of a woman whom papa -and Charlie--whom papa----! He writes to her, and she writes to him--he -tells her everything--he consults her about us, us, my mother’s -children! And yet it was on her account that Aubrey Leigh was turned -from the door---- Oh, if you think I can bear that, you must think me -more than flesh and blood!” Bee cried, the tears adding to the fire and -sparkle of her blazing eyes. - -“It isn’t very nice,” said little Betty, sagely, “but I am not so sure -that it was her fault, for if you had stuck to Aubrey as you meant to do -at first, your heart would not have been broken, and if Charlie had not -been very silly, a person of that age could not have done him any harm; -and then papa----. What can she do to papa? I suppose he thinks as she -is old he may write to her as a friend and ask her advice. There is not -any harm that I can see in that.” - -Bee was too much agitated to make any reply to this. She resumed again, -after a pause, as if Betty had not spoken: “He writes to her, and she -writes to him, just as she did to Charlie, for I have seen them -both--long letters, with that ridiculous “Laura,” and a big L, as if she -were a girl. You can see them, if you like, at breakfast, when he reads -them instead of his papers, and smiles to himself when he is reading -them, and looks--ridiculous”--cried Bee, in her indignation. -“Ridiculous! as if he were young too; a man who is father of all of us; -and not much more than a year ago--. Oh, if I were not to speak I think -the very trees would, and the bushes in the shrubbery! It is more than -anyone can bear.” - -“You are making up a story,” said Betty, wonderingly. “I don’t know what -you mean.” Then she cried, carrying the war into the enemy’s country, -“Oh, Bee, if you had not given him up, if you had been faithful to -him!--now we should have had somebody to consult with, somebody that -could have gone and looked for poor Charlie; for we are only two girls, -and what can we do?” - -Bee did not make any reply, but looked at her sister with startled eyes. - -“Mamma was never against Aubrey Leigh,” said Betty, pursuing her -advantage. “She never would have wished you to give him up. And it is -all your own doing, not papa’s doing, or anyone’s. If I had ever cared -for him I never, never should have given him up; and then we should have -had as good as another brother, that could have gone into the world and -hunted everywhere and brought Charlie home.” - -The argument was taken up at hazard, a chance arrow lying in the young -combatant’s way, without intention--but it went straight to its mark. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -THE house that had been so peaceful was thus full of agitation and -disturbance, the household, anxious and alarmed, turning their weapons -upon each other, to relieve a little the gnawing of that suspense which -they were so unaccustomed to bear. It was true what Bee’s keen and -sharply aroused observation had convinced her, that Colonel Kingsward -was in correspondence with Miss Lance, and that her letters were very -welcome to him, and read with great interest. He threw down the paper -after he had made a rush through its contents, and read eagerly the long -sheets of paper, upon which the great L, stamped at the head of every -page, could be read on the other side of the table. How did that woman -know the days he was to be at home, that her letters should always come -on those mornings and never at any other time? Bee almost forgot her -troubles, those of the family in respect to Charlie, and those which -were her very own, in her passionate hatred and distrust of the new -correspondent to whom Colonel Kingsward, like his son, had opened his -heart. - -He was not, naturally, a man given to correspondence. His letters to his -wife, in those days which now seemed so distant, had been models of -concise writing. His opinions, or rather verdicts, upon things great and -small had been conveyed in terse sentences, very much to the purpose; -deliverances not of his way of thinking, but of the unalterable dogmas -that were to rule the family life; and her replies, though diffuse, were -always more or less regulated by her consciousness of the little time -there would be given to them, and the necessity of making every -explanation as brief as possible--not to worry papa, who had so much to -do. - -Why it was that he found the long letters, which he read with a certain -defiant pride in the presence of his daughters at the breakfast table, -so agreeable, it would be difficult to tell. They were very carefully -adapted to please him, it is true; and they were what are called clever -letters--such letters as clever women write, with a _faux air_ of -brilliancy which deceives both the writer and the recipient, making the -one feel herself a Sevigné and the other a hero worthy the exercise of -such powers. And there was something very novel in this sudden inroad of -sentimental romance into an existence never either sentimental or -romantic, which had fallen into the familiar calm of family life so long -ago with a wife, who though sweet and fair enough to delight any man, -had become in reality only the chief of his vassals, following every -indication of his will, when not eagerly watching an opportunity of -anticipating his wishes. His new friend treated the Colonel in a very -different way. She expounded her views of life with all the adroitness -of a mind experienced in the treatment of those philosophies which touch -the questions of sex, the differences between a man’s and a woman’s -view, the sentiment which can be carried into the most simple subjects. -There is nothing that can give more entertaining play of argument, or -piquancy of intercourse, than this mode of correspondence when cleverly -carried out, and Miss Laura Lance was a mistress of all its methods. It -was all entirely new to Colonel Kingsward. He was as much enchanted with -it as his son had been, and thought the writer as brilliant, as -original, as poor Charlie had done, who had no way of knowing better. -The Colonel’s head, which generally had been occupied by professional or -public matters--by the intrigues of the service or the incompetencies of -the Department--now found a much more interesting private subject of -thought. He was a man full of anxiety and annoyance at this particular -crisis of his career, and his correspondent was by way of sharing his -anxiety to the utmost and even blaming herself as the cause of it; yet -she contrived to amuse him, to bring a smile, to touch a lighter key, to -relieve the tension of his mind from time to time, without ever allowing -him to feel that the chief subject of their correspondence was out of -her thoughts. He got no relief of this description at home, where the -girls’ anxious questions about Charlie, their eagerness to know what had -been done, seemed to upbraid him with indifference, as if he were not -doing everything that was possible. Miss Lance knew better the dangers -that were being run, the real difficulties of the case, than these -inexperienced chits of children; but she knew also that a man’s mind -requires relief, and that, in point of fact, the Colonel’s health, -strength and comfort, were of more importance than many Charlie’s. This -was a thing that had to be understood, not said, and the Colonel indeed -was as anxious and concerned about Charlie as it was almost possible to -be. He did not form dreadful pictures as Bee and Betty did of what the -boy might be suffering. The boy deserved to suffer, and this -consideration, had he dwelt upon it, would have afforded a certain -satisfaction. But what did make him wretched was the fear of any -exposure, the mention in public of anything that might injure his son’s -career. An opportunity was already dawning of getting him an -appointment upon which the Colonel had long kept his eye, and which -would be of double importance at present as sending him out of the -country and into new scenes. But of what use were all a father’s careful -arrangements if they were thus balked by the perversity of the boy? - -Things were still in this painful suspense when Miss Lance announced to -Colonel Kingsward her arrival in town. She described to him how it was -that she was coming. - -“My friend is absent with her son till after Easter, and I am understood -to be fond of town, and am coming to spend a week or two to see the -first of the season, the pictures, &c., as well as a few friends whom I -still keep up, the relics of brighter and younger days--this is the -reason I give, but you will easily understand, dear Colonel Kingsward, -that there is another reason far more near to my heart. Your poor boy! -Or may I for once say our poor boy? For you are aware that I have never -ceased to upbraid myself for what has happened, and that I shall always -bear a mother’s heart to Charlie, dear fellow, to whom, in wishing him -nothing but good, I have been so unfortunate as to do such dreadful -wrong. Every word you say about your hopes for him, and the great chance -which he is so likely to miss, cuts me to the heart. And it has occurred -to me that there are some places in which he may have been heard of, to -which I could myself go, or where I might take you if you wished, which -you would not yourself be likely to know. I wish I had thought of them -before. I come up now full of hope that we may hear something and find a -reliable clue. I shall be in George Street, Hanover Square, a place -which is luckily in the way for everything. Please come and see me. I -hope you will not think I am presuming in endeavouring to solve a -difficulty for which I am, alas, alas! partially to blame. To assure me -of this at least if no more, come, do come to see me to-morrow, Tuesday -afternoon. I shall do nothing till I have your approval.” - -This letter had an exciting effect upon the Colonel, more than anything -he had known for years. He held it before him, yielding himself up to -this pleasurable sensation for some minutes after he had read it. The -Easter recess had left London empty, and he had been deprived of some of -the ordinary social solaces which, though they increased the difficulty -of keeping his son’s disappearance a secret, still broke the blank of -his suspense and made existence possible. Hard to bear was the point -blank shock which he had sometimes received, as when an indiscreet but -influential friend suddenly burst upon him, “I don’t see your son’s name -in the Oxford lists, Kingsward.” “No,” the Colonel had replied, with a -countenance from which all expression had been dismissed, “we thought it -better that he should keep to his special studies.” “Quite right, quite -right,” answered that great official, for what is a mere degree to F. -O.? Even to have such things as this said to him, with the chance of -putting in a response, was better than the stagnation, in which a man is -so apt to feel that all kinds of whispers are circulating in respect to -the one matter which it is his interest to conceal. - -And his heart, though it was a middle-aged, and no longer nimble organ -given to leaping, jumped up in his breast when he read his letter. There -was the possible clue which it was good to hear of--and there was the -listener to whom he could tell everything, who took such an entire and -flattering share in his anxieties, with whom there was no need to invent -excuses, or to conceal anything. Perhaps there were other reasons, too, -which he did not put into words. The image which had dazzled him at -Oxford rose again before his eyes. It was an image which had already -often visited him. One of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and so -flattering, so confidential, so deeply impressed by himself, so candid -and anxious to blame herself, to place herself in his hands. He went -back to town with agreeable instead of painful anticipations. To share -one’s cares is always an alleviation--to be able openly to take a -friend’s advice. The girls, to whom alone he could be perfectly open on -this matter, were such little fools that he had ceased to discuss it -with them, if, indeed, he had ever discussed it. And to nobody else -could he speak on the subject at all. The opportunity of pouring forth -all his speculations and alarms, of hearing the suggestions of another -mind--and such a mind as hers--of finding a new clue, was balm to his -angry, annoyed and excited spirit. There were other douceurs involved, -which were not absent from his thoughts. The pleasure of the woman’s -society, who was so flatteringly pleased with his, her mature beauty, -which had so much attraction in it, the look of her eyes, which said -more than words, the touch--laid upon his for a moment with so much -eloquent expression, appeal, sympathy, consolation, provocation--of her -beautiful hands. All this was in the Colonel’s mind. He had scarcely -known what was the touch of a woman’s hand, at least in this way, during -the course of his long, calm domestic life. He had been very fond of his -wife, of course, and very tender, as well as he knew how, during her -illness, though entirely unconscious of how much he demanded from her -even in the course of that illness. But this was utterly different, -apart from everything he had ever known. Friendship--that friendship -between man and woman which has been the subject of so much sentimental -controversy. Somebody whom Miss Lance had quoted to him, some great man -in Oxford, had said it was the only real friendship; many others, -amongst whom Colonel Kingsward himself had figured when at any moment so -ridiculous an argument had crossed his path, denounced it as a mere -unfounded fiction to conceal other sentiments. Dolts! It was the Oxford -great man who was in the right of it. The only friendship!--with -sweetness in it which no man could give, a more entire confidence, a -more complete sympathy. He knew that he could say things to Laura--Miss -Lance--which he could say to no man, and that a look from her eyes would -do more to strengthen him than oceans of kind words from lips which -would address him as “old fellow.” He had her image before him all the -time as he went up in the train; it went with him into the decorous -dulness of his office, and when he left his work an hour earlier than -usual his steps were as light as a young man’s. He had not felt so much -exhilaration of spirit since----; but he could scarcely go back to a -date on which his bosom’s lord had sat so lightly on his throne. Truth -to tell, Colonel Kingsward had fallen on evil days. Even the course of -his ordinary existence, when he had gone through life with his pretty -wife by his side, dining out constantly, going everywhere, though -enjoyable in its way, and with the satisfaction of keeping up to the -right mark, had not been exciting. She no doubt told for a great deal in -his happiness, but there were no risks, no excitements, and not as much -as the smart of an occasional quarrel between them. He had known what to -expect of her in every emergency; there was nothing novel to be looked -for, no unaccustomed flavour in anything she was likely to do or say. He -did not make this comparison consciously, for indeed there was no -comparison at all between his late wife (he called her so already in his -mind) and Miss Lance--not the slightest comparison! The latter was a far -more piquant thing--a friend--and the most delightful friend, surely, -that ever man had! - -He found her in a little drawing-room on the first floor of what looked -very much like an ordinary London lodging-house; but within it had -changed its character completely, and had become, though in a different, -more subtle way than that of the drawing-room in Oxford, the bower of -Laura, a special habitation marked with her very name, like the -notepaper on her table. He could not for the first moment avoid a -bewildering idea that it was the same room in which he had seen her in -Oxford transported thither. There seemed the same pictures on the walls, -the same writing-table, or at least one arranged in precisely the same -way, the same chairs placed two together for conversation. What a -wonderful creature she was, thus to put the stamp of her own being upon -everything she touched. Once more he had to wait for a minute or two -before she came, but she made no apology for her delay. She came in with -her hand extended, with an air of sympathy yet satisfaction at the sight -of him which went to Colonel Kingsward’s heart. If she had been sorry -only it would have displeased him, as showing a mind occupied wholly -with Charlie, but the delicate mingling of pleasure with concern was -exactly what the Colonel felt to be most fit. - -“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “How kind of you to come so soon, -to pay such prompt attention to my wish.” - -“Considering that it was my own wish,” he said, “and what I desired -most, I should say how good of you to come, but I can’t venture to hope -that it was entirely for me.” - -“It was very much for you, Colonel Kingsward. You know what blame I take -to myself for all that has happened. And I think, perhaps, I may have it -in my power to make some inquiries that would not suggest themselves. -But we must talk of this after. In the meantime, I can’t but think first -of you. What an ordeal for you--what weary work! But what a pull over us -you men have! You keep your great spirit and command over yourself -through everything, while, whatever little trouble we may have, it shows -immediately. Oh,” said Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a calm strong -man is a sight which it elevates one only to see.” - -“You give me far too much credit. One is obliged to keep a good face to -the world. I don’t approve of people who wash their dirty linen in -public.” - -“Don’t try to make yourself little with all this commonplace reasoning. -You need not explain yourself to me, dear Colonel Kingsward. I flatter -myself that I have the gift of understanding, if nothing else.” - -“A great many things else,” he said; “and indeed my keeping up in this -emergency has been greatly helped by your great friendship and moral -support. I don’t know what you have done to this room,” he added, -changing the theme quickly, “did you bring it with you? It is not a mere -room in London--it is your room. I should have known it among a -thousand.” - -“What a delightful compliment,” she said. “I am so glad you think so, -for it is one of the things I pride myself on. I think I can always make -even a lodging-house look a bit like home.” - -“It looks like you,” he repeated. “I don’t notice such matters much, but -no one could help seeing. And I hope you are to be here for some time, -and that if I can be of any use--” - -“Oh! Colonel Kingsward, don’t hold out such flattering hopes. You of -use! Of course, to a lone woman in town you would be far more than of -use--you would simply be a tower of strength. But I do not come here to -make use of you. I come--” - -“You could not give me greater pleasure than by making use of me. I am -not going much into society, my house is not open--my girls are too -young to take the responsibilities of a season upon themselves; but -anything that a single individual can do to be of service--” - -“Your dear girls--how I should like to see them, to be able to take them -about a little, to make up to those poor children as far as a stranger -could! But I can scarcely hope that you would trust them to me after the -trouble I have helped to bring on you all. Dear Colonel Kingsward, your -chivalrous offer will make all the difference in my life. If you will -give me your arm sometimes, on a rare occasion--” - -“As often as you please--and the oftener the more it will please me,” he -cried, in tones full of warmth and eagerness. Miss Lance raised her -grateful eyes to him full of unspeakable things. She made no further -reply except by one of those light touches upon his arm less than -momentary, if that were possible, like the brush of a wing, or an -ethereal contact of ideas. - -And then she said gravely, “Now about that poor, dear boy; we must find -him, oh, we must find him. I have thought of several places where he may -have been seen. Do you know that I met him once by chance in town last -year? It was at the Academy, where I was with some artist friends. I -introduced him to them, and you know there is great freedom among them, -and they have a great charm for young men. I think some of them may have -seen him. I have put myself in communication with them.” - -“I would not for a moment,” said the Colonel, somewhat stiffly, “consent -to burden you with inquiries of this kind!” - -“You do not think,” she said, sweetly, “that I would do anything, or say -anything to compromise him or you?” - -The Colonel looked at her with the strangest sudden irritation. “I was -not thinking either of him or myself. Why should you receive men, who -must be entirely out of your way, for our sakes?” - -“Oh,” she said, with a soft laugh, “you are afraid that I may compromise -myself.” She rose with an unspoken impulse, which made him rise also, in -spite of himself, with a feeling of unutterable downfall, and the sense -of being dismissed. “Don’t be afraid for me, Colonel Kingsward, I beg. I -shall not compromise anyone.” Then she turned with a sudden illumination -of a smile. “Come back and see me to-morrow, and you shall hear what I -have found out.” - -And he went away humbly, relieved yet mortified, not holding his head as -high as when he came, but already longing for to-morrow, when he might -come back. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -COLONEL KINGSWARD had been flattered, he had been pleased. He had felt -himself for a moment one of the exceptional men in whom women find an -irresistible attraction, and then he had been put down and dismissed -with the calmest decision, with a peremptoriness which nobody in his -life had ever used to him. All these sweetnesses, and then to be, as it -were, huddled out of doors the moment he said a word which was not -satisfactory to that imperial person! He could not get it out of his -mind during the evening nor all the night through, during which it -occurred to him whenever he woke, as a prevailing thought does. And he -had been right, too. To send for men, any kind of men, artists whom she -herself described as having so much freedom in their ways, and have -interviews with them, was a thing to which he had a good right to -object. That is, her friend had a right to object to it--her friend who -took the deepest interest in her and all that she was doing. That it was -for Charlie’s advantage made really no difference. This gave a beautiful -and admirable motive, but then all her motives were beautiful and -admirable, and it must be necessary in some cases to defend her against -the movements of her own good heart. Evidently she did not sufficiently -think of what the world would say, nor, indeed, of what was essentially -right; for that a woman of her attractions, still young, living -independently in rooms of her own, should receive artists -indiscriminately, nay, send for them, admit them to sit perhaps for an -hour with her, with no chaperon or companion, was a thing that could not -be borne. This annoyance almost drove Charlie out of Colonel Kingsward’s -head. He felt that when he went to her next day he must, with all the -precautions possible, speak his mind upon this subject. A woman with -such attractions, really a young woman, alone; nobody could have more -need of guarding against evil tongues. And artists were proverbially an -unregulated, free-and-easy race, with long hair and defective linen, not -men to be privileged with access under any circumstances to such a -woman. Unquestionably he must deliver his soul on that subject for her -own sake. - -He thought about it all the morning, how to do it best. It relieved his -mind about Charlie. Charlie! Charlie was only a young fellow after all, -taking his own way, as they all did, never thinking of the anxiety he -gave his family. And no doubt he would turn up of his own accord when he -was tired of it. That she should depart from the traditions which -naturally are the safeguards of ladies for the sake of a silly boy, who -took so little trouble about the peace of mind of his family, was -monstrous. It was a thing which he could not permit to be. - -When he went into his private room at his office, Colonel Kingsward -found a card upon his table which increased the uneasiness in his mind, -though he could not have told why. He took it up with great surprise -and anger. “Mr. Aubrey Leigh.” He supposed it must have been a card left -long ago, when Aubrey Leigh was Bee’s suitor, and had come repeatedly, -endeavouring to shake her father’s determination. He looked at it -contemptuously, and then pitched it into the fire. - -What a strange perversity there is in these inanimate things! It seemed -as if some malicious imp must have replaced that card there on that very -morning to disturb him. - -Colonel Kingsward did not remember how it was that the name, the sacred -name, of Miss Lance was associated with that of Aubrey Leigh. He had -been much surprised, as well as angry, at the manner in which Bee -repeated that name, when she heard it first, with a vindictive jealousy -(these words came instinctively to his mind) which was not -comprehensible. He had refused indignantly to allow that she had ever -heard the name before. Nevertheless, her cry awakened a vague -association in his mind. Something or other, he could not recollect -what, of connection, of suggestion, was in the sound. He threw Aubrey’s -card into the fire, and endeavoured to dismiss all thought on the -subject. But it was a difficult thing to do. It is to be feared that -during those morning hours the work which Colonel Kingsward usually -executed with so much exactitude, never permitting, as he himself -stated, private matters--even such as the death of his wife or the -disappearance of his son--to interfere with it, was carried through with -many interruptions and pauses for thought, and at the earliest possible -moment was laid aside for that other engagement which had nothing to do -either with the office or the Service, though it was, he flattered -himself, a duty, and one of the most lofty kind. - -To save a noble creature, if possible, from the over generosity of her -own heart; to convince her that such proceedings were inappropriate, -inconsistent with her dignity, as well as apt to give occasion for the -adversary to blaspheme--this was the mission which inspired him. If he -thought of a natural turning towards himself, the friend of friends, in -respect to whom the precautions he enforced were unnecessary, in -consequence of these remonstrances, he kept it carefully in the -background of his thoughts. It was a duty. This beautiful, noble woman, -all frankness and candour, had taken the part of an angel in -endeavouring to help him in his trouble. Could he permit her to sully -even the tip of a wing of that generous effort. Certainly not! On the -contrary, it became doubly his duty to protect her in every way. - -This time Miss Lance was in her drawing-room, seated in one of the pair -of chairs which were arranged for intimate conversation. She did not -rise, but held out her hand to him, with a soft impulse towards the -other--in which Colonel Kingsward accordingly seated himself, with a -solemnity upon his brow which she had no difficulty in interpreting, -quick-witted as she was. She did not loose a shade upon that forehead, a -note of additional gravity in his voice. She knew as well as he did the -duty which he had come to perform. And she was a woman--not only -quick-witted and full of a definite aim, but one who took real pleasure -in her own dexterity, and played her _rôle_ with genuine enjoyment. She -allowed him to open the conversation with much dignified earnestness, -and even to begin, “My dear Miss Lance,” his countenance charged with -warning before she cut the ground from under his feet in the lightest, -yet most complete way. - -“I know you are going to say something very serious when you adopt that -tone, so please let me discharge my mind first. Mrs. Revel kindly came -to me after you left yesterday, and she has made every inquiry--indeed, -as she compelled me to go back with her to dinner, I saw for myself----” - -“Mrs. Revel?” said the Colonel. - -“Didn’t you know he was married? Oh, yes, to a great friend of mine, a -dear little woman. It is in their house I meet my artists, whom I told -you of. Tuesday is her night, and they were all there. I was able to -make my investigations without any betrayal. But I am very, very sorry -to say, dear Colonel Kingsward, equally without any effect.” - -“Without any effect,” Colonel Kingsward repeated, confused. He was not -so quick-witted as she was, and it took him some time to make his way -through these mazes. Revel, the painter, was a name, indeed, that he had -heard vaguely, but his wife, so suddenly introduced, and her “night,” -and the people described as my artists, wound him in webs of -bewilderment through which it was very difficult to guide his steps. It -became apparent to him, however, after a moment, that whatever those -things might mean, the ground had been cut from under his feet. “Does -Mrs. Revel know?” he added after a moment, in his bewilderment. - -“Know--our poor dear boy? Oh, yes; I took him there--in my foolish -desire to do the best I could for him, and thinking that to see other -circles outside of his own was good for a young man. I couldn’t take him -the round of the studios, you know--could I? But I took him to the -Revels. She is a charming little woman, a woman whom I am very fond of, -and--more extraordinary still, don’t you think, Colonel Kingsward?--who -is fond of me.” - -The Colonel was not up to the mark in this emergency. He did not give -the little compliment which is expected after such a speech. He sat -dumb, a dull, middle-aged blush rising over his face. He had no longer -anything to say; instead of the serious, even impassioned remonstrance -which he was about to address to her, he could only murmur a faint -assent, a question without meaning. And in place of the generous, -imprudent creature, following her own hasty impulses, disregarding the -opinion of the world, whom he had expected to find, here was female -dignity in person, regulated by all the nicest laws of propriety. He was -struck dumb--the ground was cut from beneath his feet. - -“This is only an interruption on my part. You were going to say -something to me? And something serious? I prize so much everything you -say that I must not lose it. Pray say it now, dear Colonel Kingsward. -Have I done something you don’t like? I am ready to accept even -blame--though you know what women are in that way, always standing out -that they are right--from you.” - -Colonel Kingsward looked at her, helpless, still without a word to say. -There was surely a laughing demon in her eyes which saw through and -through him and knew the trouble in his mind; but her face was serious, -appealing, a little raised towards him, waiting for his words as if her -fate hung upon them. The colour rose over his middle-aged countenance to -the very hair which was beginning to show traces of white over his high -forehead. - -“Blame!” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “I hope you don’t -think me quite a fool.” - -“What,” she cried, picking him up as it were on the end of her lance, -holding him out to the scorn--if not of the world, yet of himself. “Do -you think so little of a woman, Colonel Kingsward, that you would not -take the trouble to find fault with her? Ah! Don’t be so hard! You would -not be a fool if you did that--you should find that I would take it with -gratitude, accept it, be guided by it. Believe me, I am worthy, if you -think me in the wrong, to be told so--I am, indeed I am!” - -Were these tears in her fine eyes? She made them look as if they were, -and filled him with a compunction and a shame of his own superficial -judgment impossible to put into words. - -“I--think you wrong!” he said, stammering and faltering. “I would as -soon think that--heaven was wrong. I--blame you! Dear Miss Laura, how, -how can you imagine such a thing? I should be a miserable idiot indeed -if----” - -“Come,” she said, “I begin to think you didn’t mean--now that you have -called me by my name.” - -“I beg you a thousand pardons. I--I--It was a slip of the tongue. It -was--from the signature to your letters--which is somehow so like -you----” - -“Yes,” she said. “It pleases me very much that you should think so--more -like me than Lance. Lance! What a name! My mother made a mésalliance. I -don’t give up my father, poor dear, though he has saddled me with such a -family--but Laura is me, whereas Lance is only--an accident.” - -“An accident that may be removed,” he said, involuntarily. It was a -thing that might be said to any unmarried woman, a conventional sort of -half compliment, which custom would have permitted him to put in even -stronger terms--but to her! When he had said it horror seized his soul. - -“No,” she said, gently shaking her head. “No. At my age one does not -recover from an accident like that; one must bear the scar all one’s -days. And you really had nothing to find fault with me about?” - -“How monstrous!” he cried, “to entertain such a thought.” Then, for he -was really uneasy in his sense of guilt, he plunged into a new snare. -“My little daughter, Betty,” he said, “is coming to town to-day to visit -some friends in Portman Square. I wonder if I might bring her to see -you.” - -“Your daughter!” cried Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a thing I did -not venture to ask--the very first desire of my heart. Your daughter! I -would go anywhere to see her. If you will be so nice, so sweet, so kind -as to bring her, Colonel Kingsward!” - -“I shall, indeed, to-morrow. It will do her good to see you. At her -susceptible age the very sight of such a woman as you--” - -“No compliments,” she cried, “if I am not to be blamed I must not be -praised either--and I deserve it much less. Is she the eldest?” There -was a gleam under her half-dropped eyelids which the Colonel was vaguely -aware of but did not understand. - -“The second,” he said. “My eldest girl is Bee, in many respects a -stronger character than her sister, but on the other hand--” - -“I know,” said Miss Lance, “a little wilful, fond of her own way and her -own opinion. Oh, that is a good fault in a girl! When they are a little -chastened they turn out the finest women. But I understand what a man -must feel for this little sweet thing who has not begun to have a will -of her own.” - -It was not perhaps a very perfect characterisation of Betty, but still -it flattered him to see how she entered into his thoughts. “I think you -understand everything,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -IT was not with any intention, but solely to deliver himself from the -dilemma in which he found himself--the inconceivable error he had made, -imagining that it was necessary to censure, however gently, and warn -against too much freedom of action, a woman so absolutely above -reproach, and so full of ladylike dignity as Miss Lance--that Colonel -Kingsward had named the name of Betty, his little daughter, just arrived -in that immaculate stronghold of the correct and respectable Portman -Square. He was a little uneasy about it when he thought of it -afterwards. He was not sure that he desired even Betty to be aware of -his intimacy with Miss Lance. He felt that her youthful presence would -change, in some degree, the character of his relations with the -enchantress who was stealing his wits away. The kind of conversation -that had arisen so naturally between them, the sentiment, the -confidences, the singular strain of mutual understanding which he felt, -with mingled pride and bashfulness--bashfulness sat strangely upon the -much-experienced Colonel, yet such was his feeling--to exist between -Laura and himself, must inevitably sustain certain modifications under -the sharp eyes of the child. She would not understand that subtle but -strong link of friendship. He would require to be more distant, to treat -his exquisite friend more like an ordinary acquaintance while under the -inspection of Betty, even though he was perfectly assured that Betty -knew nothing about such matters. And what, then, would Laura say? -Confident as she was in her own perfect honour and candour, would she -understand the subdued manner, the more formal address which would be -necessary in the presence of the child? It was true that she understood -everything without a word said; but then her own entire innocence of -any motive but those of heavenly kindness and friendship might induce -her to laugh at his precautions. Was it, perhaps, because he felt his -motives to be not unmingled that the Colonel felt this? Anyhow, the -introduction of Betty, whom he had snatched at in his haste to save him -from the consequences of his own folly, would be a trouble to the -intercourse which, as it was, was so consolatory and so sweet. - -It must be added that Miss Lance, before he left her, had been very -consolatory to him on the subject of Charlie, which, though always lying -at the bottom of his thoughts, had begun in the midst of these new -developments to weigh upon him less, perhaps, than it was natural it -should have done. She had suggested that Charlie had friends in -Scotland, that he had most probably gone there to avoid for a time his -father’s wrath, that in all probability he was enjoying himself, and -very well cared for, putting off from day to day the necessity of -writing. - -“He never was, I suppose, much of a correspondent?” she said. - -“No,” Colonel Kingsward had replied, doubtfully; for indeed there never -had been anything at all to call correspondence between him and his son. -Charlie had written to his mother, occasionally to his sisters, but to -his father, save when he wanted money, scarcely at all. - -“Then this is what has happened,” said Laura; “he has gone off to be as -far out of the way as possible. He is fishing in Loch Tay--or he is -playing golf somewhere--you know his habits.” - -“And so it seems do you,” said the Colonel, a little jealous of his son. - -“Oh, you know how a boy chatters of everything he does and likes.” - -Colonel Kingsward nodded his head gloomily. He did not know how boys -chattered--no boy had ever chattered to him; but he accepted with a -moderate satisfaction the fact that she, Laura, from whom he felt that -he himself could have no secret, had taken, and did take, the trouble of -turning the heart even--of a boy--outside in. - -“Depend upon it,” said Miss Lance, “that is where he has gone, and he -has not meant to make you anxious. Perhaps he thinks you have never -discovered that he had left Oxford, and he has meant to write day by -day. Don’t you know how one does that? It is a little difficult to -begin, and one says, ‘To-morrow,’ and then ‘To-morrow’; and the time -flies on. Dear Colonel Kingsward, you will find that all this time he is -quite happy on Loch Tay.” She held out her hand to emphasise these -words, and the Colonel, though all unaccustomed to such signs of -enthusiasm, kissed that hand which held out comfort to him. It was a -beautiful hand, so soft, like velvet, so yielding and flexible in his, -and yet so firm in its delicate pressure. He went away with his head -slightly turned, and the blood coursing through his veins. But when he -thought of little Betty he dropped down, down into a blank of decorum -and commonplace. Before Betty he certainly could not kiss any lady’s -hand. He would have to shake hands with Laura as he did with old Mrs. -Lyon in Portman Square, who, indeed, was a much older friend. This -thought gave him a little feeling of contrariety and uneasiness in the -contemplation of his promise to take his little girl to George Street, -Hanover Square. - -And next morning when he went into his office, Colonel Kingsward’s -annoyance and indignation could not be expressed when he found once more -upon his writing-table, placed in a conspicuous position so that he -could not overlook it, the card of Mr. Aubrey Leigh. Who had fished it -out of the waste paper basket and placed it there? He rang his bell -hastily to overwhelm his attendant with angry reproof. He could not have -told, himself, why it made him so angry to see that card. It looked like -some vulgar interference with his most private affairs. - -“Where did you find this card?” he said, angrily, “and why is it -replaced here? I threw it into the fire--or somewhere, yesterday--and -here it is again as if the man had called to-day.” - -“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday.” - -“What?” cried Colonel Kingsward, in a voice like a trumpet; but the man -stood his ground. - -“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday. He has called two or three -times; once when you were in the country. He seemed very anxious to see -you. I said two o’clock for a general thing, but you have been leaving -the office earlier for a day or two.” - -“You are very impertinent to say anything of the kind, or to give anyone -information of my private movements; see that it never occurs again. And -as for this gentleman,” he held up his card for a moment, looked at it -contemptuously and then pitched it once more into the fireplace, “be so -good as to understand that I will not see him, whether he comes at two -or at any other hour.” - -“Am I to tell him so, sir?” said the man, annoyed. - -“Of course you are to tell him so; and mind you don’t bring me any -message or explanation. I will not see him--that is enough; now you can -go.” - -“Shall I---- say you’re too busy, Colonel, or just going out, or -engaged----?” - -“No!” shouted Colonel Kingsward, with a force of breath which blew the -attendant away like a strong wind. The Colonel returned to his work and -his correspondence with an irritation and annoyance which even to -himself seemed beyond the occasion. Bee’s old lover, he supposed, had -taken courage to make another attempt; but nothing would induce him to -change his former decision. He would not hear a word, not a word! A kind -of panic mingled in his hasty impulse of rage. He would not so much as -see the fellow--give him any opportunity of renewing---- Was it his suit -to Bee? Was it something else indefinite behind? Colonel Kingsward did -not very well know, but he was determined on one thing--not to allow the -presence of this intruder, not to hear a word that he had to say. - -And then about Betty--that was annoying too, but he had promised to do -it, and to break his word to Laura was a thing he could not do. -Laura--Miss Laura, if she pleased, though that is not a usual mode of -address--but not Lance--how right she was! The name of Lance did not -suit her at all, and yet how just and sweet all the same. Her mother had -made a mésalliance, but there was no pettiness about her. She held by -her father, though she was aware of his inferiority. And then he thought -of her as she shook her head gently, and smiled at his awkward -stumbling suggestion that the accident of the name was not irremediable. -“At my age,”--what was her age? The most delightful, the most -fascinating of ages, whatever it was. Not the silly girlhood of Bee and -Betty, but something far more entrancing, far more charming. These -thoughts interfered greatly with his correspondence, and made the mass -of foreign newspapers, and the military intelligence from all over the -world, which it was his business to look over, appear very dull, -uninteresting and confused. He rose hastily after a while, and took his -hat and sallied forth to Portman Square, where he was expected to -luncheon. He was relieved, on the whole, to be thus legitimately out of -the way in case that fellow should have the audacity to call again. - -“I want you to come out with me, Betty,” he said, after that meal, which -was very solemn, serious and prolonged, but very dull and not -appetising. “I want to take you to see a friend--” - -“Oh, papa! we are going to---- Mrs. Lyon was going to take me to see -Mr. Revel’s picture before he sends it in.” - -“To-morrow will do, my dear, equally well, if your papa wants you to go -anywhere.” - -“Mr. Revel’s picture? He is precisely a friend of the friend I am going -to take you to see.” For a moment Colonel Kingsward wavered thinking how -much more agreeable it would be to have his interview with Laura -undisturbed by the presence of this little chit with her sharp eyes. But -he was a soldier and faithful to his consignee. “If it will do as well -to-morrow, and will not derange Mrs. Lyon’s plans, I should like you to -come now.” - -“Run and get ready, Betty,” cried the old lady, to whom obedience was a -great quality, “and there will still be time to go there, if you are not -very long, when you come back.” - -The Colonel felt as if his foot was upon more solid ground; not that any -doubt of Laura had ever been in his mind--but yet---- He had not -suspected the existence of any link between her and Portman Square. - -“Mr. Revel is a very good painter, I suppose?” he said. - -“A great painter, we all think; and beginning to be really acknowledged -in the art world,” said the old lady, who liked it to be known that she -knew a great deal about pictures, and was herself considered to have -some authority in that interesting sphere. - -“And--hasn’t he a wife? I think I heard someone talking of his wife.” - -“Yes, a dear little woman!” cried Mrs. Lyon. “Her Tuesdays are the most -pleasant parties. We always go when we are able. Ah! here is Betty, like -a little rose. Now, acknowledge you are proud to have a little thing -like that, Colonel, to walk with you through the park on a fine day like -this?” - -Colonel Kingsward looked at Betty. She was a pretty little blooming -creature. He did not regard her with any enthusiasm, and yet she was a -creditable creature enough to belong to one. He gave a little nod of -approving indifference. Betty was very much admired at Portman -Square--from Gerald, who kept up an artillery of glances across the big -table, to the old butler, who called her attention specially to any -dish that was nicer than usual, and carried meringues to her twice, she -was the object of everybody’s regards. Her father did not, naturally, -look at her from the same point of view, but he was sufficiently pleased -with her appearance. He was pleased, too, exhilarated, he could scarcely -tell why, by the fact that Mrs. Lyon knew the painter’s wife and spoke -of her as a “dear little woman,” the very words Laura had used. Did he -require any guarantee that Laura herself was of the same order, knew the -same sort of people as his other friends? Had such a question been put -to him, the Colonel would have knocked the man down who made it, as in -days when duelling was possible he would have called him out---- But -yet--at all events it gave him much satisfaction that the British matron -in the shape of Mrs. Lyon spoke no otherwise of the lady whom for one -terrible moment of delusion he had intended to warn against intercourse, -too little guarded, with such equivocal men as artists. He shuddered -when he thought of that extraordinary aberration. - -“Who is it, papa, we are going to see?” said Betty’s little voice by his -side. - -“It is a lady--who has taken a great interest in your brother.” - -“Oh, papa, that I should not have asked that the first thing! Have you -any news?” - -“Nothing that I can call news, but I think I may say I have reason to -believe that Charlie has gone up to the north to the Mackinnons. That -does not excuse him for having left us in this anxiety; but the idea, -which did not occur to me till yesterday, has relieved my mind.” - -“To the Mackinnons!” said Betty, doubtfully, “but then I heard----” She -stopped herself suddenly, and added after a moment, “How strange, papa, -if he is there, that none of them should have written.” - -“It is strange; but perhaps when you think of all things, not so very -strange. He probably has not explained the circumstances to them, and -they will think that he has written; they would not feel it -necessary--why should they?--to let us know of his arrival. That, as a -matter of course, they would expect him to have done. I don’t think, on -the whole, it is at all strange; on his part inexcusable, but not to be -expected from them.” - -“But, papa!” cried Betty. - -“What is it?” he said, almost crossly. “I don’t mind saying,” he added, -“that even for him there may be excuses--if such folly can ever be -excused. He never writes to me in a general way, and it would not be a -pleasant letter to write; and no doubt he has put it off from day to -day, intending always to do it to-morrow--and every day would naturally -make it more difficult.” Thus he went on repeating unconsciously all the -suggestions that had been made to him. “Remember, Betty,” he said, “as -soon as you see that you have done anything wrong, always make a clean -breast of it at once; the longer you put it off the more difficult you -will find it to do.” - -“Yes, papa,” said little Betty, with great doubt in her tone. She did -not know what to think, for she had in her blotting book at Portman -Square a letter lately received from one of these same Mackinnons in -which not a word was said of Charlie. Why should not Helen have -mentioned him had he been there? And yet, if papa thought so, and if it -relieved his mind to think so, what was Betty to set up a different -opinion? Her mind was still full of this thought when she found herself -following her father up the narrow stairs into the little drawing-room. -There she was met by a lady, who rose and came forward to her, holding -out two beautiful hands. “Such hands!” Betty said afterwards. Her own -were plump, reddish articles, small enough and not badly shaped, but -scarcely free from the scars and smirches of gardening, wild-flower -collecting, pony saddling, all the unnecessary pieces of work that a -country girl’s, like a country boy’s, are employed for. She had at the -moment a hopeless passion for white hands. And these drew her close, -while the beautiful face stooped over her and gave her a soft lingering -kiss. Was it a beautiful face? At least it was very, very handsome--fine -features, fine eyes, an imposing benignity, like a grand duchess at the -very least. - -“So this is little Betty,” the lady said, to whom she was presented by -that title, “just out of last century, with her grandmother’s name, and -the newest version of her grandmother’s hat. How pretty! Oh, it is your -hat, you know, not you, that I am admiring. Like a little rose!” - -Betty had no prejudices aroused in her mind by this lady’s name, for -Colonel Kingsward did not think it necessary to pronounce it. He said, -“My little Betty,” introducing the girl, but he did not think it needful -to make any explanations to her. And she thus fell, all unprotected, -under the charm. Laura talked to her for full five minutes without -taking any notice of the Colonel, and drew from her all she wanted to -see, and the places to which she was going, making a complete conquest -of the little girl. It was only when Colonel Kingsward’s patience was -quite exhausted, and he was about to jump up and propose somewhat -sullenly to leave his daughter with her new friend, that Miss Lance -turned to him suddenly with an exclamation of pleasure. - -“Did you hear, Colonel Kingsward? She was going to see Arthur Revel’s -picture this afternoon. And so was I! Will you come too? He is a great -friend of mine, as I told you, and he knew dear Charlie, and, of course, -he would be proud and delighted to see you. Shall we take Betty back to -Portman Square to pick up her carriage and her old lady, and will you go -humbly on foot with me? We shall meet them, and Mrs. Revel shall give us -tea.” - -“Oh, papa, do!” Betty cried. - -It was not perhaps what he would have liked best, but he yielded with a -very good grace. He had not, perhaps, been so proud of little Betty by -his side as the Lyons had expected, but Laura by his side was a -different matter. He could not help remarking how people looked at her -as they went along, and his mind was full of pride in the handsome, -commanding figure, almost as tall as himself, and walking like a queen. -Yet it made his head turn round a little when he saw Miss Lance seated -by Mrs. Lyon’s side in the studio, talking intimately to her of the -whole Kingsward family, while Betty clung to her new friend as if she -had known her all her life. Old Mrs. Lyon was still more startled, and -her head went round too. “What a handsome woman!” she said, in Colonel -Kingsward’s ear. “What a delightful woman! Who is she?” - -“Miss Lance,” he said, rather stupidly, feeling how little information -these words conveyed. Miss Lance? Who was Miss Lance? If he had said -Laura it might have been a different matter. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -WHILE all these things were going on, Bee was left at Kingswarden alone. -That is to say, she was so far from being alone that her solitude was -absolute. She had all the children and was very busy among them. She had -the two boys home for the Easter holidays; the house was full of the -ordinary noise, mirth and confusion natural to a large young family -under no more severe discipline than that exercised by a young elder -sister. The big boys, were in their boyish way, gentlemen, and deferred -to Bee more or less--which set a good example to the younger ones; but -she was enveloped in a torrent of talk, fun, games and jest, which raged -round her from before she got up in the morning till at least the -twilight, when the nursery children got tired, and the big boys having -exhausted every method of amusement during the day, began to feel the -burden of nothing to do, and retired into short-lived attempts at -reading, or games of beggar-my-neighbour, or any other simple mode of -possible recreation--descending to the level of imaginary football with -an old hat through the corridor before it was time to go to bed. - -In the evening Bee was thus completely alone, listening to the distant -bumps in the passage, and the voices of the players. The drawing-room -was large, but it was indifferently lighted, which is apt to make a -country drawing-room gloomy in the evening. There was one shaded lamp on -a writing-table, covered at this moment with colour boxes and rough -drawings of the boys, who had been constructing a hut in the grounds, -and wasting much vermillion and Prussian blue on their plans for it; and -near the fireplace, in which the chill of the Spring still required a -little fire, was another lamp, shining silently upon Bee’s white dress -and her hands crossed in her lap. Her face and all its thoughts were in -the shade, nobody to share, nobody to care what they were. - -Betty was in town. Her one faithful though not always entirely -sympathetic companion, the aunt--at all times not much more than a piece -of still life--was unwell and had gone to bed; Charlie was lost in the -great depth and silence of the world; Bee was thus alone. She had been -working for the children, making pinafores or some other necessary, as -became her position as sister-mother; for where there are so many -children there is always a great deal to do; but she had grown tired of -the pinafores. If it were not a hard thing to say she was a little tired -of the children too, tired of having to look after them perpetually, of -the nurse’s complaints, and the naughtiness of baby who was spoilt and -unmanageable--tired of the bumping and laughing of the boys, and tired -too of bidding them be quiet, not to rouse the children. - -All these things had suddenly become intolerable to Bee. She had a great -many times expressed her thankfulness that she had so much to do, and no -time to think--and probably to-morrow morning she would again be of -that opinion; but in the meantime she was very tired of it all--tired of -a position which was too much for her age, and which she was not able to -bear. She was only a speck in the long, empty drawing-room, her white -skirts and her hands crossed in her lap being all that showed -distinctly, betraying the fact that someone was there, but with her face -hidden in the rosy shade, there was nobody to see that tears had stolen -up into Bee’s eyes. Her hands were idle, folded in her lap. She was -tired of being dutiful and a good girl, as the best of girls are -sometimes. It seemed to her for the moment a dreary world in which she -was placed, merely to take care of the children, not for any pleasure of -her own. She felt that she could not endure for another moment the -bumping in the passage, and the distant voices of the boys. Probably if -they went on there would be a querulous message from Aunt Helen, or -pipings from the nursery of children woke up, and a furious descent of -nurse, more than insinuating that Miss Bee did not care whether baby’s -sleep was broken or not. But even with this certainty before her, Bee -did not feel that she had energy to get up from her chair and interfere; -it was too much. She was too solitary, left alone to bear all the -burden. - -Then the habitual thought of Charlie returned to her mind. Poor Charlie! -Where was he, still more alone than she. Perhaps hidden away in the -silence of the seas, or tossing in a storm, going away, away where no -one who cared for him would ever see him more. The tears which had come -vaguely to her eyes dropped, making a mark upon her dress, legitimatised -by this thought. Bee would have been ashamed had they fallen for -herself; but for Charlie--Charlie lost!--none of his family knowing -where he was--she might indeed be allowed to cry. Where was he? Where -was he? If he had been here he would have been sitting with her, making -things more possible. Bee knew very well in her heart that if Charlie -had been with her he would not have been much help to her, that he would -have been grumbling over his own hard fate, and calling upon her to pity -him; but the absent, if they are sometimes wronged, have, on the other -hand, the privilege of being remembered in their best aspect. Then Bee’s -thoughts glided on from Charlie to someone else whom she had for a long -time refused to think of, or tried to refuse to think of. She was so -solitary to-night, with all her doors open to recollections, that he had -stolen in before she knew, and now there was quite a shower of round -blots upon her white dress. Aubrey--oh, Aubrey! who had betrayed her -trust so, who had done her such cruel wrong!--but yet, but yet---- - -She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the evening post. -Kingswarden was near enough to town to have an evening post, which is a -privilege not always desirable. But any incident was a good thing for -poor Bee. She drew the pinafore, at which she had been working, hastily -over her knee to hide the spots of moisture, and dashed the tears from -her eyes with a rapid hand. In the shade of the lamp not even the most -keen eyes could see that she had been crying. She even paused as she -took the letter to say, “Will you please tell the boys not to make so -much noise?” There were three letters on the tray--one for her father, -one for her aunt, one Betty’s usual daily rigmarole of little news and -nonsense which she never failed to send when she was away. Betty’s -letter was very welcome to her sister. But as Bee read it her face began -to burn. It became more and more crimson, so that the rose shade of the -lamp was overpowered by a deeper and hotter colour. Betty to turn upon -her, to take up the other side, to cast herself under that dreadful new -banner of Fate! Bee’s breath came quickly, her heart beat with anger and -trouble. She got up from her chair and began to walk quickly about the -room, a sudden passion sweeping away all the forlorn sentiment of her -previous thoughts. Betty! in addition to all the rest. Bee felt like the -forlorn _chatelaine_ of a besieged castle alone to defend the walls -against the march of a destroying invader. The danger which had been far -off was coming--it was coming! And the castle had no garrison at all--if -it were not perhaps those dreadful boys making noise enough to bring -down the house, who were precisely the partisans least to be depended -upon, who would probably throw down their arms without striking a blow. -And Bee was alone, the captain deserted of all her forces to defend the -sacred hearth and the little children. The little children! Bee stamped -her foot upon the floor in an appeal, not to heaven, but to all the -powers of Indignation, Fury, War, War! She would defend those walls to -her last gasp. She would not give way, she would fight it out step by -step, to keep the invader from the children. The nursery should be her -citadel. Oh, she knew what would happen, she cried to herself -inconsequently! Baby, who was spoilt, would be twisted into rigid shape, -the little girls would be subdued like little mice--the boys-- - -At this moment the old hat which served as a football came with a thump -from the corridor into the hall, followed by a louder shout than ever -from Arthur and Rex. Bee rushed forth upon them flinging the door open, -with her blue eyes blazing. - -“Do you mean to bring down the house?” she said, in a sudden outburst. -“Do you mean to break the vases and the mirror and wake up the whole -nursery and bring Aunt Helen down upon us? For goodness sake try to -behave like reasonable creatures, and don’t drive me out of my senses!” -cried Bee. - -The boys were so startled by this onslaught that Rex, with a final kick -sent the wretched old hat flying to the end of the passage which led to -the servants’ hall, as if it were that harmless object that was to -blame--while Arthur covered the retreat sulkily by a complaint that -there was nothing to do in this beastly old hole, and that a fellow -couldn’t read books all the day long. Bee was so inspired and thrilling -with the passion in her, that she went further than any properly -constituted female creature knowing her own position ought to do. - -“You have a great deal more to do than I have,” she said, “far, far more -to do and to amuse yourselves with. Why should you expect so much more -than I do, because you are boys and I am a girl? Is it fair? You’re -always talking of things being fair. It isn’t fair that you should -disturb the whole house, the little babies, and everyone for your -pleasure; and I’m not so very much older than you are, and what -pleasure have I?” - -The boys were very much cast down by this fiery remonstrance. There had -been a squall as of several babies from the upper regions, and they had -already been warned of the consequence of their horseplay. But Bee’s -representation touched them in their tenderest point. Was it fair? Well, -no, perhaps it was not quite fair. They went back after her, humbled, -into the drawing-room, and besought her to join them in a game. After -they had finally retired, having finished the evening to their own -partial content, Bee took out again Betty’s letter and read it with less -excitement than at first--or at least with less demonstration of -excitement; this was what it said-- - -“Bee, such a delightful woman, a friend of her papa’s! So handsome, so -nice, so clever, so well dressed, everything you can think except young, -which of course she is not--nor anything silly. Papa told me to get -ready to come out with him to see an old friend of his and I wasn’t at -all willing, didn’t like it, I thought it must be some old image like -old Mrs. Mackinnon or Nancy Eversfield, don’t you know. Mrs. Lyon had -settled to take me out to see some pictures, and Gerald was coming, and -we were to have a turn in the park after, and I had put on my new frock -and was looking forward to it, when papa came in with this order: ‘Get -on your things and come with me, I want to take you to see an old -friend.’ Of course I had to go, for Mrs. Lyon will never allow me to -shirk anything. But I was not in a very good humour, though they called -me as fresh as a rose and all that--to please papa; as if he cared how -we look! He took me to George Street, Hanover Square, a horrid little -lodging, such as people come to when they come up from the country. And -I had to look as serious and as steady as possible for the sake of the -old lady; when there rose up from the chair, oh, such a different -person, tall, but as slight as you are, with such a handsome face and -such a manner. She might have been--let us say a nice, sweet aunt--but -aunt is not a name that means anything delightful; and mother I must not -say, for there is only one mother in the whole world; oh, but something -I cannot give a name, so understanding, so kind, so nice, for that means -everything. She kissed me, and then she began to talk to me as if she -knew everyone of us and was very fond of us all. And then about Charlie, -whom she seemed to know very well. She called him dear Charlie, and -I wonder if it is she who has persuaded papa that he is with -the Mackinnons, in Scotland. But I know he is not with the -Mackinnons--however, I will tell you about this after. - -“Dear Bee, what will you say when I tell you that this delightful woman -is Miss Lance? You will say I have no heart, or no spirit, and am not -sticking to you through thick and thin as I ought; but you must hear -first what I have got to say. Had I known it was Miss Lance I should -have shut myself close up, and whatever she had done or however nice she -had been, I should have had nothing to say to her. If she had been an -angel under that name I should have remembered what you had said, and I -should not have seen any good in her. But I never heard what her name -was till we were all in Mr. Revel’s studio, quite a long time after. -Papa did as he always does, introduced me to her, but not her to me. He -said: “My daughter Betty,” as if I must have known by instinct who she -was. And, dear Bee, though I acknowledge you have every reason not to -believe it, she is delightful, she is, she is! She may have done wrong. -I can’t tell, of course; but I don’t believe she ever meant it, or to -harm you, or Charlie, or anyone. Everybody is delighted with her. Mrs. -Lyon, who you know is very particular, says she has the manners of a -duchess--and that she is such a handsome, distinguished-looking woman. -She is coming to dine here next Saturday. The only one who does not seem -to be quite charmed with her is Gerald, who is prejudiced like you. - -“Do try to get over your prejudice, Bee, dear--she is, she is, indeed -delightful! You only want to know her. By the way, about the Mackinnons: -papa has got it firmly into his head that Charlie is there; he says his -mind is quite relieved about him, and that the more he thinks of it, the -more he is certain it is so; now I know that it is not so. I got a -letter from Helen Mackinnon the day I came here, and there is not a -word about Charlie--and she would have been certain to have mentioned -him had he been there. I tried to say this to papa, but his head was so -full of the other idea that he did not hear me at first, and I couldn’t -go on. I whispered to Miss Lance in the studio, and asked her what I -should do? She was so troubled and distressed about Charlie that the -tears came into her eyes, but, after thinking a moment, she said, ‘Oh, -dear child, don’t say anything. Your young friend might have been in a -hurry, she might not have thought it necessary to speak of your brother. -Oh, don’t let us worry him now! Bad news always comes soon enough, and, -of course, he will find it out if it is so.’ Do you think she was right? -But, oh Bee, dear Bee, I am afraid you will not think anything she says -is right; and yet she is _delightful_. If only you knew her! Write -directly, and tell me all you think.” - -Bee was not excited on this second reading. She did not spring to her -feet, nor stamp on the floor, or feel inclined to call upon all the -infernal gods. But her heart sank down as if it would never rise again, -and a great pain took possession of her. Who was this witch, this -magician, that everyone who belonged to Bee should be drawn into her -toils--even Betty. What could she want with Betty, who was only a little -girl, who was her sister’s natural second and support? Bee sat a long -time with her head in her hands, letting the fire go out, feeling cold -and solitary and miserable, and frightened to death. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -IN the afternoon of the next day, Bee was again alone. The old aunt had -come down for lunch, but gone up to her room again to rest after that -meal. It was a little chilly outside. The children, of course, wrapped -up in their warm things, and in the virtue of the English nursery, which -shrinks from no east wind, were out for their various walks. The big -boys, attended by such of the little boys as could be trusted with these -athletes, were taking violent exercise somewhere, and Bee sat by the -fire, alone. It is not a place for a girl of twenty. The little -pinafore, half made, was on the table beside her. She had a book in her -hand. Perhaps had she been a young wife looking for the return of her -young husband in the evening, with all the air of the bigger world about -him and an abundance of news, and plans, and life, a pretty enough -picture might have been made of that cosy fireside retirement. - -But even this ideal has ceased to be satisfactory to the present -generation. And Bee’s spirits and heart were very low. She had -despatched a fiery letter to Betty, and with this all her anger had -faded away. She had no courage to do anything. She seemed to have come -to an end of all possibilities. She had no longer anyone to fall back -upon as a supporter and sympathiser--not even Betty. Even this closest -link of nature seemed to have been broken by that enemy. - -To have an enemy is not a very common experience in modern life. People -may do each other small harms and annoyances, but to most of us the -strenuous appeals and damnations of the Psalmist are quite beyond -experience. But Bee had come back to the primitive state. She had an -enemy who had succeeded in taking from her everything she cared for. -Aubrey her betrothed, Charlie, her father, her sister, one after the -other in quick succession. It was not yet a year and a half since she -first heard this woman’s name, and in that time all these losses had -happened. She was not even sure that her mother’s death was not the work -of the same subtle foe; indeed, she brought herself to believe that it -was at least accelerated by all the trouble and contention brought into -the family by her own misery and rebellion--all the work of that woman! -Why, why, had Bee been singled out for this fate? A little girl in an -English house, like other girls--no worse, no better. Why should she -alone in all England have this bitterness of an enemy to make her -desolate and break her heart? - -While she was thus turning over drearily those dismal thoughts, there -was a messenger approaching to point more sharply still the record of -these disasters and their cause. Bee had laid down her book in her lap; -her thoughts had strayed completely from it and gone back to her own -troubles, when the door of the drawing-room opened quietly and a servant -announced “Mrs. Leigh.” Mrs. Leigh! It is not an uncommon name. A Mrs. -Lee lived in the village, a Mrs. Grantham Lea was the clergyman’s wife -in the next parish. Bee drew her breath quickly and composed her looks, -but thought of no visitor that could make her heavy heart beat. Not even -when the lady came in, a more than middle-aged matron, of solid form and -good colour, dressed with the subdued fashionableness appropriate to her -age. It was not Mrs. Lee from the village, nor Mrs. Grantham Lea, -nor---- Yet Bee had seen her before. She rose up a little startled and -made a step or two forward. - -“You do not know me, Miss Kingsward? I cannot wonder at it, since we met -but once, and that in circumstances---- Don’t start nor fly, though I -see you have recognised me.” - -“Indeed I did not think of flying. Will you--will you--sit down.” - -“You need not be afraid of me, my poor child,” said Mrs. Leigh. - -Aubrey’s mother seated herself and looked with a kind yet troubled look -at the girl, who still stood up in the attitude in which she had risen -from her chair. “I scarcely saw you the other time,” she said. “It was -in the garden. You did not give me a good reception. I should like -much, sometime or other, if you would tell me why. I have never made out -why. But don’t be afraid; it is not on that subject I have come to you -now.” - -Bee seated herself. She kept her blue eyes, which seemed expanded and -larger than usual, but had none of the former indignant blaze in them, -fixed on the old lady’s face. - -“Your father is not here, the servant tells me--” - -“No--he is in town,” she answered, faltering, almost too much absorbed -by anticipation to reply. - -“And you are alone--nobody with you to stand by you?” - -“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, catching her breath, “I don’t know why you -should ask me such questions, or--or be sorry for me. I don’t need -anybody to be sorry for me.” - -“Poor little girl! We needn’t go into that question. I am sorry for any -girl who is motherless, who has to take her mother’s place. I would much -rather have spoken to your father had he been here.” - -“After all,” said Bee, “my father could say nothing. It is I who must -decide for myself.” - -She said this with an involuntary betrayal of her consciousness that -there could be but one subject between them, and it was not in the power -of Aubrey Leigh’s mother, however strongly aware she was of another -theme on which she had come to speak, not to note how different was -Bee’s reception of her from the other time, when the girl had fled from -her presence and would not even hear what she had to say. Bee’s eyes -were large and humid and full of an anxiety which was almost wistful. -She had the air of refusing to hear with her lips, but eagerly expecting -with her whole heart what was about to be said. And she looked so young, -so solitary, in her mother’s chair, with a mother’s work lying about, -the head of this silent house--that the heart of the elder woman was -deeply touched. If little Betty had been like a rose, Bee was almost as -white as the cluster of fragrant white narcissus that stood on the -table. Poor little girl, so subdued and changed from the little -passionate creature who would not hear a word, and whose indignation -was stronger than even the zeal of the mother who had come to plead her -son’s cause! - -Mrs. Leigh drew a little nearer and took Bee’s hand. The girl did not -resist, but kept her eyes upon her steadily, watching, her mind in a -great turmoil, not knowing what to expect. - -“My dear,” said the old lady, “don’t be alarmed. I have not come to -speak about Aubrey. I cannot help hoping that one day you will do him -justice; but, in the meantime, it is something else that has brought me -here. Miss Kingsward--your brother--” - -Bee’s hand, in this lady’s clasp, betrayed her in spite of herself. It -became limp and uninterested when she was assured that Aubrey was not in -question; and then, at her brother’s name, was snatched suddenly away. - -“My brother?” she cried, “Charlie!” Then, subduing herself, “What do you -know about him? Oh,” clasping her hands as new light seemed to break -upon her, “you have come to tell me some bad news?” - -“I hope not. My son found him some time ago, disheartened and unhappy -about leaving Oxford. He persuaded him to come and share his rooms. He -has been with him more or less all the time, which I hope may be a -comfort to you. And then he fell ill. My dear Aubrey has tried to see -your father, but in vain, and poor Charlie is not anxious, I fear, to -see his father. Yes, he has been ill, but not so seriously that we need -fear anything serious. He has shaken off the complaint, but he wants -rousing--he wants someone whom he loves. Aubrey sent for me a fortnight -ago. He has been well taken care of, there is nothing really wrong. But -we cannot persuade him to rouse himself. It is illness that is at the -bottom of it all. He would not have left you without news of him, he -would not shrink from his father if he were not ill. Bee, I will confess -to you that it is Aubrey who has sent me; but don’t be afraid, it is for -Charlie’s sake--only for Charlie’s sake. He thinks if you would but come -to him--if you would have the courage to come--to your brother, Bee.” - -“He--he thinks? Not Charlie--you don’t mean Charlie?” Bee cried. - -“Charlie does not seem to wish for anything. We cannot rouse him. We -think that the sight of someone he loves----” - -Bee was full of agitation. Her lips quivered; her hands trembled. “Oh, -me!” she said; “I am no one. It is not for his sister a boy cares. I do -not think I should do him any good. Oh, Charlie, Charlie! all this time -that we have been blaming him so, thinking him so cruel, he has been -lying ill! If I could do him any good!” she cried, wringing her hands. - -“The sight of you would do him good. It is not that he wants a nurse--I -have seen to that; but no nurse could rouse him as the sight of some of -his own people would. Do not question, my dear, but come--oh, come! He -thinks he is cut off from everybody, that his father will never see him, -that you must all have turned against him. Words will not convince him, -but to see you, that would do so. He would feel that he was not -forsaken.” - -“Oh, forsaken! How could he think it? He must know that we have been -breaking our hearts. It was he who forsook us all.” - -Bee had risen again, and stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, too much -shaken and agitated to keep still. Though she had thought herself so -independent, she had in reality never broken the strained band of -domestic subjugation. She had never so much as gone, though it was -little more than an hour’s journey, to London on her own authority. The -thought of taking such a step startled her. And that she should do this -on the word and in the company of Aubrey’s mother--Aubrey, for whom she -had once been ready to abandon everything, from whom she had been -violently separated, whom she had cast off, flung away from her without -hearing a word he had to say! How could she put herself in his way -again--go with his mother, accept his services? Bee had acted quickly on -the impulse of passion in all that had happened to her before. But she -had not known the conflict, the rending asunder of opposite emotions. In -the whirl of her thoughts her lover, whom she had cast off, came between -her and the brother whom he had succoured. It was to Aubrey’s house, to -his very dwelling where he was, that she must go if she went to -Charlie. And Charlie wanted her, or at least needed her, lying weak and -despairing, waiting for a sign from home. It was difficult to realise -her brother so, or to believe, indeed, that he could want her very much, -that there was any yearning in his heart towards his own flesh and -blood. But Mrs. Leigh thought so, and how could she refuse? How could -she refuse? The problem was too much for her. She looked into Mrs. -Leigh’s face with an appeal for help. - -“My dear,” her companion said, leaving a calm and cool hand upon Bee’s -arm, which trembled with nervous excitement, “If you are afraid of -meeting Aubrey, compose yourself. Aubrey would rather go to the end of -the world than give you any pain, or put himself in your way. We are -laying no trap for you--I should not have come if the case had not been -urgent. Never would I have come had it been a question of my son; I -would not beguile you even for his sake. It is for your brother, Bee; -not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey!” - -Not for Aubrey! Was that any comfort, was there any strength in that -assurance? At all events, these were the words that rang through Bee’s -head, as she made her hurried preparations. She had almost repeated them -aloud in the hasty explanations she made to Moss upstairs, who was now -at the head of the nursery, and to the housekeeper below. To neither of -these functionaries did it seem of any solemn importance that Bee should -go away for a day or two. There was no objection on their part to being -left at the head of affairs. And then Bee felt herself carried along by -the whirl of strange excitement and feeling which rather than the less -etherial methods of an express train seemed to sweep her through the air -of the darkening spring night by Mrs. Leigh’s side. A few hours before -she had felt herself the most helpless of dependent creatures, abandoned -by all, incapable of doing anything. And now, what was she doing? -Rushing into the heart of the conflict, assuming an individual part in -it, acting on her own responsibility. She could scarcely believe it was -herself who sat there by Mrs. Leigh’s side. - -But not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey! This kept ringing in her ears, like -the tolling of a bell, through all the other sounds. She sat in one -corner of the carriage, and listened to Mrs. Leigh’s explanations, and -to the clang of the engine and rush of the train, all mingled together -in bewildering confusion. But the other voice filled all space, echoing -through everything. Bee felt herself trembling on the edge of a crisis, -such as her life had never known. All the world seemed to be set against -her, her enemy, perhaps her father, and all the habitual authorities of -her young and subject life, now suddenly rising into rebellion. She -would have to do and say things which she would not have ventured so -much as to think of a little time ago; but whatever she might have to -encounter there was to be no renewal to Bee of her own story and -meaning. It was not for Aubrey that she was called or wanted--for the -succour of others, for sisterly help, for charity and kindness; but not -for her own love or life. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -IT was to a house in one of the streets of Mayfair that Mrs. Leigh -conveyed her young companion; one of those small expensive places where -persons within the circle of what is called the world in London contrive -to live with as little comfort and the greatest expenditure possible. It -is dark and often dingy in Mayfair; nowhere is it more difficult to keep -furniture, or even human apparel, clean; the rooms are small and the -streets shabby; but it is one of the right places in which to live, not -so perfect as it was once, indeed, but still furnishing an unimpeachable -address. - -It had half put on the aspect of the season by this time; some of the -balconies were full of flowers, and the air of resuscitation which -comes to certain quarters of London after Easter, as if, indeed, they -too had risen from the dead, was vaguely visible. To be sure, little of -this was apparent in the dim lamplight when the two ladies arrived at -the door. Bee was hurried upstairs through the narrow passage, though -she had been very keenly aware that someone in the lower room had -momentarily lifted the blind to look out as they arrived--someone who -did not appear, who made no sound, who had nothing to do with her or her -life. - -The rooms, which are usually the drawing-rooms of such a house, were -turned evidently into the apartments of the sufferer. In the back room -which they entered first was a nurse who greeted the ladies in dumb -show, and whose white head-dress and apron had the strangest effect in -the semi-darkness. She said, half by gesture, half with whispered words -more visible than audible, “He is up--better--impatient--good -sign--discontented with everything. Is this the lady?” - -Mrs. Leigh answered in the same way, “His sister--shall I go with -her?--you?--alone?” - -“By herself,” said the nurse, laconic; and almost inaudible as this -conversation was, it occasioned a stirring and movement in the inner -room. - -“What a noise you make,” cried a querulous, unsteady voice, “Who’s -there--who’s there?” - -The nurse took Bee’s hat from her head, with a noiseless swift movement, -and relieved her of the little cloak she was wearing. She took her by -the arm and pushed her softly forward. “Nothing to worry. Soothe him,” -she breathed, holding up a curtain that Bee might pass. The room was but -badly lighted, a single lamp on a table almost extinguished by the -shade, a fire burning though the night was warm, and one of the long -windows open, letting in the atmosphere and sounds of the London street. -Bee stole in, an uncertain shadow into the shaded room, less eager than -frightened and over-awed by this sudden entrance into the presence of -sickness and misery. She was not accustomed to associate such things -with her brother. It did not seem anyone with whom she was acquainted -that she was about to see. - -“Oh, Charlie!” the little cry and movement she made, falling down on her -knees beside him, raised a pale, unhappy face, half covered with the -down of an irregular fledgling beard from the pillow. - -“Hallo!” he said, and then in a tone of disappointment and disdain, -“You!” - -“Oh, Charlie, Charlie dear! You have been ill and we never knew.” - -“How do you know now? They knew I never wanted you to know,” he said. - -“Oh, Charlie--who ought to know but your own people? We have been -wretched, thinking all sorts of dreadful things--but not this.” - -“Naturally,” he said, “my own people might be trusted never to think the -right thing. Now you do know you may as well take yourself off. I don’t -want you--or anybody,” he added, with an impatient sigh. - -“Charlie--oh, please let me stay with you. Who should be with you but -your sister? And I know--a great deal about nursing. Mamma----” - -“I say--hold your tongue, can’t you? Who wants you to talk--of anything -of that sort?” - -Bee heard a slight stir in the curtains, and looking back hastily as she -dried her streaming eyes saw the laconic nurse making signs to her. The -sight of the stranger was more effectual even than her signs, and -restored Bee’s self-command at once. - -“Why did they bring you here?” said Charlie. “I didn’t want you; they -know what I want, well enough.” - -“What is it you want, oh, Charlie dear? Papa--and all of us--will do -anything in the world you want.” - -“Papa,” he said, and his weakened and irregular voice ran through the -gamut from a high feeble tone of irritation to the quaver of that -self-pity which is so strong in all youthful trouble. “Yes, he would be -pleased to get me out of the way, and be done with me now.” - -“Oh, Charlie! You know how wrong that is. Papa has been--miserable--” - -Charlie uttered a feeble laugh. He put his hand upon his chin, stroking -down the irregular tufts of hair; even in his low state the poor boy had -a certain pride in what he believed to be his beard. - -“Not much,” he said. “I daresay you’ve made a fuss--Betty and you. The -governor will crack up Arthur for the F. O. and let me drop like a -stone.” - -“No, Charlie, no. He has no such thought--he has taken such trouble not -to let it be known. He would not advertise or anything.” - -“Advertise!” A sudden hot flush came over the gaunt face. “For me!” It -did not seem that such a thought had ever occurred to the young man. -“Like the fellows in the newspapers that steal their master’s -money--‘All is arranged and you can return to your situation.’ By -George!” - -There was again a faint rustle in the curtains. Bee sprang up with her -natural impatience, and went straight to the spot whence this sound had -come. - -“If I am not to speak to my brother alone and in freedom, I will not -speak to him at all,” she said. - -The laconic nurse remonstrated violently with her lips and eyes. - -“Don’t excite him. Don’t disturb him. He’ll not sleep all night,” she -managed to convey, with much arching of the eyebrows and mouth, then -disappeared silently out of the bedroom behind. - -“What’s that?” said Charlie, sharply. He moved on his sofa, and turned -his head round with difficulty. “Are there more of you to come?” - -There seemed a kind of hope and expectation in the question, but when -Bee answered with despondency, “There’s only me, Charlie,” he broke out -harshly: - -“I don’t want you--I want none of you; I told them so. You can go and -tell my father, as soon as they let me get out I’m going off to New -Zealand or somewhere--the furthest-off place I can get to.” - -“Oh, Charlie!” cried Bee, taking every word as the sincerest utterance -of a fixed intention, “what could you do there?” - -“Die, I suppose,” he said, with again that quaver of self-compassion in -his voice, “or go to the dogs, which will be easy enough. You may say, -why didn’t I die here and be done with it? I don’t know--I’m sure I -wanted to. It was that doctor fellow, and that woman that talks with her -eyebrows, and that confounded cad, Leigh--they wouldn’t let me. And -I’ve got so weak; if you don’t go away this moment I’ll cry like a -dashed baby!” with a more piteous quaver than ever in the remnant of his -once manly voice. - -All that Bee could do was to throw her arms round his neck and draw his -head upon her shoulder, which he resisted fiercely for a moment, then -yielded to in the abandonment of his weakness. Poor Charlie felt, -perhaps, a momentary sweetness in the relaxation of all the bonds of -self-control, and all the well-meaning attempts to keep him from -injuring himself by emotion; the unexpected outburst did him good, -partly because it was a breach of all the discipline of the sick room. -Presently he came to himself and pushed Bee away. - -“What do you come bothering about?” he said; “you ought to have left me -alone. I’ve made my bed, and I’ve got to lie on it. I don’t suppose that -anyone has taken the trouble to--ask about me?” he added, after a little -while, in what was intended for a careless tone. - -“Oh, Charlie, everyone who has known; but papa would let nobody know: -except at Oxford. We--went to Oxford----” - -He got up on his pillow with his eyes shining out of their hollow -sockets, his long limbs coming to the ground with a faint thump. Poor -Charlie was young enough to have grown during his illness, and those -gaunt limbs seemed unreasonably long. - -“You went to Oxford!” he said, “and you saw--” - -“Dear Charlie, they will say I am exciting you--doing you harm----” - -“You saw?” he cried, bringing down his fist upon the table with a blow -that made the very floor shake. - -“Yes,” said Bee, trembling, “we saw--or rather papa saw----” - -He pushed up the shade of the lamp with his long bony fingers, and fixed -his eyes, bright with fever, on her face. - -“Oh, Charlie, don’t look at me so!--the lady whom you used to talk to me -about--whom I saw in the academy----” - -“Yes?”--he grasped her hand across the table with a momentary hot -pressure. - -“She came and saw papa in the hotel. She told him about you, and that -you had--oh, Charlie, and she so old--as old as----” - -“Hold your tongue!” he cried, violently, and then with a long-drawn -breath, “What more? She told him--and he was rude, I suppose. Confound -him! Confound--confound them all!” - -“I will not say another word unless you are quiet,” said Bee, her spirit -rising; “put up your feet on the sofa and be quiet, and remember all the -risk you are running--or I will not say another word.” - -He obeyed her with murmurs of complaint, but no longer with the languid -gloom of his first accost. Hope seemed to have come into his heart. He -subdued himself, lay back among his pillows, obeyed her in all she -stipulated. The light from underneath the raised shade played on his -face and gave it a tinge of colour, though it showed more clearly the -emaciation of the outlines and the aspect of neglect, rather than, as -poor Charlie hoped, of enhanced manly dignity, conveyed by the irregular -sick man’s growth of the infant beard. - -“Papa was not rude,” said Bee, “he is never rude; he is a gentleman. -Worse than that--” - -“Worse--than what?” - -“Oh, I cannot understand you at all, you and--the rest,” cried the girl; -“one after another you give in to her, you admire her, you do what she -tells you--that woman who has harmed me all she can, and you all she -can, and now--Charlie!” Bee stopped with astonishment and indignation. -Her brother had raised himself up again, and aimed a furious but futile -blow at her in the air. It did not touch her, but the indignity was no -less on that account. - -“Well,” he cried, again bringing down that hand which could not reach -her, on the table, “How dare you speak of one you’re not worthy to name? -Ah! I might have known she wouldn’t desert me. It is she who has kept -the way open, and subdued my father, and----” An ineffable look of -happiness came upon the worn and gaunt countenance, his eyes softened, -his voice fell. “I might have known!” he said to himself, “I might have -known!” - -And what could Bee say? Though she did not believe in--though she hated -and feared with a child’s intensity of terror the woman who had so often -crossed her path--she could not contradict her brother’s faith, though -she considered it an infatuation, a folly beyond belief; it seemed, -after all, in a manner true that this woman had not deserted him. She -had subdued his father’s displeasure somehow, made everything easier. -Bee looked at him, the victim of those wiles, yet nevertheless indebted -to them, with the same exasperation which her father’s subjugation had -caused her. What could she say, what could she do, to reveal to them -that enchantress in her true colours? But Bee knew that she could do -nothing, and there began to rise in her heart a dreadful question, Was -it so sure that she herself was right? Was this woman, indeed, an evil -Fate, or was she, was she----? And the first story of all, the story of -Aubrey, was it perhaps true? - -The nurse came in noiselessly, hurrying, while Bee’s mind ran through -those thoughts--evidently with the conviction that she would find the -patient worse. But Charlie was not worse. He turned his face towards -his attendant, still with something of that dreamy rapture in it. - -“Oh, you may speak out,” he said; “I don’t mind noises to-night. Supper? -Yes, I’ll take some supper. Bring me a beefsteak or something -substantial. I’m going to get well at once.” - -Nurse nodded at Bee, with much uplifting of her eyelids. “Put no faith -in you,” she said, working the machinery of her lips; “was wrong; done -him no end of good. Beefsteak; not exactly; but soon, soon, if you’re -good.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -BEE saw no more of Charlie that night. When she came out of his room, -where there was a certain meaning in her presence, she seemed to pass -into the region of dreams. She was taken upstairs to refresh herself and -rest, into the smaller of two bedrooms which were over Charlie’s room, -the other of which was occupied by Mrs. Leigh. And she was taken -downstairs to dine with that lady _tête-à-tête_ at the small shining -table. There was something about the little house altogether, a certain -conciseness, an absence of drapery, and of the small elegant litter -which is so general nowadays, which gave it a masculine character--or, -at least, Bee, not accustomed to æsthetic young men, accustomed rather -to big boys and their scorn of the decorative arts, thought so with a -curious flutter of her being. This perhaps was partly because the -ornamental part of the house was devoted to Charlie, and the little -dining-room below seemed the sole room to live in. It had one or two -portraits hung on the walls, pictures almost too much for its small -dimensions. The still smaller room behind was clothed with books, and -had for its only ornament a small portrait of Mrs. Leigh over the -mantel-piece. Whose rooms were these? Who had furnished them so gravely, -and left behind an impression of serious character which almost chilled -the heart of Bee? He was nowhere visible, nor any trace of him. No -allusion was made as to an absent master of the house, and yet it bore -an air so individual that Bee’s sensitive being was moved by it, with -all the might of something stranger than imagination. She stood -trembling among the books, looking at the mother’s portrait over the -mantel-piece, feeling as if the very mantel-shelf on which she rested -her arm was warm with the touch of his. But not a word was said, not an -allusion made to Aubrey. - -What had she to do with Aubrey? Nothing--less than with any other man in -the world--any stranger to whom she could speak with freedom, -interchanging the common coin of ordinary intercourse. He was the only -man in the world whom she must not talk of, must not see--the only one -of whose presence it was necessary to obliterate every sign, and never -to utter the name where she was. Poor Bee! Yet she felt him near, his -presence suggested by everything, his name always latent in the air. She -slept and waked in that strange atmosphere as in a dream. In Aubrey’s -house, yet with Aubrey obliterated--the one person in existence with -whom she had nothing, nothing to do. - -It was late before she was allowed to see her brother next day, and Bee, -in the meantime, left to her own devices, had not known what to do. She -had taken pen and paper two or three times to let her father know that -Charlie was found, but her mind revolted, somehow, from making that -intimation. What would happen when he knew? He would come here -immediately; he would probably attempt to remove Charlie; he would -certainly order Bee away at once from a place so unsuitable for her. It -was unsuitable for her, and yet--She scarcely saw even Mrs. Leigh after -breakfast, but was left to herself, with the door open into that -sanctuary which was Aubrey’s, with all his books and the newspapers laid -out upon the table. Bee sat in the dining-room and looked into that -other secluded place. In the light of day she dared not go into it. It -seemed like thrusting herself into his presence who had no thought of -her, who did not want her. Oh, not for Aubrey! Aubrey would not for the -world disturb her, or bring any embarrassment into her mind. Aubrey -would rather disappear from his own house, as if he had never existed, -than remind her that he did exist, and perhaps sometimes thought of her -still. Did he ever think of her? Bee knew that it would be wrong and -unlike Aubrey if he kept in these rooms the poor little photograph of -her almost childish face which he had once prized so much. It would have -been indelicate, unlike a gentleman; and yet she made a hasty and -furtive search everywhere to see if, perhaps, it might be somewhere, in -some book or little frame. She would have been angry had she found it, -and indignant; yet she felt a certain desolate sense of being altogether -out of the question, steal into her heart, when she did not find it--in -the inconsistencies of which the heart is full. - -It was mid-day when she was called upstairs, to find Charlie established -in the room which should have been the drawing-room, and round which she -threw another wistful look as she came into it in full daylight. Oh, not -a woman’s room in any way, with none of those little photograph frames -about which strew a woman’s table--not one, and consequently none of -Bee. She took this in at the first glance, as she made the three or four -little steps between the door and Charlie’s couch. He was more -hollow-eyed and worn in the daylight than he had been even on the night -before, his appearance entirely changed from that of the commonplace -young Oxford man to an eager, anxious being, with all the cares of a -troubled soul concentrated in his eyes. Mrs. Leigh sat near him, and -the nurse was busy with cushions and pillows arranging his couch. - -“My dear, you will be thankful to hear that the doctor gives a very good -report to-day. He says that, though he would not have sanctioned it, my -remedy has done wonders. You are my remedy, Bee. I am proud of so -successful an idea--though, to be sure, it was a very simple one. Now -you must go on and complete the cure, and I give you _carte blanche_. -Ask anyone here, anyone you please, so long as it is not too much for -Charlie. He may see one or two people if nurse sanctions it. I am going -out myself for the day. I shall not return till late in the afternoon, -and you are mistress in the meantime--absolute mistress,” said Mrs. -Leigh, kissing her. Bee felt that Aubrey’s mother would not even meet -her eyes lest she should throw too much meaning into these words. Oh, -there was no meaning in them, except so far as Charlie was concerned. - -And then she was left alone with her brother, the most natural, the only -suitable arrangement. Nurse gave the last pat to his cushions, the last -twist to the coverlet, which was over his gaunt limbs, appealed to him -the last time in dumb show whether he wanted anything, and then -withdrew. It was most natural that his sister, whose appearance had done -him so much good, should be left with him as his nurse; but she was -frightened, and Charlie self-absorbed, and it was some time before -either found a word to say. At last he said, “Bee!” calling her -attention, and then was silent again for some time, speaking no more. - -“Yes, Charlie!” There was a flutter in Bee’s voice as in her heart. - -“I say, I wasn’t, perhaps, very nice to you last night; I couldn’t bear -to be brought back; but they say I’m twice as well since you came. So I -am. I’ve got something to keep me up. Bee, look here. Am I dreadful to -look at? I know I haven’t an ounce of flesh left on my bones, but some -don’t mind that; and then, my beard. I’ve heard it said that a beard -that never was shaved was--was--an embellishment, don’t you know. Do you -think I’m dreadful to look at, Bee?” - -“Oh, Charlie,” said the girl, from the depths of her heart, “what does -it matter how you look? The more ill you look the more need you have for -your own people about you, who never would think twice of that.” - -Charlie’s gaunt countenance was distorted with a grin of rage and -annoyance. “I wish you’d shut up about my own people. The governor, -perhaps, with his grand air, or Betty, as sharp as a needle--as if I -wanted them!--or to be told that they would put up with me.” - -“Charlie,” said Bee, trembling, “I don’t want to vex you, you are a -little--but couldn’t you have a barber to come, and perhaps he could -take it off.” - -There came a flash of fire out of Charlie’s eyes; he put up his hand to -his face, as if to protect that beard in which he at least believed--“I -might have known,” he said, “that you were the last person! A fellow’s -sister is always like that: just as we never think anything of a girl’s -looks in our own families. Well, you’ve given your opinion on that -subject. And you think that people who care for me wouldn’t think twice -of that?” - -“Oh, no,” said Bee, clasping her hands, “how should they? But only feel -for you far, far more.” - -Charlie took down his hand from his young beard. He looked at her with -his hollow eyes full of anxiety, yet with a certain complacence. -“Interesting?”--he said, “is that what you meant to say?” - -“Oh, yes,” cried Bee, her eyes full of pity, “for they can see what you -have gone through, and how much you have been suffering,--if there was -any need of making you more interesting to us.” - -Charlie stroked down his little tufts of wool for some time without -speaking, and then he said in a caressing tone unusual to him, “I want -you to do me a favour, Bee.” - -“Anything--anything, whatever you wish, Charlie.” - -“There is just one thing I wish, and one person I want to see. Sit down -and write a note--you need not do more than say where I am,” said -Charlie, speaking quickly. “Say I am here, and have been very ill, but -that the hope she’d come, and to hear that she had forgiven me, was like -new life. Well! what is the meaning of your ‘anything, anything,’ if -you break down at the first thing I ask you? Look here, Bee, if you wish -me to live and get well you’ll do what I say.” - -“Oh, Charlie, how can I?--how can I?--when you know what I -feel--about----” - -“What you feel--about? Who cares what you feel? You think perhaps it was -you that did me all that good last night. That’s all conceit, like the -nonsense in novels, where a woman near your bed when you’re ill makes -all the difference. Girls,” said Charlie, “are puffed up with that folly -and believe anything. You know I didn’t want you. It was what you told -me about _her_ that did me good. And your humbug, sitting there crying, -‘anything, anything!’ Well, here’s something! You need not write a -regular letter, if you don’t like it. Put where I am--Charlie Kingsward -very ill; will you come and see him? A telegram would do, and it would -be quicker; send a telegram,” he cried. - -“Oh, Charlie!” - -“Give me the paper and pencil--I’m shaky, but I can do that much -myself----” - -“Charlie, I’ll do it rather than vex you; but I don’t know where to send -it.” - -“Oh, I can tell you that--Avondale, near the Parks, Oxford.” - -“She is not there now--she is in London,” said Bee, in a low tone. - -“In London?” Again the long, gaunt limbs came to the ground with a -thump. “Bee, if you could get me a hansom perhaps I could go.” - -The nurse at this moment came in noiselessly, and Charlie shrank before -her. She put him back on the sofa with a swift movement. “If you go on -like this I’ll take the young lady away,” she said. - -“I’ll not go on--I’ll be as meek as Moses; but, nurse, tell her she -mustn’t contradict a man in my state. She must do what I say.” - -Nurse turned her back upon the patient, and made the usual grimaces; -“Humour him,” her lips and eyebrows said. - -“Charlie, papa knows the address, and Betty--and I ought, oh, I ought to -let them know at once that you are here.” - -“Betty!” he said, with a grimace, “what does that little thing know?” - -“She knows--better than you think I do; and papa---- Papa is never happy -but when he is with that lady. He goes to see her every day; she writes -to him and he writes to her; they go out together,” cried Bee, thinking -of that invitation to Portman Square which had seemed the last insult -which she could be called on to bear. - -Charlie smiled--the same smile of ineffable self-complacence and -confidence which had replaced in a moment the gloom of the previous -night; and then he grew grave. He was not such a fool, he said to -himself, as to be jealous of his own father; but still he grudged that -anyone but himself should have her company. He remembered what it was to -go to see her every day, to write to her, to have her letters, to be -privileged to give her his arm now and then, to escort her here or -there. If it had been another fellow! But a man’s father--the governor! -He was not a rival. Charlie imagined to himself the conversations with -him for their subject, and how, perhaps for the first time, the governor -would learn to do him justice, seeing him through Laura’s eyes. It was -true that she had rejected him, had almost laughed at him, had sent him -away so completely broken down and miserable that he had not cared what -became of him. But hope had sprung within him, all the more wildly from -that downfall. It was like her to go to the old gentleman (it was thus -he considered his father) to explain everything, to set him right. She -would not have done so if her heart had not relented--her heart was so -kind. She must have felt what it was to drive a man to despair--and now -she was working for him, soothing down the governor, bringing everything -back. - -“Eh?” he said, vaguely, some time after; he had in the meantime heard -Bee’s voice going on vaguely addressing somebody, in the air, “are you -speaking to me?” - -“There is no one else to speak to,” cried Bee, almost angrily. And then -she said, “Charlie--how can you ask her to come here?” - -“Why not here? She’ll go anywhere to do a kind thing.” - -“But not to this house--not here, not here!” - -“Why not, I should like to know--what’s here?” Then Charlie stared at -her for a moment with his hollow eyes, and broke into a low, feeble -laugh. - -“Oh,” he said, “I know what you’ve got in your head--because of that -confounded cad, Aubrey Leigh? That is just why she will come, to show -what a lie all that was--as if she ever would have looked twice at a -fellow like Leigh.” - -“He seems to have saved your life,” said Bee, confused, not knowing what -to think. - -“You mean he gave me house-room when I was ill, and sent for a doctor. -Why, any shop-keeper would have done that. And now,” said Charlie, with -a grin, “he shall be fully paid back.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -BETTY KINGSWARD lived in what was to her a whirl of pleasure at Portman -Square, where everybody was fond of her, and all manner of -entertainments were devised for her pleasure. And her correspondence was -not usually of an exciting character. Her morning letters, when she had -any, were placed by her plate on the breakfast-table. If any came by -other posts, she got them when she had a spare moment to look for them, -and she had scarcely a spare moment at this very lively and very happy -moment of her young career. Besides, that particular evening when Bee’s -note arrived was a very important one to Betty. It was the evening on -which Miss Lance was to dine with the Lyons. And it was not a mere -quiet family dinner, but a party--a thing which in her newness and -inexperience still excited the little girl, who was not to say properly -“out,” in consequence of her mourning; still wearing black ribbons with -her white frocks, and only allowed to accept invitations which were -“quiet.” A dinner of twenty people is not exactly an entertainment for a -girl of her years, but Betty’s excitement in the _debût_ of Miss Lance -was so great that no ball could have occupied her more. There was an -unusual interest about it in the whole house, even Mrs. Lyon’s maid, the -most staid of confidential persons, had begged Betty to point out to her -over the baluster “the lady, Miss Betty, that is coming with your papa.” - -“Oh, she’s not coming with papa,” Betty had cried, with a laugh at -Hobbs’ mistake, “she is only a great, great friend, Hobbs. You will -easily know her, for there is nobody else so handsome.” - -“Handsome is as handsome does,” said the woman, and she patted Betty on -the shoulder under pretence of arranging her ribbon. - -Betty had not the least idea why Hobbs looked at her with such -compassionate eyes. - -Miss Lance, however, did come into the room, to Betty’s surprise, -closely followed by Colonel Kingsward, as if they had arrived together. -She was like a picture, in her black satin and lace, dressed not too -young but rather too old for her age, as Mrs. Lyon pointed out, who was -as much excited about her new guest as Betty herself; and the unknown -lady had the greatest possible success in a party which consisted -chiefly, as Betty did not remark, of old friends of Colonel Kingsward, -with whom she had been acquainted all her life. Betty did not remark it, -but Gerald Lyon did, who was more than ever her comrade and companion in -this elderly company. - -“Why all these old fogies?” he had asked irreverently, as the gentlemen -with stars on their coats and the ladies in diamonds came in. - -Betty perceived that it was an unusually solemn party, but thought no -more of it. It was the evening of the first levee, and that, perhaps, -was the reason why the old gentlemen wore their orders. Old gentlemen! -They were the flower of the British army. Generals This and That, heads -of departments; impossible to imagine more grand people--in the flower -of their age, like Colonel Kingsward. But eighteen has its own ideas -very clearly marked on that subject. Betty and Gerald stood by, lighting -up one corner with a blaze of undeniable youth, to see them come in. The -young pair were like flowers in comparison with the substantial size and -well worn complexions of their seniors, and they were the only little -nobodies, the sole representatives of undistinguished and ordinary -humanity round the table. They were not by any means daunted by that. On -the contrary, they felt themselves, as it were, soaring over the heads -of all those limited persons who had attained, spurning the level -heights of realisation. They did not in the least know what was to -become of them in life, but naturally they made light of the others who -did know, who had done all they were likely to do, and had no more to -look to. The dignity of accomplished success filled the young ones with -impulses of laughter; their inferiority gave them an elevation over all -the grizzled heads; they felt themselves, nobodies, to be almost -ludicrously, dizzily above the heads of the rest. Only one of the -company seemed to see this, however; to cast them an occasional look, -even to make them the confidants of an occasional smile, a raising of -the eyebrows, a sort of unspoken comment on the fine company, which made -Betty still more lively in her criticisms. But this made almost a -quarrel between the two. - -“Oh, I wish we were nearer to Miss Lance, to hear what she thinks of it -all,” Betty said. - -“I can’t think what you see in that woman,” cried Gerald. “I, for one, -have no desire to know her opinion.” - -Betty turned her little shoulder upon him with a glance of flame, that -almost set the young man on fire. - -“You prejudiced, cynical, uncharitable, malicious, odious boy!” And they -did not say another word to each other for five minutes by the clock. - -Miss Lance, however, there was no doubt, had a distinguished success. -She captivated the gentlemen who were next to her at table, and, what -was perhaps more difficult, she made a favourable impression upon the -ladies in the drawing-room. Her aspect there, indeed, was of the most -attractive kind. She drew Betty’s arm within her own, and said with a -laugh, “You and I are the girls, little Betty, among all these grand -married ladies;” and then she added, “Isn’t it a little absurd that we -shouldn’t have some title to ourselves, we old maids?--for Miss means -eighteen, and it’s hard that it should mean forty-two. Fancy the -disappointment of hearing this juvenile title and then finding that it -means a middle-aged woman.” - -She laughed so freely that some of the other ladies laughed too. The -attention of all was directed towards the new comer, which Betty thought -very natural, she was so much the handsomest of them all. - -“You mean the disappointment of a gentleman?” said one of the guests. - -“Oh, no, of ladies too. Don’t you think women are just as fond of youth -as men are, and as much disgusted with an elderly face veiling itself -in false pretences? Oh, more! We think more of beauty than the men do,” -said Miss Lance, raising her fine head as if to expose its features to -the fire of all the glances bent upon her. - -There was a little chorus of cries, “Oh, no, no,” and arguments against -so novel a view. - -But Miss Lance did not quail; her own beauty was done full justice to. -She was so placed that more than one mirror in the old-fashioned room -reflected her graceful and not unstudied pose. - -“I know it isn’t a usual view,” she said, “but if you’ll think of it a -little you’ll find it’s true. The common thing is to talk about women -being jealous of each other. If we are it is because we are always the -first to find out a beautiful face--and usually we much exaggerate its -power.” - -“Do you know,” said Mrs. Lyon in her quavering voice, “I almost think -Miss Lance is right? Mr. Lyon instantly says ‘Humph!’ when I point out a -pretty person to him. And Gerald tells me, ‘You think every girl pretty, -aunt.’” - -“That is because there is one little girl that he thinks the most pretty -of all,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of soft maternal coo in Betty’s -ear. - -The subject was taken up and tossed about from one to another, while she -who had originated it drew back a little, listening with an air of much -attention, turning her head to each speaker, an attitude which was most -effective. It will probably be thought the greatest waste of effort for -a woman thus to exhibit what the newspapers call her personal advantages -to a group of her own sex; but Miss Lance was a very clever woman, and -she knew what she was about. After a time, when the first fervour of the -argument was over, she returned to her first theme as to the appropriate -title that ought to be invented for old maids. - -“I have thought of it a great deal,” she said. “I should have called -myself Mrs. Laura Lance, to discriminate--but for the American custom of -calling all married ladies so, which is absurd.” - -“I have a friend in New York who writes to me as Mrs. Mary Lyon,” said -the mistress of the house. - -“Yes, which is ridiculous, you know; for you are not Mrs. Mary Lyon, -dear lady. You are Mrs. Francis Lyon, if it is necessary to have a -Christian name, for Lyon is your husband’s name, not yours. You are Mrs. -Mary Howard by rights--if in such a matter there are any rights.” - -“What!” cried old Mr. Lyon, coming in after the long array of gentlemen, -“are you going to divorce my wife from me, or give her another name, or -what are you going to do? We thought it was we only who could change the -ladies’ names, Kingsward, eh?” - -Colonel Kingsward had placed himself immediately in front of Miss Lance, -and Betty, looking on all unsuspicious, saw a glance pass between -them--or rather, she saw Miss Lance look up into her father’s face. -Betty did not know in the least what that look meant, but it gave her a -little shock as if she had touched an electric battery. It meant -something more than to Betty’s consciousness had ever been put into -words. She turned her eyes away for a moment to escape the curious -thrill that ran through her, and in that moment met Gerald Lyon’s eyes, -full of something malicious, mocking, disagreeable, which made Betty -very angry. But she could not explain to herself what all these looks -meant. - -This curious sensation somehow spoiled the rest of the evening for -Betty. Everybody it seemed to her after this meant something--something -more than they said. They looked at her father, they looked at Miss -Lance, they looked even at Betty’s little self, embracing all three, -sometimes in one comprehensive glance. And all kinds of significant -little speeches were made as the company went away. “I am so glad to -have seen her,” one lady said in an undertone to Mrs. Lyon. “One -regrets, of course, but one is thankful it is no worse.” “I think,” said -another, “it will do very well--I think it will do very well; thank you -for the opportunity.” And “Charming, my dear Mrs. Lyon, charming,” said -another. They all spoke low and in the most confidential tone. What was -it they were all so interested about? - -The last of the party to go were Miss Lance and Colonel Kingsward. They -seemed to go away together as they had seemed to come together. - -“Your father is so kind as to see me home,” Miss Lance said, by way of -explanation. “I am not a grand lady with a carriage. I am old enough to -walk home by myself, and I always do it, but as Colonel Kingsward is so -kind, of course I like company best.” - -She too had a private word with Mrs. Lyon, at the head of the stairs. -Betty did not want to listen, but she heard by instinct the repeated -“Thank you, thank you! How can I ever express how much I thank you?” -Betty was so bewildered that she could not think. She paid no attention -to her father, who put his hands on her shoulders when he said -“Good-night,” and said, “Betty, I’ll see you to-morrow.” Oh, of course, -she should see him to-morrow--or not, as circumstances might ordain. -What did it matter? She was not anxious to see her father to-morrow, it -could not be of the least importance whether they met or not; but what -Betty would really have liked would have been to find out what all these -little whisperings could mean. - -Mrs. Lyon came up to her when the last, to wit, Colonel Kingsward -following Miss Lance, had disappeared, and put her arms round the little -girl. “You are looking a little tired,” she said, “just this last hour. -I did not think they would stay so late. It is all Miss Lance, I -believe, setting us on to argue with her metaphysics. Well, everybody -likes her very much, which will please you, my dear, as you are so fond -of her. And now, Betty, you must run off to bed. There’s hardly time for -your beauty sleep.” - -“Mrs. Lyon,” said Betty, very curious, “was it to meet Miss Lance that -all those grand people came?” - -“I don’t know what you call grand people. They are all great friends of -ours and also of your father’s, and I think you know them every one. And -they all know each other.” - -“Except Miss Lance,” said Gerald, who was always disagreeable--always, -when anyone mentioned Miss Lance’s name. - -“I know her, certainly, and better than any of them! And there is nobody -so delightful,” Betty cried, with fervour, partly because she believed -what she said, and partly to be disagreeable in her turn to him. - -“And so they all seemed to think,” said old Mr. Lyon, “though I’m not so -fond of new people as the rest of you. Lay hands suddenly on no man is -what I say.” - -“And I say the same as my uncle,” said Gerald, “and it’s still more true -of a woman than a man.” - -“You are such an experienced person,” said the old lady; “they know so -much better than we do, Betty. But never you mind, for your friend has -made an excellent impression upon all these people--the most -tremendously respectable people,” Mrs. Lyon said, “none of your artists -and light-minded persons! Make yourself comfortable with that thought, -and good night, my little Betty. You must not stay up so late another -night.” - -What nonsense that was of staying up late, when it was not yet twelve -o’clock! But Betty went off to her room with a little confusion and -bewilderment of mind, happy on the whole, but feeling as if she had -something to think about when she should be alone. What was it she had -to think about? She could not think what it was when she sat down alone -to study her problem. There was no problem, and what the departing -guests had said to Mrs. Lyon was quite simple, and referred to something -that was their own business, that had nothing to do with Betty. How -could it have anything to do with Betty? - -Around the corner of the Park, Bee, too, was sitting alone and thinking -at the same time, and the two sets of thoughts, neither very clear, -revolved round the same circle. But neither of the sisters knew, -concerning this problem, whereabouts the other was. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -AND yet all this time there lay upon Betty’s table, concealed under the -pretty laced handkerchiefs which she had pulled out of their sachet to -choose one for the party, Bee’s little tremulous letter, expressing a -state of mind more agitated than that of Betty, and full of wonderings -and trouble. It was found there by the maid who put things in order next -morning, when she called the young visitor. - -“Here’s a letter that came last night, and you have never opened it,” -said the maid, half reproachfully. She, at least, she was anxious to -note, had not been to blame. - -Betty took it with great _sang froid_. She saw by the writing it was -only Bee’s--and Bee’s news was never imperative. There could not be -much to disclose to her of the state of affairs at Kingswarden that was -new, since the night before last. - -But the result was that Betty went downstairs in her hat and gloves, and -that Mr. Lyon and Gerald, who were both sitting down to that substantial -breakfast which is the first symbol of good health and a good conscience -in England, had much ado to detain her long enough to share that meal. - -Mrs. Lyon did not come downstairs in the morning, so that they used the -argument of helplessness, professing themselves unable to pour out their -own tea. - -“And what business can Betty have of such importance that she must run -out without her breakfast?” said the old gentleman. - -“Oh, it is news I have heard which I must take at once to papa!” - -The two gentlemen looked at each other, and Mr. Lyon shook his big, old -head. - -“I would not trouble your papa, my dear, with anything you may have -heard. Depend upon it, he will let you know anything he wishes you to -know--in his own time.” - -“But it is news--news,” said Betty; “news about Charlie!” - -Then she remembered that very little had been said even to the Lyons -about Charlie, and stopped with embarrassment, and her friends could not -but believe that this was a hasty expedient to conceal from them that -she had heard something--some flying rumour which had set her little -impetuous being on fire. When she had escaped from their sympathetic -looks and Gerald’s magnanimous proposal to accompany her--without so -much as an egg to fortify him for the labours of the day!--Betty set -out, crossing the Park in the early glory of the morning, which feels at -nine o’clock what six o’clock feels in the country, to carry the news to -her father. - -Charlie found, and ill; and demanding to see Miss Lance, his health and -recovery depending upon whether he should see her or not! Betty’s first -instinct had been to hasten at once to George Street, Hanover Square, -but then she remembered that papa presumably was the one who was most -anxious about Charlie and had the best right to know, and it was perhaps -better not to explain to the friends in Portman Square why Miss Lance -should go to Charlie. Indeed, when she had set out, a great many -questions occurred to Betty, circulating through her lively little mind -without any possibility of an answer to them. Why should Charlie be so -anxious to see Miss Lance? Why had he been so long there, ill, and -nobody come to tell his people of it? And what was Bee doing in Curzon -Street, in Aubrey Leigh’s house, which was the last house in the world -where she had any right to be? But she walked so fast, and the sunny air -with all its movement and lightness so carried her on and filled her -with pleasant sounds and images, that these thoughts, blowing like the -wind through her little intelligence, had not much effect on Betty -now--though there was incipient trouble in them, as even she could see. - -Colonel Kingsward was seated at his breakfast when his little girl burst -in upon him in all the freshness of the morning. Her youth and her -bloom, and her white frock, notwithstanding its black accoutrements, -made a great show in the dark-coloured, solemn, official-looking room, -with its Turkey carpets and morocco chairs. The Colonel was evidently -startled by the sight of her. He said, “Well?” in that tone of -self-defence, and almost defiance, with which a man prepares for being -called upon to give an account of himself; as if anything so absurd -could be possible as that Betty, little Betty, could call upon her -father to give an account of himself! But then it is very true that when -there is something to be accounted for, the strongest feel how -“conscience doth make cowards of us all.” - -“Oh,” she cried, breathless, “Papa--Charlie! Bee has found Charlie, and -he’s been very ill--typhoid fever; he’s getting better, and he’s in -London, and she’s with him; and he wants but to see Miss Lance. Oh, -papa, that’s what I came about chiefly--he wants to see Miss Lance.” - -Colonel Kingsward’s face changed many times during this breathless -deliverance. He said first, “He’s at Mackinnon’s, I know;” then, “In -London!” with no pleasure at all in his tone; and finally, “Miss Lance!” -angrily, his face covered with a dark glow. - -“What is all this?” he cried, when she stopped for want of breath. -“Charlie--in town? You must be out of your senses. Why, he is in -Scotland. I heard from--, eh? Well, I don’t know that I had any letter, -but--. And ill--and Bee with him? What is the meaning of all this? Are -you both mad, or in a conspiracy to make yourselves disagreeable to me?” - -“Papa!” cried Betty, very ready to take up the challenge; but on the -whole the news was too important to justify a combat of self-defence. -She produced Bee’s note out of its envelope, and placed it before him, -running on with a report of it while the Colonel groped for his eyeglass -and arranged it upon his nose. - -“A lady came and fetched her,” cried Betty, hurriedly, to forestall the -reading, “and brought her up to town and took her to him--oh, so -bad--where he had been for weeks; and she told him you had been to -Oxford, and something about Miss Lance; and he wants to see Miss Lance, -and calls and calls for her, and won’t be satisfied. Oh, papa!” - -Colonel Kingsward had arranged his _pince-nez_ very carefully; he had -taken up Bee’s note, and went over it word by word while Betty made her -breathless report. When he came to the first mention of Miss Lance he -struck his hand upon the table like any other man in a passion, making -all the cups and plates ring. - -“The little fool!” he said, “the little fool! What right had she to -bring in that name? It was this that called forth Betty’s exclamation, -but no more was said by either till he read it out to the end. Then he -flung the letter from him, and getting up, paced about the room in rage -and dismay. - -“A long illness,” said the Colonel, “was perhaps the best thing that -could have happened to him to sweep all that had passed before out of -his mind; and here does this infernal little idiot, this little demon -full of spite and malice, get at the boy at his worst moment and bring -everything back. What right had she, the spiteful, envious little fool, -to bring in the name of a lady--of a lady to whom you all owe the -greatest respect?” - -“Papa!” cried Betty, overwhelmed, “Bee couldn’t have meant any harm.” - -Colonel Kingsward was out of himself and he uttered words which -terrified his daughter, and which need not be recorded against him--for -he certainly did not in cold blood wish Bee to fall under any celestial -malediction. He stormed about the room, saying much that Betty could not -understand; that it was just the thing of all others that should not -have happened, and the time of all others; that if it had been a little -later, or even a little earlier, it would not have mattered; that it was -enough to overturn every arrangement, increase every difficulty. He was -not at all a man to give way to his feelings so. His children, indeed, -until very lately, had never seen him excited at all, and it was an -astonishment beyond description to little Betty to be a spectator of -this scene. Indeed, Colonel Kingsward awoke presently to a sense of the -self-exposure he had been making, and calmed down, or, at least, -controlled himself, upon which Betty ventured to ask him very humbly -what he thought she had better do. - -“May I go to Miss Lance and tell her? She is not angry now, nor unhappy -about him like--like _us_,” said Betty, putting the best face upon it -with instinctive capacity, “and she might know what to do. She is so -very kind and understanding, don’t you know, papa?--and she would know -what to do.” - -For the first time Colonel Kingsward gave his agitated little visitor a -smile. “You seem to have some understanding, too, for a little girl,” he -said, “and it looks as if you would be worthy of my confidence, Betty. -When I see you this afternoon I shall, perhaps, have something to tell -you that----” - -There came over Colonel Kingsward’s fine countenance a smile, a -consciousness, which filled Betty with amaze. She had seen her father -look handsome, commanding, very serious. She had seen him wear an air -which the girls in their profanity had been used in their mother’s happy -days to call that of the _père noble_. She had seen him angry, even in a -passion, as to-day. She had heard him, alas! blaspheme, which had been -very terrible to Betty. But she had never, she acknowledged to herself, -seen him look _silly_ before. Silly, in a girl’s phraseology, was what -he looked now, with that fatuity which is almost solely to be attributed -to one cause; but of this Betty was not aware. It came over his -countenance, and for a moment Colonel Kingsward let himself go on the -flood of complacent consciousness, which healed all his wounds. Then he -suddenly braced himself up and turned to Betty again. - -“Perhaps,” he said, in his most fatherly tone, for it seemed to the man -in this crisis of his life that even little Betty’s support was -something to hold by, “my dear child, your instinct is right. Go to Miss -Lance and tell her how things are. Don’t take this odious letter, -however,” he said, seizing Bee’s note and tearing it across with -indignant vehemence, “with all its prejudices and assumptions. Tell her -in your own words; and where they are--and---- Where are they, by the -way?” he said, groping for the fragments of the letter in his -waste-paper basket. “I hope you noted the address.” - -He had not then, it was evident, noted the address, nor the name of Mrs. -Leigh, nor in whose house Charlie was. Betty’s heart beat high with the -question whether she should call his attention to these additional -facts, but her courage failed her. He had cooled down, he was himself -again: and after a moment he added, “I will write a little note which -you can take,” with once more the smile that Betty thought silly -floating across his face. She was standing close by the writing-table, -and Betty was not aware that there was any harm in the natural glimpse -which her keen eyes took, before she was conscious of it, of the note he -was writing. It was not like a common note. It did not begin “Dear Miss -Lance,” as would have been natural. In short, it had no beginning at -all, nor any signature--or rather it was signed only with his initial -“F.” How very extraordinary that papa should sign “F.” and should not -put any beginning to his letter. A kind of wondering consternation -enveloped the little girl. But still she did not in the least understand -what it meant. - -Betty walked away along Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and by the edge of the -Park to George Street, Hanover Square. It is not according to the -present fashion that a girl should shrink from walking along through -those busy London streets, where nobody is in search of adventures, at -least at that hour of the morning. Her white morning frock and her black -ribbons, and her early bloom, like the morning, though delightful to -behold, did not make all the passers by stand and stare as the movements -of a pretty girl used to do, if we are to credit the novels, in the -beginning of the century. People, perhaps, have too much to do nowadays -to give to that not unusual sight the attention which the dandies and -the macaroni bestowed upon it, and Betty was so evidently bent on her -own little business, whatever it was, that nothing naturally occurred to -detain her. - -It was so unusual for her to have a grave piece of business in hand that -she was a little elated by it, even though so sorry for Charlie who was -so ill, and for Bee who was so perturbed about everything. Betty herself -was not perturbed; she was full of the pleasure of the morning and the -long, interesting walk, and the sense of her own importance as a -messenger. If there did occasionally float across her mind the idea -that her father’s demeanour was strange, or that it was odd that he -should have signed his note to Miss Lance with an F., it was merely a -momentary idea and she did not question it or detain it. And poor -Charlie! Ill--not able to get out this fine weather; but he was getting -better, so that there was really nothing to be troubled about. - -Miss Lance was up, but had not yet appeared when Betty was shown into -her little drawing-room. She was not an early riser. It was one of her -vices, she frankly allowed. Betty had to wait, and had time to admire -all her friend’s knick-knacks, of which there were many, before she came -in, which she did at last, with her arms put out to take Betty -maternally to her bosom. She looked in the girl’s face with a very -intent glance before she took her into this embrace. - -“My little Betty, so early,” she said, and kissed the girl, and then -looked at her again, as if in expectation of something; but as Betty -could not think of anything that Miss Lance would be expecting from her, -she remained unconscious of any special meaning in this look. - -“Yes, I am early,” she said; “it is because I have something to tell -you, and something to ask of you, too.” - -“Tell, my dear little girl, and ask. You may be sure I shall be at your -service. But what is this in your hand--a note for me?” - -“Yes, it is a note for you, but may I tell you first what it is about?” -Betty went on quickly with her story, though Miss Lance, without waiting -for it, took the note and opened it. “Miss Lance, Charlie is found; he -has been very ill, and he wants to see you.” - -“To see me?” Miss Lance looked with eyes of sympathy, yet great -innocence, as if at an impossible proposal, at the breathless girl so -anxious to get it out. “But, Betty, if he is with your friends, the -Mackinnons, in Scotland--?” - -“Oh, Miss Lance, I told you he was not there, don’t you remember? He has -never been anywhere all this time. He has had typhoid fever, and on -Thursday Bee was sent for, and found him still ill, but mending. And -when he heard you were in town he would give her no peace till she wrote -and asked you to come and see him. And she did not know your address so -she wrote to me. I went to tell papa first, and then I came on here. Oh, -will you come and see Charlie? Bee said he wanted to get into a hansom -and come to you as soon as he heard you were here.” - -“What induced them to talk of me, and why did she tell him I was here?” -Miss Lance cried, with a momentary cloud upon her face, such as Betty -had never seen there before. She sat down suddenly in a chair, with a -pat of her foot upon the carpet, which was almost a stamp of impatience, -and then she read Colonel Kingsward’s note for the second time, with her -brows drawn together and a blackness about her eyes which filled Betty -with alarm and dismay. She looked up, however, next minute with her -countenance cleared. “Your father says I am to use my own discretion,” -she said, with a half laugh; “that is not much help to me, is it, in -deciding what is best to do? So he has been ill--and not in Scotland at -all?” - -“I told you he was not in Scotland,” cried Betty, a little impatient in -her turn. “Oh, Miss Lance, he has been ill, he is still ill, and won’t -you come and see him when he wants you so? Oh, come and see him, please! -He looks so ill and wretched, Bee says, and weak, and cannot get back -his strength; and he thinks if he could see you----” - -“Poor boy--silly boy!” said Miss Lance; “why does he think it will do -him good to see me? I doubt if it would do him any good; and your father -says I am to use my discretion. I would do anything for any of you, -Betty, but perhaps I should do him harm instead of good. Have you got -your sister’s letter?” - -“I left it with papa--that is, he threw it into the waste paper basket,” -said the too truthful Betty, growing red. - -“I understand,” said Miss Lance, “it was not a letter to show me. Bee -has her prejudices, and perhaps she is right. I cannot expect that all -the family should be as nice to me as you. Have they taken him to -Kingswarden? Or where is he, poor boy?” - -“He is at No. 1000, Curzon Street,” Betty said. - -“What!” said Miss Lance. “Where?” Her brow curved over her eyes, her -face grew dark as if the light had gone out of the morning, and she -spoke the two monosyllables in a sharp imperative tone, so that they -seemed to cut like a knife. - -“At No. 1000; Curzon Street,” Betty repeated with great alarm, not -knowing what to think. - -Miss Lance rose quickly, as if there had been something that stung her -in the innocent words. She looked as if she were about to pace the room -from end to end, as Colonel Kingsward did when he was disturbed. But -either she did not mean this, or she restrained herself, for what she -did was to walk to her writing-table and put Colonel Kingsward’s note -away in a drawer, and then she went to the window and looked out, and -said it was a fine morning but dusty for walking--and then she returned -to her chair and sat down again and looked at Betty. She was pale, and -there were lines in her face that had not been there before. Her eyes -were almost piteous as she looked at the surprised girl. - -“I am in a very strait place,” she said, “and I don’t know what to do.” -Something like moisture seemed to come up into her eyes. “This is always -how it happens to me,” she said, “just at the moment, just at the -moment! What am I to do?” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -BEE had passed the whole day with Charlie, the Friday of the dinner -party at Portman Square. She had resisted as long as she could writing -the letter which had brought so much excitement to Betty, and the -passion with which he had insisted upon this--the struggle between them, -the vehemence with which he had declared that he cared for nothing in -the world but to see Laura once again, to thank her for having pleaded -for him with his father, to ask her forgiveness for his follies--had -been bad for Charlie, who lay for the rest of the day upon the sofa, -tossing from him one after the other the novels that were provided for -his amusement, declaring them to be “rot” or “rubbish,” growling at his -sister when she continued to speak to him, and reducing poor Bee to that -state of wounded imbecility which is the lot of those who endeavour to -please an unpleasable invalid, with the conviction that all the time -they are doing more harm than good. - -Bee was not maladroit by nature, and she had the warmest desire to be -serviceable to her brother, but it appeared that she always did the -wrong thing, not only in the eyes of Charlie, but in those of the nurse, -who came in from time to time with swift movements, bringing -subordination and quiet where there had been nothing but irritation and -resistance. And in this house, where she had been brought entirely for -the service of Charlie, Bee did not know what to do. She was afraid to -leave the rooms that had been given up to him lest she should meet -someone on the stairs, or be seen only to be avoided, as if her presence -there was that of a ghost or an enemy. Poor Bee--wearing out the long -hours of the spring afternoon with poor attempts to be useful to the -invalid, to watch his looks--which he resented by frequent adjurations -not to watch him as a cat watches a mouse--to anticipate his -wishes--which immediately became the last thing in the world he wanted -as soon as she found out the drink or got the paper for which he was -looking, heard or thought she heard steps coming to the street door, -subdued voices in the hall, comings and goings half stealthily, noises -subdued lest she should hear. What did it matter whether she heard or -not? Why should the master of the house be banished that she, so -ineffectual as she had proved, should be brought to her brother’s side? -She had not done, and could not do, any good to Charlie. All that she -had done had been to remind him of Miss Lance, to be the medium of -calling that disastrous person, who had done all the harm, back into -Charlie’s life--nay, of bringing her back to this house, the inmates of -which she had already harmed to the utmost of her power. - -That was all that had been done by Bee, and now her presence kept at a -distance the one individual in the world who had the best right to be -here. He came almost secretly, she felt sure, to the door in the dusk -to inquire after his patient, or to get his letters; or stole in, -subduing his step, that she might not be disturbed. - -Poor Bee! It was very bitter to her to think that Aubrey Leigh should -leave his own house because she was there. Sometimes she wondered -whether it was some remnant of old, almost-extinguished feeling in his -breast which had made him think that the sight of Bee would do Charlie -good--the sight of Bee, for which her brother did not care at all, not -at all; which was an annoyance and a fatigue to him, except when she had -betrayed what was the last thing in the world she should have betrayed, -the possibility of seeing again that woman who had harmed them all. If -Aubrey had thought so, with some remnant of the old romance, how -mistaken he had been! And it was intolerable for the girl to think that -for the sake of this unsuccessful experiment he had been sent away from -his own house. She placed herself in the corner of the room in which -Charlie (to whom she was supposed to do good and bring pleasure) could -see her least, and bitterness filled her heart. There were times in -which she thought of stealing away, leaving a word for Mrs. Leigh to the -effect that she was doing Charlie no good, and that Betty, who would -come to-morrow, might perhaps be of more use--and returning forlorn to -Kingswarden to renew the life, where perhaps nobody wanted her very -much, but where, at least, there were so many things which she and no -one else was there to do. - -She was still in this depressed state when Mrs. Leigh (who had evidently -gone away that the brother and sister might be alone and happy together) -came back, looking into Charlie’s room to ask how he was on her way -upstairs to dress for dinner. - -“Better,” the nurse said, with her eyebrows. “Peevish--young lady -mustn’t cross him--must be humoured--things not gone quite so well -to-day.” - -“You will tell me about it at dinner,” said Mrs. Leigh, and Bee went -downstairs with a heavy heart to be questioned. Aubrey’s mother looked -cheerful enough; she did not seem to be unhappy about his absence or to -dislike the society of the girl who had driven him away. And she was -very considerate even in her questions about the patient. - -“We must expect these fluctuations,” she said; “you must not be cast -down if you are not quite so triumphantly successful to-day.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Leigh, I am deceiving you. I have never been successful at -all. He did not want me--he doesn’t care for me, and to stay here is -dreadful, upsetting the house--doing no good.” - -“My dear, this is a strange statement to make, and you must not expect -me to believe you in the face of facts. He was much better after seeing -you last night.” - -“Doing no good,” said Bee, shaking her head, “but harm, oh, real harm! -It was not I that did him good, it was telling him of someone, of a -lady. Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how am I to tell you?” - -“My dear child, anything that you yourself know can surely be told to -me. We were afraid that something about a woman was at the bottom of it, -but then that is always the thing that is said, and typhoid, you know, -means bad drains and not a troubled mind--though the one may make you -susceptible to the other. Don’t be so distressed, my dear. It seems more -to your inexperience than it is in reality. He will get over that.” - -“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, very pale, “he has made me write to ask her to -come and see him here.” - -It was now Mrs. Leigh’s turn to change colour. She grew red, looking -astonished in the girl’s despairing face. - -“A woman to come and see him, here! But your brother would never insult -the house and you---- I am talking nonsense,” she said, suddenly -stopping herself, “and misconstruing him altogether. It is some lady who -has jilted him--or something of that kind.” - -Bee had not understood what Mrs. Leigh’s first idea was, and she did not -see any cause for relief in the second. - -“I don’t know what she did to him, or what she has done to them all,” -the girl said, mournfully. “They are all the same. Papa, even, who does -not care very much for ladies, generally---- But Charlie, poor Charlie! -Oh, I believe he is in love with her still, though she is twice as old -as he is and has almost broken his heart. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Leigh, “this must be something very different to -what we thought. We thought he had got into some very dreadful trouble -about a--an altogether inferior person. But as it seems to be a lady, -and one that is known to the family, and who can be asked to come -here--if you can tell me a little more clearly what the story is, I -shall be more able to give you my advice.” - -Bee looked at her questioner helpless, half distracted, not knowing how -to speak, and yet the story must be told. She had written that fatal -invitation, and it could not be concealed who this possible visitor was. -She began with a great deal of hesitation to talk of the lady whom -Charlie had raved about at Oxford, and how he was to work to please her; -and how he did not work, but failed in every way, and fled from Oxford; -and how her father went to inquire into the story; and how the lady had -come to Colonel Kingsward at the hotel, to explain to him, to excuse -Charlie, to beg his father to forgive him. - -“But, my dear, she can’t be so very bad,” said Mrs. Leigh, soothingly. -“You must not judge her hardly; if she thought she had been to blame in -the matter, that was really the right thing to do.” - -“And since then,” resumed Bee, “I think papa has thought of nobody else; -he writes to her and tells her everything. He goes to see her; he -forgets about Charlie and all of us; he has taken Betty there, and Betty -adores her too. And to-night,” cried Bee, the angry tears coming into -her eyes, “she is dining in Portman Square, dining with the Lyons as a -great friend of ours--in Portman Square.” - -Mrs. Leigh drew Bee to her and gave her a kiss of consolation. I think -it was partly that the girl in her misery should not see the smile, -which Mrs. Leigh, thinking that she now saw through this not uncommon -mystery, could not otherwise conceal. - -“My poor child,” she said, “my dear girl! This is hard upon you since -you dislike her so much, but I am afraid it is quite natural, and a -thing that could not have been guarded against. And then you must -consider that your father may probably be a better judge than yourself. -I don’t see any harm this lady has done, except that perhaps it is not -quite good taste to make herself so agreeable both to the father and -son; but perhaps in Charlie’s case that was not her fault. And I see no -reason, my dear--really and sincerely as your friend, Bee--why you -should be so prejudiced against a poor woman whose only fault is that -everybody else likes her. Now isn’t it a little unreasonable when you -think of it calmly yourself?” - -“Oh, Mrs. Leigh!” Bee cried. The situation was so intolerable, the -passion of injury and misconception so strong in her that she could only -gasp in insupportable anger and dismay. - -“Bee! Bee! this feeling is natural but you must not let it carry you -away. Have you seen her? Let me come in when she is here and give my -opinion.” - -“I have seen her three times,” said Bee, solemnly, “once at the Baths, -and once at the Academy, and once at Oxford;” and then once more -excitement mastered the girl. “Oh, when you know who she is! Don’t -smile, don’t smile, but listen! She is Miss Lance.” - -“Miss Lance!” Mrs. Leigh repeated the name with surprise, looking into -Bee’s face. “You must compose yourself,” she said, “you must compose -yourself. Miss----? My dear, you have got over excited, you have mixed -things up.” - -“No, I am not over-excited! I am telling you only the truth. It is Miss -Lance, and they all believe in her as if she were an angel, and she is -coming here.” - -Mrs. Leigh was very much startled, but yet she would not believe her -ears. She had heard Charlie delirious in his fever not so long ago. Her -mind gave a little leap to the alarming thought that there might be -madness in the family, and that Bee had been seized like her brother. -That what she said was actual fact seemed to her too impossible to be -true. She soothed the excited girl with all her power. “Whoever it is, -my dear, you shall not take any harm. There is nothing to be frightened -about. I will take care of you, whoever it is.” - -“I do not think you believe me,” said Bee. “I am not out of my mind, as -you think. It is Miss Lance--Miss Laura Lance--the same, the very same, -that--and I have written, and she will be coming here.” - -“This is very strange,” said Mrs. Leigh. “It does not seem possible to -believe it. The same--who came between Aubrey and you? Oh, I never meant -to name him, I was never to name him; but how can I help it? Laura, who -was the trouble of his house--who would not leave him--who went to your -father? And now your father! I cannot understand it. I cannot believe -that it is true.” - -“It is true,” said Bee. “But, Mrs. Leigh, you forget that no one cared -then, except myself; they have forgotten all that now, they have -forgotten what happened. It was only my business, it was not their -business. All that has gone from papa; he remembers nothing about it. -And she is a witch, she is a magician, she is a devil--oh, please -forgive me, forgive me--I don’t know what I am saying. It has all been -growing, one thing after another--first me--and then Charlie--and then -papa--and then Betty. And now, after bringing him almost to death and -destruction, here is Charlie, in this house, calling for her, raging -with me till I wrote to call her--me!” cried Bee, with a sort of -indignant eloquence. “Me! Could it go further than that? Could anything -be more than that? Me!--and in this house.” - -“My dear child,” said Mrs. Leigh, “I don’t wonder, I don’t wonder--it is -like something in a tragedy. Oh, Bee! Forgive me for what is first in my -thoughts. Was she the reason, the only reason, for your breach with my -poor Aubrey? For at first you stood by him--and then you turned upon -him.” - -“Do not ask me any more questions, please. I am not able to answer -anything. Isn’t it enough that all these things have happened through -this woman, and that she is coming here?” - -Mrs. Leigh made no further question. She saw that the girl’s excitement -was almost beyond her control, and that her young mind was strained to -its utmost. She said, half to herself, “I must think. I cannot tell in a -moment what to do. I must send for Aubrey. It is his duty and mine to -let it go no further. You must try to compose yourself, my dear, and -trust us. Oh, Bee,” there were tears in her eyes as she came up to the -girl and kissed her, “if you could but have trusted us--in all things! -I don’t think you ever would have repented.” - -But Bee did not make any response. Her hands were cold and her head hot. -She was wrapt in a strange passion and confusion of human chaos and -bewilderment--everything gone wrong--all the elements of life twisted -the perverse way; nothing open, nothing clear. She was incapable of any -simple, unmingled feeling in that confusion and medley of everything -going wrong. - -Mrs. Leigh, a little disappointed, went into the inner room, the little -library, to write a letter--no doubt to consult or summon her son--from -which she was interrupted a few minutes later by a faint call, and Bee’s -white face in the doorway. - -“Mrs. Leigh, papa will come to-morrow, and he will take us away; at -least he will take me away. I--I shan’t be any longer in anyone’s way. -Oh, don’t keep him apart from you--don’t send anyone out of the house -because of me!” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -THERE was a great deal of commotion next morning in the house in -Mayfair. - -Bee was startled by having a tray brought to her bedroom with her -breakfast when she was almost ready to go downstairs. “Mrs. Leigh -thought, Miss, as you had been so tired last night, you might like to -rest a little longer,” said the maid; and Bee divined with a sharp pang -through all the trouble and confusion of her mind that she was not -wanted--that probably Aubrey was coming to consult with his mother what -was to be done. It may be imagined with what scrupulousness she kept -within her room, her pride all up in arms though her heart she thought -was broken. Though the precaution was so natural, though it was taken at -what was supposed to be her desire, at what was really her desire--the -only one she would have expressed--yet she resented it, in the -contradiction and ferment of her being. If Mrs. Leigh supposed that she -wanted to see Aubrey! He was nothing to her, he had no part in her life. -When she had been brought here, against her will, it had been expressly -explained that it was not for Aubrey, that he would rather go away to -the end of the world than disturb her. And she had herself appealed to -his mother--her last action on the previous night--to bring him back, -not to banish him on account of the girl who was nothing to him, and -whose part it was, not his, to go away. All this, however, did not make -it seem less keen a wound to Bee that she should be, so to speak, -imprisoned in her own room, because Aubrey was expected downstairs. She -had never, she declared to herself vehemently, felt at ease under the -roof that was his; nothing but Charlie’s supposed want of her would have -induced her to subject herself to the chances of meeting him, and the -still more appalling chance of being supposed to wish to meet him. And -now this insult of imprisonment in her bedroom, lest she should by any -chance come under his observation, offend his eye!--Bee was -contradictory enough at all times, a rosebud set about with wilful -thorns; but everything was in tumult about her, and all her conditions -nothing but contradictions now. - -Thus it happened that while Betty was setting out with much excitement, -but that all pleasurable, walking lightly among undiscovered dangers, -Bee was suddenly arrested, as she felt, imprisoned in the little room -looking out upon roofs and backs of houses, thrust aside into a corner -that she might not be seen or her presence known--imperceptibly the -force of the description grew as she went on piling up agony upon agony. -It was some time before, in the commotion of her feelings, she could -bring herself to swallow her tea, and then she walked about the room, -gazed out of the window from which, as it was at the back of the house, -she saw nothing, and found the position more and more intolerable every -minute. A prisoner! she who had been brought here against her will, on -pretence that her presence might save her brother’s life, or something -equally grandiose and impossible--save her brother’s life, bring him -back from despair by the sight of some one that he loved. These were the -sort of words that Mrs. Leigh had said. As if it mattered to Charlie one -way or the other what Bee might think or do! As if he were to be -consoled by her, or stimulated, or brought back to life! She had -affected him involuntarily, undesirably, by her betrayal of the vicinity -of that woman, that witch, who had warped his heart and being. But as -for influencing in her own person her brother’s mind or life, Bee knew -she was as little capable as baby, the little tyrant of the nursery. Oh! -how foolish she had been to come at all, to yield to what was said, the -flattering suggestion that she could do so much, when she knew all along -in her inmost consciousness that she could do nothing! The only thing -for her to do now was to go back to the dull life of which in her -impatient foolishness she had grown so weary, the dull life in which she -was indeed of some use after all, where it was clearly her duty to get -the upper hand of baby, to preserve the discipline of the nursery, to -train the little ones, and keep the big boys in order. These were the -elder sister’s duties, with which nobody could interfere--not any -ridiculous, sentimental, exaggerated idea, as Charlie had said, of what -a woman’s ministrations could do. “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease!” -that sort of foolish, foolish, intolerable, ludicrous kind of thing, -which it used to be considered right to say, though people knew better -now. Bee felt bitterly that to say of her that she was a ministering -angel would be irony, contumely, the sort of thing people said when they -laughed at women and their old-fashioned sham pretences. She had never -made any such pretence. She had said from the beginning that Charlie -would care for none of her ministrations. She had been brought here -against her judgment, against her will, and now she was shut up as in a -prison in order that Aubrey might not be embarrassed by the sight of -her! As if she had wished to see Aubrey! As if it had not been on the -assurance that she was not to see Aubrey that she had been beguiled -here! - -When a message came to her that she was to go to her brother, Bee did -not know what to do. It seemed to her that Aubrey might be lurking -somewhere on the stairs, that he might be behind Charlie’s sofa, or -lying in wait on the other side of the curtain, notwithstanding her -offence at the quite contradictory idea that she was imprisoned in her -room to be kept out of his way. These two things were entirely contrary -from each other, yet it was quite possible to entertain and be disturbed -by both in the tumult and confusion of a perverse young mind. She -stepped out of her room as if she were about to fall into an ambush, -notwithstanding that she had been thrilling in every irritated nerve -with the idea of being imprisoned there. - -Charlie had insisted on getting up much earlier than usual. He had not -waited for the doctor’s visit. He was better; well, he said, stimulated -into nervous strength and capability, though his gaunt limbs tottered -under him and his thin hand trembled. When he got into his sitting-room -he flung away all his cushions and wrappings as soon as his nurse left -him and went to the mirror over the mantel-piece and gazed at himself in -the glass, smoothing down and stroking into their right place those -irregular soft tufts growing here and there upon his chin, which he -thought were the beginnings of a beard. - -Would she think it was a beard, that sign of manhood? They were too -downy, fluffy, unenergetic, a foolish kind of growth, like a colt’s, -some long, some short, yet Charlie could not help being proud of them. -He felt that they would come to something in time, and remembered that -he had often heard it said that a beard which never had been shaved -became the finest--in time. Would she think so? or would she laugh and -tell him that this would not do, that he must get himself shaved? - -He would not mind that she should laugh. She might do anything, all she -did was delightful to poor Charlie, and there would be a compliment even -in being told that he must get shaved. Charlie had stroked his upper lip -occasionally with a razor, but it had never been necessary to suggest to -him that he should get shaved before. - -He had to be put back upon his sofa when nurse re-appeared, but he only -remained there for the time, promising no permanent obedience. When -Laura came he certainly should not receive her there. - -“When did your letter go? When would Betty receive it?” he said, when -Bee, breathless and pale, at last, under nurse’s escort, was brought -downstairs. - -“She must have got it last night. But there was a dinner party,” said -Bee, after a pause, “last night at Portman Square.” - -“What do I care for their dinner parties? I suppose the postman would go -all the same.” - -“But Betty could not do anything till this morning.” - -“No,” said Charlie, “I suppose not. She would be too much taken up with -her ridiculous dress and what she was to wear”--the knowledge of a young -man who had sisters, pierced through even his indignation--“or with some -nonsense about Gerald Lyon--that fellow! And to think,” he said, in an -outburst of high, moral indignation “that one’s fate should be at the -mercy of a little thing like Betty, or what she might say or do!” - -“Betty is not so much younger than we are; to be sure,” said Bee, with -reflective sadness, “she has never had anything to make her think of all -the troubles that are in the world.” - -Charlie turned upon her with scorn. - -“And what have you had to make you think, and what do you suppose you -know? A girl, always protected by everybody, kept out of the battle, -never allowed to feel the air on your cheek! I must tell you, Bee, that -your setting yourself up for knowing things is the most ridiculous -exhibition in the world.” - -Bee’s wounded soul could not find any words. She kept out of the battle! -She setting up for knowing things! And what was his knowledge in -comparison with hers? He had but been deluded like the rest by a woman -whom Bee had always seen through, and never, never put any faith in; -whereas she had lost what was most dear, all her individual hopes and -prospects, and been obliged to sacrifice what she knew would be the only -love of her life. - -She looked at Charlie with eyes that were full of unutterable things. -He was reckless with hope and expectation, self-deceived, thinking that -all was coming right again; whereas Bee knew that things would never -more be right with her. And yet he presumed to say that she knew -nothing, and that to think she had suffered was a mere pretence! “How -little, how little,” Bee thought, “other people know.” - -The house seemed full that morning of sounds and commotions, unlike -ordinary times. There were sounds of ringing bells, of doors opened and -shut, of voices downstairs. Once both Charlie and Bee held their breath, -thinking the moment had come, for a carriage stopped at the door, there -was the sound of a noisy summons, and then steps coming upstairs. - -Alas! it was nothing but the doctor, who came in, ushered by nurse, but -not until she had held a private conference with him, keeping them both -in the most tremendous suspense in the bedroom. It is true this was a -thing which happened every morning, but they had both forgotten that in -the tension of highly-wrought feeling. - -And when the doctor came he shook his head. “There has been too much -going on here,” he said. “You have been doing too much or talking too -much. Miss Kingsward, you helped us greatly with our patient yesterday, -but I am afraid you have been going too far, you have hurried him too -much. We dare not press recovery at railway speed after so serious an -illness as this.” - -“Oh, I have not wished to do so,” said Bee. “It is some friends that we -are expecting.” - -“Friends? I never said he was to see friends,” the doctor said. - -“Come doctor,” said Charlie, “you must not be too hard upon me. -It’s--it’s my father and sister that are coming.” - -“Your father and sister are different, but not too much even of them. -Recollect, nurse, what I say, not too much even of the nearest and -dearest. The machinery has been too much out of gear to come round all -in a moment. And, Miss Kingsward, you are pale, too. You had better go -out a little and take the air. There must not be too much conversation, -not too much reading either. I must have quiet, perfect quiet.” - -“Am I to do nothing but think?” said Charlie. “Is that the best thing -for a fellow to do that has missed his schools and lost his time?” - -“Be thankful that you are at a time of life when the loss of a few weeks -doesn’t matter, and don’t think,” said the doctor, “or we shall have to -stop even the father and sister, and send you to bed again. Be -reasonable, be reasonable. A few days’ quiet and you will be out of my -hands.” - -“Oh, Charlie, then you have given up seeing anyone else,” said Bee, with -a cry of relief as the doctor, attended by the nurse, went downstairs. - -“I have done nothing of the kind,” he cried, jumping up from the sofa -and going to the window. “And you had better tell that woman to go out -for a walk and that you will look after me. Do you think when Laura -comes that I will not see her if fifty doctors were to interfere? But if -you want to save me a little you will send that woman out of the way. It -is the worry and being contradicted that does me harm.” - -“How can I, Charlie--oh, how can I, in the face of what the doctor -said?” - -He turned back upon her flaming with feverish rage and excitement. - -“If you don’t I’ll go out. I’ll have a cab called, and get away from -this prison,” he cried. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I shall -see her if I die for it.” - -“Perhaps,” said Bee to herself, trembling, “she will not come. Oh! -perhaps she will not come!” But she felt that this was a very forlorn -hope, and when the nurse came back the poor girl, faltering and ill at -ease, obeyed the peremptory signs and frowns of Charlie, once more -established on the sofa and seeming to take no part in the negotiation. - -“Nurse, I have been thinking,” said Bee, with that talent for the -circumstantial which women have, even when acting against their will, -“that you have far more need of a walk and a little fresh air than I -have, who have only been here for a day, and that if you will tell me -exactly what to do, I could take care of him while you go out a little.” - -“Shouldn’t think of leaving him,” said nurse, with her eyebrows working -as usual and a mocking smile about her lips. “Too much talk; doctor not -pleased.” - -“But if I promise not to talk? I shall not talk. You don’t want to talk, -do you, Charlie?” - -Charlie launched a missile at her in his ingratitude, over his shoulder. -“Not with you,” he said. - -“You hear?” cried Bee, now intent upon gaining her point, and terrified -lest other visitors might arrive before this matter were decided; “we -shall not talk, and I will do all you tell me. Oh, only tell me what I -am to do.” - -“Nothing to do,” said the nurse, “not for the next hour; nothing, but -keep him quiet. Well, if you think you can undertake that, just for half -an hour--” - -“I will--I will--for as long as you please,” cried Bee. It was better, -indeed, if there must be this interview with Laura, that there should be -as few spectators as possible. She hurried the woman away with -eagerness, though she had been alarmed at the first suggestion. But when -she was alone with him, and nobody to stand by her, thinking at every -sound she heard that this was the dreaded arrival, Bee crept close to -him with a sudden panic of terror and dismay. - -“Oh, Charlie, don’t listen to her, don’t believe her; oh, don’t be led -astray by her again! I have done what you told me, but I oughtn’t to -have done it. Oh, Charlie, stand fast, whatever she says, and don’t be -led astray by her again.” - -The only sign of Charlie’s gratitude that Bee received was to be hastily -pushed away by his shoulder. “You little fool, what do you know about -it?” her brother said. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - - -BUT the nurse went out for her walk and came in again and nothing -happened, and Charlie had his invalid dinner, which in his excitement he -could not eat, and Bee was called downstairs to luncheon, and yet nobody -came. The luncheon was a terrible ordeal for Bee. She attempted to eat, -with an eye on the window, to watch for the arrival of the visitors, and -an ear upon the subdued sounds of the house, through which she seemed to -hear the distant step, the distant voice of someone whose presence was -not acknowledged. She repeated with eagerness her little speech of the -night before. “Something must have detained papa,” she said, “I cannot -understand it, but he is sure to come, and he will take me away.” - -“I don’t want you to be taken away, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I should -not let you go if I could help it.” - -“Oh, but I must, I must,” said Bee, trembling and agitated. She could -not eat anything, any more than Charlie, and when the nurse came -downstairs, indignantly carrying the tray from which scarcely anything -had been taken, Bee could make no reply to her remonstrances. “The young -lady had better not come upstairs again,” said nurse; “she has done him -more harm than good, he will have a relapse if we don’t mind. It is as -much as my character is worth.” She talked like other people when there -was no patient present, and she was genuinely afraid. - -“What are we to do?” said Mrs. Leigh. “If this lady comes he ought not -to see her! But perhaps she will not come.” - -“That is what I have hoped,” said Bee, “but if she doesn’t come he will -go out, he will get to her somehow; he will kill himself with -struggling----” - -At the suggestion of going out the nurse gave a shriek and thrust her -tray into the servant’s hands who was waiting. “He will have to kill me -first,” she said, rushing away. - -And immediately upon this scene came Betty, fresh and shining in her -white frock, with a smile like a little sunbeam, who announced at once -that Miss Lance was coming. - -“How is Charlie?” said Betty. “Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how good you have been! -Papa is coming himself to thank you. What a trouble it must have been to -have him ill here all the time. Mrs. Lyon, whom I am staying with, -thinks it so wonderful of you--so kind, so kind! And Bee, _she_ is -coming, though it is rather a hard thing for her to do. She says you -will not like to see her, Mrs. Leigh, and that it will be an intrusion -upon you; but I said when you had been so good to poor Charlie all -along, you would not be angry that she should come who is such a -friend.” - -“Any friend, of course, of Colonel Kingsward’s----” Mrs. Leigh said -stiffly, while little Betty stared. She thought they all looked very -strange; the old lady so stiff, and Bee turning red and turning white, -and a general air as if something had gone wrong. - -“Is Charlie worse?” she said, with an anxious look. - -And then Bee was suddenly called upstairs. “Can’t manage him any -longer,” the nurse said on the landing. “I wash my hands of it. Your -fault if he has a relapse.” - -“Who is that?” said Charlie, from within, “Who is it? I will see her! -Nobody shall interfere, no one--doctor, or nurse, or--the devil himself. -Bee!” - -“It is only Betty,” said Bee, upon which Charlie ceased his raging and -flung himself again on his sofa. - -“You want to torment me; you want to wear me out; you want to kill me,” -he said, with tears of keen disappointment in his eyes. - -“Charlie,” said Bee, “she is coming. Betty is here to say so; she is -coming in about an hour or so. If you will eat your dinner and lie quite -quiet and compose yourself you will be allowed to see her, and nurse -will not object.” - -“Oh, Miss Kingsward, don’t answer for me. It is as much as his life is -worth.” - -“But not unless you eat your dinner and keep perfectly quiet.” - -“Give us that old dinner,” said Charlie, with a loud, unsteady laugh, -and the tray was brought back and he performed his duty upon the -half-cold dishes with an expedition and exuberance that gave nurse new -apprehensions. - -“He’ll have indigestion,” she said, “if he gobbles like that,” speaking -once more inaudibly over Charlie’s shoulder. But afterwards all was -quiet till the fated moment came. - -I do not think if these girls had known the feelings that were within -Miss Lance’s breast that they would have been able to retain their -respective feelings towards her--Betty of adoration or Bee of hostility. -She had lived a life of adventure, and she had come already on various -occasions to the very eve of such a settled condition of life as would -have made further adventure unnecessary and impossible--but something -had always come in the way. Something so often comes in the way of such -a career. The stolid people who are incapable of any skilful -combinations go on and prosper, while those who have wasted so much -cleverness or much wit, so much trouble--and disturbed the lives of -others and risked their own--fail just at the moment of success. I am -sometimes very sorry for the poor adventurers. Miss Lance went to Curzon -Street with all her wits painfully about her, knowing that she was about -to stand for her life. It seemed the most extraordinary spite of fate -that this should have happened in the house of Aubrey Leigh. She would -have had in any case a disagreeable moment enough between Charlie -Kingsward and his father, but it was too much to have the other brought -in. The man whom she had so wronged, the family (for she knew that his -mother was there also) who knew all about her, who could tell -everything, and stop her on the very threshold of the new life--that new -life in which there would be no equivocal circumstances, nothing that -she could be reproached with, only duty and kindness. So often she -seemed to have been just within sight of that halcyon spot where she -would need to scheme no more, where duty and every virtuous thing would -be natural and easy. Was the failure to come all over again? - -She was little more than an adventuress, this troubled woman, and yet it -was not without something of the exalted feeling of one who is about to -stand for his life, for emancipation and freedom to do well and all that -is best in existence, that she walked through the streets towards her -fate. Truth alone was possible with the Leighs, who knew everything -about her past, and could not be persuaded or turned from their -certainty by any explanations. But poor Charlie! Bare truth was not -possible with him, whom she had sacrificed lightly to the amusement of -the moment, whom she could never have married or made the instrument of -building up her fortune except in the way which, to do her justice she -had not foreseen, through the access he had given her to his father. How -was she to satisfy that foolish, hot-headed boy?--and how to stop the -mouths of the others in the background?--and how to persuade Colonel -Kingsward that circumstances alone were against her--that she herself -was not to blame? She did not conceal from herself any of these -difficulties, but she was too brave a woman to fly before them. She -preferred to walk, and to walk alone, to this trial which awaited her, -in order to subdue her nerves and get the aid of the fresh air and -solitude to steady her being. She was going to stand for her life. - -It seemed a good augury that she was allowed to enter the house without -any interruption from the sitting-room below, where she had the -conviction that her worst opponents were lying in wait. She thought even -that she had been able to distinguish the white cap and shawl of Mrs. -Leigh through the window, but it was Betty who met her in the hall--met -her with a kiss and expression of delight. - -“Oh, I am so glad you have come,” said Betty, “he is so eager to see -you.” The people in ambush in the ground floor rooms must have heard the -exclamation, but they made no sign. At the door upstairs they were met -by the nurse, excited and laconic, speaking without any sound. - -“No worry--don’t contradict. Much as life is worth,” she said, with -emphatic, silent lips. Miss Lance, so composed, so perfect in her -manner, so wound up to everything, laughed a little--she was so -natural!--and nodded her head. And then she went in. - -Charlie on the sofa was of course the chief figure. But he had jumped -up, flinging his wrappings about, and stood in his gaunt and tremulous -length, with his big hollow eyes and his ragged little beard, and his -hands stretched out. “At last!” he said, “at last---- Laura!” stumbling -in his weakness as he advanced to her. Bee was standing up straight -against the window in the furthest corner of the room, not making a -movement. How real, how natural, how completely herself and ready for -any emergency this visitor was! She took Charlie’s hands in hers, -supporting him with that firm hold, and put him back upon his couch. - -“Now,” she said, “the conditions of my visit are these: perfect quiet -and obedience, and no excitement. If you rebel in any way I shall go. I -know what nursing is, and I know what common-sense is--and I came here -to help you, not to harm you. Move a toe or finger more than you ought, -and I shall go!” - -“I will not move, not an eyelid if you tell me not. I want to do nothing -but look at you. Laura! oh, Laura! I have been dead, and now I am alive -again,” Charlie said. - -“Ill or well,” said Miss Lance, arranging his cushions with great skill, -“you are a foolish, absurd boy. Partly it belongs to your age and partly -to your temperament. I should not have considered you like your father -at the first glance, but you are like him. Now, perfect quiet. Consider -that your grandmother has come to see you, and that it does not suit the -old lady to have her mind disturbed.” - -He had seized her hand and was kissing it over and over again. Miss -Lance took those caresses very quietly, but after a minute she withdrew -her hand. “Now, tell me all about it,” she said; “you went off in such a -commotion--so angry with me--” - -“Never angry,” he said, “but miserable, oh, more miserable--too -miserable for words. I thought that you had cut me off for ever.” - -“You were right so far as your foolish ideas of that moment went, but I -hope you have learnt better since, and now tell me what did you do? I -hoped you had gone home, and then that you had gone to Scotland, and -then--. What did you do?” - -“I don’t know,” said Charlie, “I can’t tell you. I suppose I must have -been ill then. I came up to town, but I don’t know what I did. And I was -brought here, and I’ve been ill ever since, and couldn’t seem to get -better until I heard you had been speaking for me. You speaking for me, -Laura! Thinking of me a little, trying to bring me back to life. I’ll -come back to life, dear, for you--anything, Laura, for you!” - -“My dear boy, it is a pity you should not have a better reason,” she -said. The two girls had not gone away. Betty had retired to the corner -where Bee was, and they stood close together holding each other, ashamed -and scornful beyond expression of Charlie’s abandonment. Even Betty, who -was almost as much in love with Miss Lance as Charlie was, was ashamed -to hear him “going on” in this ridiculous way. What Miss Lance felt to -have these words of devotion addressed to her in the presence of two -such listeners I will not say. She was acutely sensible of their -presence, and of what they were thinking, but she did not shrink from -the ordeal. “And you must not call me Laura,” she said, “unless you can -make it Aunt Laura, or Grandmother Laura, which are titles I shouldn’t -object to. Anything else would be ridiculous between you and me.” - -“Laura!” the young man said, raising himself quickly. - -“Say Aunt Laura, my dear, and if you move another inch I will go away!” - -“You are crushing me,” he cried, “you are driving me to despair!” - -“Dear Charlie,” said Miss Lance, “all this, you know, is very great -nonsense--between you and me; I have told you so all along. Now things -have really become too serious to go on. I want to be kind to you, to -help you to get well, and to see as much of you as possible; for you are -a dear boy and I am fond of you. But this can’t be unless you will see -things in their true light and acknowledge the real state of affairs. I -am most willing and ready to be your friend, to be a mother to you. But -anything else is ridiculous. Do you hear me, Charlie?--ridiculous! You -don’t want to be laughed at, and you don’t want me to be laughed at, I -suppose?” She took his hands with which he had covered his face and held -them in hers. “Now, no nonsense, Charlie. Be a man! Will you have me for -your friend, always ready to do anything for you, or will you have -nothing to do with me? Come! I might be your mother, I have always told -you so. And look here,” she said, with a tone of genuine passion in her -voice and a half turn of her flexible figure towards the two girls, “I’m -worth having for a mother; whatever you may think in your cruel youth, I -am, I am!” Surely this was to them and not to him. The movement, the -accent, was momentary. Her voice changed again into the softness of a -caress. “Charlie, my dear boy, don’t make me ridiculous, don’t make -people laugh at me. They call me an old witch, trying to entrap a young -man. Will you let people--nay, will you _make_ people call me so?” - -“_I_ make anyone call you--anything but what you are!” he cried. -“Nobody would dare,” said the unfortunate fellow, “to do anything but -revere you and admire you so long as I was there.” - -“And then break out laughing the moment your back was turned,” she said. -“‘What a hold the old hag has got upon him!’ is what they would say. And -it would be quite true. Not that I am an old hag. No, I don’t think I am -that, I am worse. I’m a very well preserved woman of my years. I’ve -taken great care of myself to keep up what are called my personal -advantages. I have never wished--I don’t wish now--to be thought older -than I am, or ugly. I am just old enough--to be your mother, Charlie, if -I had married young, as your mother did----” - -He drew his hands out of her cool and firm grasp, and once more covered -his face with them. “Don’t torture me,” he cried. - -“No, my dear boy, I don’t want to torture you, but you must not make me, -nor yourself--whom I am proud of--ridiculous. I am going probably--for -nothing is certain till it happens,” she said, with a mournful tone in -her voice, slightly shaking her head, “and you may perhaps help to balk -me--I am probably going to make a match with a reasonable person suited -to my age.” - -Poor Charlie started up, his hands fell from his face, his large -miserable eyes were fixed upon hers. “And you come--you come--to tell me -this!” he cried. - -“It will be partly for you--to show how impossible your folly is--but -most for myself, to secure my own happiness.” She said these words very -slowly, one by one--“To secure my own happiness. Have I not the right to -do that, because a young man, who should have been my son, has taken it -into his foolish head to form other ideas of me? You would rather make -me ridiculous and wretched than consider my dignity, my welfare, my -happiness--and this is what you call love!” she said. - -The girls listened to this conversation with feelings impossible to put -into words, not knowing what to think. One of them loved the woman and -the other hated her; they were equally overwhelmed in their young and -simple ideas. She seemed to be speaking a language new to them, and to -have risen into a region which they had never known. - - - - -CHAPTER L. - - -SHE left Charlie’s room, having soothed him and reduced him to quiet in -this inconceivable way, with a smile on her face and the look of one who -was perfectly mistress of the situation. But when she had gone down -half-a-dozen steps and reached the landing, she stood still and leaned -against the wall, clasping her hands tight as if there was something in -them to hold by. She had carried through this part of her ordeal with a -high hand. She had made it look the kindest yet the most decisive -interview in the world, crushing the foolish young heart, without -remorse, yet tenderly, kindly, with such a force of sense and reason as -could not be resisted--and all so naturally, with so much apparent ease, -as if it cost her nothing. But she was after all, merely a woman, and -she knew that only half, nay, not half, not the worst half of her trial -was over. She lay back against the wall, having nothing else to rest -upon, and closed her eyes for a moment. The two girls had followed her -instinctively out of Charlie’s room, and stood on the stairs one above -the other, gazing at her. The long lines of her figure seemed to relax, -as if she might have fallen, and in their wonder and ignorance they -might still have stood by and looked on letting her fall, without -knowing what to do. But she did not do so. The corner of the walls -supported her as if they had made a couch for her, and presently she -opened her eyes with a vague smile at Betty, who was foremost. “I was -tired,” she said, and then, “it isn’t easy”--drawing a long breath. - -At this moment the trim figure of Mrs. Leigh’s maid appeared on the -stairs below, so commonplace, so trim, so neat, the little apparition of -ordinary life which glides through every tragedy, lifting its everyday -voice in announcements of dinner, in inquiries about tea, in all the -nothings of routine, in the midst of all tumults of misery and passion. -“If you please, madam--my lady would be glad if you would step into the -dining-room,” she said. - -Miss Lance raised herself in a moment from that half-recumbent position -against the wall. She recovered herself, got back her colour and the -brightness of her eyes, and that look of being perfectly natural, at her -ease, unstrained, spontaneous, which she had shown throughout the -interview with Charlie. “Certainly,” she said. There did not seem to be -time for the twinkling of an eyelid between the one mood and the other. -She required no preparation or interval to pull herself together. She -looked at the two sisters as if to call them to follow her, and then -walked quietly downstairs to be tried for her life--like a martyr--oh, -no, for she was not a martyr, but a criminal. She had no confidence of -innocence about her. She knew what indictment was about to be brought -against her, and she knew it was true. This knowledge, however, gives a -certain strength. It gives courage such as the innocent who do not know -what charge may be brought against them or how to meet it, do not -possess. She had rehearsed the scene. She knew what she was going to be -accused of, and had thought over, and set in order, all the pleas. She -knew exactly what she had done and what she had not, which was a tower -of strength to her, and she knew that on her power of fighting it out -depended her life. It is difficult altogether to deny our sympathy to a -brave creature fighting for bare life. However guilty he may be, human -nature takes sides with him, hopes in the face of all justice that there -may be a loophole of escape. Even Bee, coming slowly downstairs after -her, already thrown into a curious tumult of feeling by that scene in -Charlie’s room, began to feel her breath quicken with excitement even in -the hostility of her heart. - -There was one thing that Miss Lance had not foreseen, and that burst -upon her at once when the maid opened the door--Colonel Kingsward, -standing with his arm upon the mantel-piece and his countenance as if -turned to stone. The shock which this sight gave her was very difficult -to overcome or conceal, it struck her with a sudden dart as of despair; -her impulse was to fling down her arms, to acknowledge herself -vanquished, and to retreat, a defeated and ruined adventuress, but she -was too brave and unalterably by nature too sanguine to do this. She -gave him a nod and a smile, to which he scarcely responded, as she went -towards Mrs. Leigh. - -“How strange,” she said, “when I come to see a new friend to find so old -a friend! I wondered if it could be Mr. Leigh’s house, but I was not -sure--of the number.” - -“I am afraid I cannot say I am glad to see you, Laura,” said Mrs. Leigh. - -“No? Perhaps it would have been too much to expect. We were, so to -speak, on different sides. Poor Amy, I know, was never satisfactory to -you, and I don’t wonder. Of course you only thought of me as her -friend.” - -“If that were all!” Mrs. Leigh said. - -“Was there more than that? May I sit down? I have had a long walk, and -rather an exhaustive interview--and I did not expect to be put on my -trial. But it is always best to know what one is accused of. I think it -quite natural--quite natural that you should not like me, Mrs. Leigh. I -was Amy’s friend and she was trying to you. She put me in a very false -position which I ought never to have accepted. But yet--I understand -your attitude, and I submit to it with respect--but, pardon -me--sincerely, I don’t know what there was more.” - -Miss Lance had taken a chair, a perfectly upright one, on which few -people could have sat gracefully. She made it evident that it was mere -fatigue which made her subside upon it momentarily, and lifted her fine -head and limpid eyes with so candid and respectful an air towards Mrs. -Leigh’s comfortable, unheroic face, that no contrast of the oppressed -and oppressor could have been more marked. If anyone had suffered in the -matter between these two ladies, it certainly was not the one with the -rosy countenance and round, well-filled-out figure; or so, at least, any -impartial observer certainly would have felt. - -Mrs. Leigh, for her part, was almost speechless with excitement and -anger. She had intended to keep perfectly calm, but the look, the tone, -the appearance of this personage altogether, brought before her -overpoweringly many past scenes--scenes in which, to tell the truth, -Miss Lance had not been always in the wrong, in which the other figure, -now altogether disappeared, of Aubrey’s wife was the foremost, an -immovable gentle-mannered fool, with whom all reason and argument were -unavailing, whom everybody had believed to be inspired by the companion -to whom she clung. All Amy’s faults had been bound upon Laura’s -shoulders, but this was not altogether deserved, and Miss Lance did not -shrink from anything that could be said on that subject. It required -more courage to say, “Was there anything more?” - -“More!” cried Mrs. Leigh, choking with the remembrance. “More! My boy’s -house was made unsafe for him, it was made miserable to him, he was -involved in every kind of danger and scandal, and she asks me if there -was more?” - -“Poor Amy,” said Miss Lance, with a little pause on the name, shaking -her head gently in compassion and regret. “Poor Amy put me in a very -false position. I have already said so, I ought not to have accepted it, -I ought not to have promised; but it was so difficult to refuse a -promise to the dying. Let Colonel Kingsward judge. She was very unwise, -but she had been my friend from infancy and clung to me more, much more -than I wished. She exacted a promise from me on her death-bed that I -would never leave her child--which was folly, and, perhaps more than -folly, so far, at least, as I was concerned. You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward,” she added, steadfastly regarding him. He had kept his head -turned away, not looking at her, but this gaze compelled him against his -will to shift his position, to turn towards the appellant who made him -the judge. He still kept his eyes away, but his head turned by an -attraction which he could not withstand. “You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward--that I was the person who suffered most,” Miss Lance said -after that pause, “compelled to stay in a house where I had never been -welcome, except to poor Amy, who was dead; a sort of guardian, a sort of -nurse, and yet with none of their rights, held fast by a promise which -I had given against my will, and which I never ceased to regret. You are -a man, Colonel Kingsward, but you have more understanding of a woman’s -feelings than any I know. My position was a false one, it was cruel--but -I was bound by my word.” - -“No one ought to have given such a promise,” he said, coldly, with -averted eyes. - -“You are always right, I ought not to have done so; but she was dying, -and I was fond of her, poor girl, though she was foolish--it is not -always the wisest people one loves most--fond of her, very fond of her, -and of her poor little child.” - -The tears came to Miss Lance’s eyes. She shook her head a little as if -to shake them from her eyelashes. “Why should I cry? They have been so -long happy, happier far than we----” - -Mrs. Leigh, the prosecutor, the accuser, gave a gulp, a sob; the child -was her grandchild, her only one--and besides anger in a woman is as -prone to tears as sorrow. She gave a stifled cry, “I don’t deny you -were good to the child; oh, Laura, I could have forgiven you -everything! But not--not----” - -“What?” Miss Lance said. - -Mrs. Leigh seized upon Bee by the arm and drew her forward--Aubrey’s -mother wanted words, she wanted eloquence, her arguments had to be -pointed by fact. She took Bee, who had been standing in proud yet -excited spectatorship, and held her by her own side. “Aubrey,” she said, -almost inarticulately, and stopped to recover her breath--“Aubrey--whom -you had driven from his home--found at last this dear girl, this nice, -good girl, who would have made him a new life. But you interfered, you -wrote to her father, you went--I don’t know what you did--and said you -had a claim, a prior claim. If you appeal to Colonel Kingsward, he is -the best judge. You went to him----” - -“Not to me, I was not aware, I never even saw Miss Lance till long -after; forgive me for interrupting you.” - -Miss Lance turned towards him again with that full look of faith and -confidence. “Always just!” she said. And this time for a tremulous -moment their eyes met. He turned his away again hastily, but he had -received that touch; an indefinable wavering came over his aspect of -iron. - -“Yes,” she said, “I do not deny it--it is quite true. Shall I now -explain before every one who is here? I think,” she added, after a -moment, “that my little Betty, who has nothing particular to do with it, -may run away.” - -“I!” said Betty, clinging to the back of a chair. - -“Go,” said her father, impatiently, “go!” - -“Yes, my dear, run away. Charlie must want some one. He will have got -over me a little, and he will want some one. Dear little Betty, run -away!” - -Miss Lance rose from her seat--probably that too was a relief to -her--and, with a smile and a kiss, turned Betty out of the room. She -came back then and sat down again. It gained a little time, and she was -at a crisis harder than she had ever faced before. She had gained a -moment to think, but even now she was not sure what way there was out of -this strait, the most momentous in which she had ever been. She looked -round her at one after another with a look that seemed as secure and -confident, as easy and natural, as before; but her brain was working at -the most tremendous rate, looking for some clue, some indication. She -looked round as with a pause of conscious power, and then her gaze fixed -itself on Bee. Bee stood near Mrs. Leigh’s chair. She was standing firm -but tremulous, a deeply concerned spectator, but there was on her face -nothing of the eager attention with which a girl would listen to an -explanation about her lover. She was not more interested than she had -been before, not so much so as when Charlie was in question. When Mrs. -Leigh, in her indictment, said, “You interfered,” Bee had made a faint, -almost imperceptible movement of her head. The mind works very quickly -when its fate hangs on the balance of a minute, and now, suddenly, the -culprit arraigned before these terrible judges saw her way. - -“I interfered,” Miss Lance said, slowly, “but not because of any prior -claim;”--she paused again for a moment--“that would have been as absurd -as in the case Colonel Kingsward knows of. I interfered--because I had -other reasons for believing that Aubrey Leigh was not the man to marry a -dear, good, nice girl.” - -“You had--other reasons, Laura! Mind what you are saying--you will have -to prove your words,” cried Mrs. Leigh, rising in her wrath, with an -astonished and threatening face. - -“I do not ask his mother to believe me. It is before Colonel Kingsward,” -said Miss Lance, “that I stand or fall.” - -“Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out! You know it was because she -claimed my son--she, a woman twice his age; and now she pretends---- -Make her speak out! How dare you? You said he had promised to marry -you--that he was bound to you. Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out!” - -“That was what I understood,” he said, looking out of the window, his -head turned half towards the other speakers, but not venturing to look -at them. “I did not see Miss Lance, but that was what I understood.” - -Laura sat firm, as if she were made of marble, but almost as pale. Her -nerves were so highly strung that if she had for a moment relaxed their -tension, she would have fallen to the ground. She sat like a rock, -holding herself together with the strong grasp of her clasped hands. - -“You hear, you hear! You are convicted out of your own mouth. Oh, you -are cruel, you are wicked, Laura Lance! If you have anything to say -speak out, speak out!” - -“I will say nothing,” said Miss Lance. “I will leave another, a better -witness, to say it for me. Colonel Kingsward, ask your daughter if it -was because of my prior claim, as his mother calls it, that she broke -off her engagement with Aubrey Leigh.” - -Colonel Kingsward turned, surprised, to his daughter, who, roused by the -sound of her own name, looked up quickly--first at the seemingly -composed and serious woman opposite to her, then at her father. He spoke -to her angrily, abruptly. - -“Do you hear? Answer the question that is put to you. Was it because of -this lady, or any claim of hers, that you--how shall I say it?--a girl -like you had no right to decide one way or the other--that you broke -off--that your mind was changed towards Mr. Aubrey Leigh?” - -It appeared to Bee suddenly as if she had become the culprit, and all -eyes were fixed on her. She trembled, looking at them all. What had she -done? She was surely unhappy enough, wretched enough, a clandestine -visitor, keeping Aubrey out of his own house, and what had she to do -with Aubrey? Nothing, nothing! Nor he with her--that her heart should -now be snatched out of her bosom publicly in respect to him. - -“That is long past,” she said, faltering, “it is an old story. Mr. -Aubrey Leigh is--a stranger to me; it is of no consequence--now!” - -“Bee,” her father thundered at her, “answer the question! Was it because -of--this lady that you changed your mind?” - -Colonel Kingsward had always the art, somehow, of kindling the blaze of -opposition in the blue eyes which were so like his own. She looked at -him almost fiercely in reply, fully roused. - -“No!” she said, “no! It was not because of--that lady. It was -another--reason of my own.” - -“What was your reason?” cried Mrs. Leigh. “Oh, Bee, speak! What was it, -what was it? Tell me, tell me, my dear, what was your reason? that I may -prove to you it was not true.” - -“Had it anything to do with--this lady?” asked Colonel Kingsward once -more. - -“I never spoke to that lady but once,” cried Bee, almost violently. “I -don’t know her; I don’t want to know her. She has nothing to do with it. -It was because of something quite different, something that we -heard--I--and mamma.” - -Miss Lance looked at him with a smile on her face, loosing the grip of -her hands, spreading them out in demonstration of her acquittal. She -rose up slowly, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. She allowed it to -be seen for the first time how she was shaken with emotion. - -“You have heard,” she said, “a witness you trust more than me--if I put -myself into the breach to secure a pause, it was only such a piece of -folly as I have done before. I hope now that you will let me withdraw. -I am dreadfully tired, I am not fit for any more.” - -She looked with that appeal upon her face, first at one of her judges, -then at the other. “If you are satisfied, let me go.” It seemed as if -she could not say a word more. They made no response, but she did not -wait for that. “I take it for granted,” she added, “that by that child’s -mouth I am cleared,” and then she turned towards the door. - -Colonel Kingsward, with a little start, came from his place by the -mantel-piece and opened it for her, as he would have done for any woman. -She let it appear that this movement was unexpected, and went to her -heart; she paused a moment looking up at him--her eyes swimming in -tears, her mouth quivering. - -“How kind you are!” she said, “even though you don’t believe in me any -more! but I have done all I can. I am very tired, scarcely able to -walk.” He stood rigid, and made no sign, and she, looking at him, softly -shook her head--“Let me see you at least once,” she said, very low, in a -pleading tone, “this evening, some time?” - -Still he gave no answer, standing like a man of iron, holding the door -open. She gave him another look, and then walked quietly, but with a -slight quiver and half stumble, away. They all stood watching until her -tall figure was seen to pass the window, disappearing in the street, -which is the outer world. - -“Colonel Kingsward--” said Mrs. Leigh. - -He started at the sound of his name, as if he had but just awakened out -of a dream, and began to smooth his hat, which all this time he had held -in his hands. - -“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me, another time. I have some pressing -business to see to now.” - -And he, too, disappeared into that street which led both ways, into the -monotony of London, which is the world. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - - -THOSE who were left behind were not very careful of what Colonel -Kingsward did. They were not thinking of his concerns; in the strain of -personal feeling the most generous of human creatures is forced to think -first of their own. Neither of the women who were left in the room had -any time to consider the matter, but if they had they would have made -sure without hesitation that nothing which could happen to Colonel -Kingsward could be half so important as that crisis in which his -daughter was involved. - -Mrs. Leigh turned round upon the girl by her side and seized her hands. -“Bee,” she cried, “now we are alone and we can speak freely. Tell me -what it was, there is nobody here to frighten you, to take the words -from your mouth. What was it, what was it that made you turn from -Aubrey? At last, at last, it can be cleared up whatever it was.” - -Bee turned away, trying to disengage her hands. “It is of no -consequence,” she said, “Oh, don’t make me go back to those old, old -things. What does it matter to Mr. Leigh? And as for me----” - -“It matters everything to Aubrey. He will be able to clear himself if -you will give him the chance. How could he clear himself when he was -never allowed to speak, when he did not know? Bee, in justice, in mere -justice! What was it? You said your mother----” - -“Yes, I had her then. We heard it together, and she felt it like me. But -we had no time to talk of it after, for she was ill. If you would please -not ask me, Mrs. Leigh! I was very miserable--mother dying, and nowhere, -nowhere in all the world anything to trust to. Don’t, oh! don’t make me -go back upon it! I am not--so very--happy, even now!” - -The girl would not let herself be drawn into Mrs. Leigh’s arms. She -refused to rest her head upon the warm and ample bosom which was offered -to her. She drew away her hands. It was difficult, very difficult, to -keep from crying. It is always hard for a girl to keep from crying when -her being is so moved. The only chance for her was to keep apart from -all contact, to stand by herself and persuade herself that nobody cared -and that she was alone in the world. - -“Bee, I believe,” said Mrs. Leigh, solemnly, “that you have but to speak -a word and you will be happy. You have not your mother now. You can’t -turn to her and ask her what you should do. But I am sure that she would -say, ‘speak!’ If she were here she would not let you break a man’s heart -and spoil his life for a punctilio. I have always heard she was a good -woman and kind--kind. Bee,” the elder lady laid her hand suddenly on the -girl’s shoulder, making her start, “she would say ‘speak’ if she were -here.” - -“Oh, mamma, if you were here!” said Bee, through her tears. - -She broke down altogether and became inarticulate, sobbing with her face -buried in her hands. The ordeal of the last two days had been severe. -Charlie and his concerns and the appearance of Miss Lance, and the -conflict only half understood which had been going on round her, had -excited and disturbed her beyond expression, as everybody could see and -understand. But, indeed, these were but secondary elements in the storm -which had overwhelmed Bee, which was chiefly brought back by that sudden -plunge into the atmosphere of Aubrey. The sensation of being in his -house, which she might in other circumstances have shared with him, of -sitting at his table, in his seat, under the roof that habitually -sheltered him--here, where her own life ought to have been passed, but -where the first condition now was that there should be nothing of him -visible. In Aubrey’s house, but not for Aubrey! Aubrey banished, lest -perhaps her eyes might fall upon him by chance, or her ears be offended -by the sound of his voice! Even his mother did not understand how much -this had to do with the passion and trouble of the girl, from whose -eyes the innocent name of her mother, sweetest though saddest of -memories, had let forth the salt and boiling tears. If Mrs. Leigh had -been anybody in the world save Aubrey’s mother, Bee would have clung to -her, accepting the tender support and consolation of the elder women’s -arms and her sympathy, but from Aubrey’s mother she felt herself -compelled to keep apart. - -It was not until her almost convulsive sobbing was over that this -question could be re-opened, and in the meantime Betty having heard the -sound of the closing door came rushing downstairs and burst into the -room: perhaps she was not so much disturbed or excited as Mrs. Leigh was -by Bee’s condition. She gave her sister a kiss as she lay on the sofa -where Mrs. Leigh had placed her, and patted her on the shoulder. - -“She will be better when she has had it out,” said Betty. “She has -worked herself up into such a state about Miss Lance. And oh, please -tell me what has happened. You are her enemy, too, Mrs. Leigh--oh, how -can you misjudge her so! As if she had been the cause of any harm! I was -sent away,” said Betty, “and, of course, Bee could not speak--but I -could have told you. Yes, of course, I knew! How could I help knowing, -being her sister? I can’t tell whether she told me, I knew without -telling; and, of course, she must have told me. This is how it was----” - -Bee put forth her hand and caught her sister by the dress, but Betty was -not so easily stopped. She turned round quickly, and took the detaining -hand into her own and patted and caressed it. - -“It is far better to speak out,” she said, “it must be told now, and -though I am young and you call me little Betty, I cannot help hearing, -can I, what people say? Mrs. Leigh, this was how it was. Whatever -happened about dear Miss Lance--whom I shall stick to and believe in -whatever you say,” cried Betty, by way of an interlude, with flashing -eyes, “that had nothing, nothing to do with it. That was a story--like -Charlie’s, I suppose, and Bee no more made a fuss about it than I should -do. It was after, when Bee was standing by Aubrey, like--like Joan of -Arc; yes, of course I shall call him Aubrey--I should like to have him -for a brother, but that has got nothing to do with it. A lady came to -call upon mamma, and she told a story about someone on the railway who -had met Aubrey on the way home after that scene at Cologne, after he was -engaged to Bee, and was miserable because of papa’s opposition.” Betty -spoke so fast that her words tumbled over each other, so to speak, in -the rush for utterance. “Well, he was seen,” she resumed, pausing for -breath, “putting a young woman with children into one of the sleeping -carriages--a poor young woman that had no money or right to be there. He -put her in, and when they got to London he was seen talking to her, and -giving her money, as if she belonged to him. I don’t see any harm in -that, for he was always kind to poor people. But these ladies did, and I -suppose so did mamma, and Bee blazed up. That is just like her. She -takes fire, she never waits to ask questions, she stops her ears. She -thought it was something dreadful, showing that he had never cared for -her, that he had cared for other people even when he was pretending, I -should have done quite different. I should have said, ‘Now, look here, -Aubrey, what does it mean?’--or, rather, I should never have thought -anything but that he was kind. He was always kind--silly, indeed, about -poor people, as so many are.” - -Mrs. Leigh had followed Betty’s rapid narrative with as much attention -as she could concentrate upon it, but the speed with which the words -flew forth, the little interruptions, the expressions of Betty’s matured -and wise opinions, bewildered her beyond measure. - -“What does it all mean?” she asked, looking from one to another when the -story was done. “A sleeping carriage on the railway--a woman with -children--as if she belonged to him? How could a woman with children -belong to him?” Then she paused and grew crimson with an old woman’s -painful blush. “Is it vice, horrible vulgar vice, this child is -attributing to my boy?” - -The two girls stared, confused and troubled. Bee got up from the sofa -and put her hands to her head, her eyes fixed upon Mrs. Leigh with an -appalled and horrified look. She had not asked herself of what Aubrey -had been accused. She had fled from him before the dreadful thought of -relationships she did not understand, of something which was the last -insult to her, whatever it might be in itself. “Vulgar vice!” The girls -were cowed as if some guilt had been imputed to themselves. - -“You are not like anything I have known, you girls of the period,” cried -the angry mother. “You are acquainted with such things as I at my age -had never heard of. You make accusations! But now--he shall answer for -himself,” she said, flaming with righteous wrath. Mrs. Leigh went to the -bell and rang it so violently that the sound echoed all over the house. - -“Go and ask your master to come here at once, directly; I want him this -moment,” she said, stamping her foot in her impatience. And then there -was a pause. The man went off and was seen from the window to cross the -street on his errand. Then Bee rose, her tears hastily dried up, pushing -back from her forehead her disordered hair. - -“I had better go. If you have sent for Mr. Leigh it will be better that -I should go.” - -Mrs. Leigh was almost incapable of speech. She took Bee by the shoulders -and put her back almost violently on the sofa. “You shall stay there,” -she said, in a choked and angry voice. - -What a horrible pause it was! The girls were silent, looking at each -other with wild alarm. Betty, who had blurted out the story, but to whom -the idea of repeating it before Aubrey--before a man--was unspeakable -horror, made a step towards the door. Then she said, “No, I will not run -away,” with tremendous courage. “It is not our fault,” she added, after -a pause. “Bee, if I have got to say it again, give me your hand.” - -“It is I who ought to say it,” said Bee, pale with the horror of what -was to come. “Vulgar vice!” And she to accuse him, and to stand up -before the world and say that was why! - -It seemed a long time, but it was really only a few minutes, before -Aubrey appeared. He came in quickly, breathless with haste and suspense. -He expected, from what his mother had told him, to find Miss Lance and -Colonel Kingsward there. He came into the agitated room and found, of -all people in the world, Bee and Betty, terrified, and his mother, -walking about the room sounding, as it were, a metaphorical lash about -their ears, in the frank passion of an elder woman who has the most just -cause of offence and no reason to bate her breath. There was something -humorous in the tragic situation, but to them it was wholly tragic, and -Aubrey, seeing for the first time after so long an interval the girl he -loved, and seeing her in such strange circumstances, was by no means -disposed to see any humorous side. - -“Here, Aubrey!” said his mother, “I have called upon you to hear what -you are accused of. You thought it was Laura Lance, but she has nothing -to do with it. You are accused of travelling from Germany, that time -when you were sent off from Cologne--the time those Kingswards turned -upon you”--(the girls both started, and recovered themselves a little at -the shock of this contemptuous description),--“travelling in sleeping -carriages and I know not what with a woman and children, who were -believed to belong to you! What have you to say?” - -“That was not what I said, Mrs. Leigh.” - -“What have you to say?” cried Mrs. Leigh, waving her hand to silence -Betty; “the accused has surely the right to speak first.” - -“What have I to say? But to what, mother? What is it? Was I travelling -with a woman and children? I suppose I was travelling--with all the -women and children that were in the same train. But otherwise, of course -you know I was with nobody. What does it mean?” - -Bee got up from the sofa like a ghost, her blue eyes wild, her face -pale. “Oh, let us go, let us go! Do not torment us,” she said. “I will -acknowledge that it was not true. Now that I see him I am sure that it -was not true. I was mad. I was so stung to think---- Mrs. Leigh, do not -kill me! I did him no harm; do not, do not go over it any more!” - -“Go over what?” cried Aubrey. “Bee! She can’t stand, she doesn’t see -where she is going. Mother, what on earth does it matter what was -against me if it is all over? Mother! How dare you torture my poor -girl--?” - -This was naturally all the thanks Mrs. Leigh got for her efforts to -unravel the mystery, which the reader knows was the most innocent -mystery, and which had never been cleared up or thought of since that -day. It came clear of itself the moment that Aubrey, only to support -her, took Bee into his arms. - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - - -THE SORCERESS walked away very slowly down the street. - -She had the sensation of having fallen from a great height, after the -excitement of having fought bravely to keep her place there, and of -having anticipated every step of a combat still more severe which yet -had not come to pass after her previsions. It had been a fight lasting -for hours, from the moment Betty, all unconscious, had told her of the -house in which Charlie was. That was in the morning, and now it was late -afternoon, and the work of the day, the common work of the day in which -all the innocent common people about had been employed, was rounding -towards its end. It seemed to her a long, long time that she had been -involved, first in imagination, in severe thought, and then in actual -conflict--in this struggle, fighting for her life. From the beginning -she had made up her mind that she should fail. It was a consciously -losing game that she had fought so gallantly, never giving in; and -indeed she was not unaware, nor was she without a languid satisfaction -in the fact that she had indeed carried off the honours of the field, -that it would not be said that she had been beaten. But what did that -matter? Argument she knew and felt had nothing to do with such affairs. -She had known herself to have lost from the moment she saw Colonel -Kingsward standing there against the mantelpiece in the dining-room. It -had not been possible for her then to give in, to turn and go forth into -the street flinging down her arms. On the contrary, it was her nature to -fight to the last; and she had carried off an apparent victory. She had -marched off with colours flying from the field of battle, leaving every -enemy confounded. But she herself entertained no illusion in the matter. -It was possible no doubt that her spell might yet be strong enough upon -her middle-aged captive to make him ignore and pass over everything that -told against her--but, after considering the situation with a keen and -close survey of every likelihood, she dismissed that hope. No, her -chance was lost--again; the battle was over--again. It had been so near -being successful that the shock was greater perhaps than usual; but she -had now been feeling the shock for hours; so that her actual fall was as -much a relief as a pang, and her mind, full of resource, obstinately -sanguine, was becoming ready to pass on to the next chance, and had -already sprung up to think--What now? - -I am sorry that in this story I have always been placed in natural -opposition to this woman, who was certainly a creature full of interest, -full of resource, and indomitable in her way. And she had a theory of -existence, as, it is my opinion, we all must have, making out to -ourselves the most plausible reasons and excuses for all we do. Her -struggle--in which she would not have denied that she had sometimes been -unscrupulous--had always been for a standing-ground on which, if once -attained, she could have been good. She had always promised herself that -she would be good when once she had attained--oh, excellent! kind, just, -true!--a model woman. And what, after all, had been her methods? There -had been little harm in them. Here and there somebody had been injured, -as in the case of Aubrey Leigh, of Charlie Kingsward. To the first she -had indeed done considerable harm, but then she had soothed the life of -Amy, his little foolish wife, to whom she had been more kind than she -had been unkind to him. She had not wanted to be the third person -between that tiresome couple. She had stayed in his house from a kind of -sense of duty, and had Aubrey Leigh indeed asked her to become his -second wife she would, of course, have accepted him for the sake of the -position, but with a grimace. She was not particularly sorry for having -harmed him. It served him right for--well, for being Aubrey Leigh. And -as for Bee Kingsward, she had triumphantly proved, much to her own -surprise it must be said, that it was not she who had done Bee any -harm. Then Charlie--poor Charlie, poor boy! He thought, of course, that -he was very miserable and badly used. Great heavens! that a boy should -have the folly to imagine that anything could make him miserable, at -twenty-two--a man, and with all the world before him. Miss Lance at this -moment was not in the least sorry for Charlie. It would do him good. A -young fellow who had nothing in the world to complain of, who had -everything in his favour--it was good for him to be unhappy a little, to -be made to remember that he was only flesh and blood after all. - -Thus she came to the conclusion, as she walked along, that really she -had done no harm to other people. To herself, alas! she was always doing -harm, and every failure made it more and more unlikely that she would -ever succeed. She did not brood over her losses when she was thus -defeated. She turned to the next thing that offered with what would have -been in a better cause a splendid philosophy, but yet in moments like -this she felt that it became every day more improbable that she would -ever succeed. - -Instead of the large and liberal sphere in which she always hoped to be -able to fulfil all the duties of life in an imposing and remarkable way, -she would have probably to drop into--what? A governess’s place, for -which she would already be thought too old, some dreadful position about -a school, some miserable place as housekeeper--she with all her schemes, -her hopes of better things, her power over others. This prospect was -always before her, and came back to her mind at moments when she was at -the lowest ebb, for she had no money at all. She had always been -dependent upon somebody. Even now her little campaign in George Street, -Hanover Square, was at the expense of the friend with whom she had lived -in Oxford, and who believed Laura was concerting measures to establish -herself permanently in some remunerative occupation. These accounts -would have to be settled somehow, and some other expedient be found by -which to try again. Well, one thing done with, another to come on--was -not that the course of life? And there was a certain relief in the -thought that it was done with. - -The suspense was over; there was no longer the conflict between hope and -fear, which wears out the nerves and clouds the clearness of one’s -mental vision. One down, another come on! She said this to herself with -a forlorn laugh in the depths of her being, yet not so very forlorn. -This woman had a kind of pleasure in the new start, even when she did -not know what it was to be. There are a great many things in which I -avow I have the greatest sympathy with her, and find her more -interesting than a great many blameless people. Poetic justice is -generally in books awarded to such persons. But that is, one is aware, -not always the case in life. - -While Miss Lance went on quietly along the long unlovely street, with -those thoughts in her mind, walking more slowly than usual, a little -languid and exhausted after her struggle, but as has been said frankly -and without _arrière pensée_ giving up the battle as lost, and accepting -her defeat--she became suddenly aware of a quick firm footstep behind, -sounding fast and continuous upon the pavement. A woman like this has -all her wits very sharply about her, the ears and the sight of a -savage, and an unslumbering habit of observation, or she could never -carry on her career. She heard the step and instinctively noted it -before her mind awoke to any sense of meaning and importance in it. -Then, all at once, as it came just to that distance behind which made it -apparent that this footstep was following someone who went before, it -suddenly slackened without stopping, became slow when it had been fast. -At this, her thoughts flew away like a mist and she became all ears, but -she was too wise to turn round, to display any interest. Perhaps it -might be that he was only going his own way, not intending to follow, -and that he had slackened his pace unconsciously without ulterior -motives when he saw her in front of him--though this Miss Lance scarcely -believed. - -Perhaps--I will not affirm it--she threw a little more of her real -languor and weariness into her attitude and movements when she made this -exciting discovery. She was, in reality, very tired. She had looked so -when she left the house; perhaps she had forgotten her great fatigue a -little in the course of her walk, but it now came back again with -double force, which is not unusual in the most matter of fact -circumstances. As her pace grew slower, the footstep behind became -slower also, but always followed on. Miss Lance proceeded steadily, -choosing the quietest streets, pausing now and then at a shop window to -rest. The climax came when she reached a window which had a rail round -it, upon which she leaned heavily, every line of her dress expressing, -with a faculty which her garments specially possessed, an exhaustion -which could scarcely go further. Then she raised her head to look what -the place was. It was full of embroideries and needlework, a woman’s -shop, where she was sure of sympathy. She went in blindly, as if her -very sight were clouded with her fatigue. - -“I am very tired,” she said; “I want some silk for embroidery; but that -is not my chief object. May I sit down a little? I am so very tired.” - -“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” cried the mistress of the shop, rushing -round from behind the counter to place a chair for her and offer a -glass of water. She sat down so as to be visible from the door, but -still with her back to it. The step had stopped, and there was a shadow -across the window--the tall shadow of a man looking in. A smile came -upon Miss Lance’s face--of gratitude and thanks to the kind people--also -perhaps of some internal satisfaction. But she did not act as if she -were conscious of anyone waiting for her. She took the glass of water -with many acknowledgments; she leant back on the chair murmuring, -“Thanks, thanks,” to the exhortations of the shop-woman not to hurry, to -take a good rest. She did not hurry at all. Finally, she was so much -better as to be able to buy her silks, and, declaring herself quite -restored, to go out again into the open air. - -She was met by the shadow that had been visible through the window, and -which, as she knew very well, was Colonel Kingsward, stiff and -embarrassed, yet with great anxiety in his face. “I feared you were -ill,” he said, with a little jerk, the words coming in spite of him. “I -feared you were fainting.” - -“Oh, Colonel Kingsward, you!” - -“Yes--I feared you were fainting. It is--nothing, I hope?” - -“Nothing but exhaustion,” she said, with a faint smile. “I was very -tired, but I have rested and I am a little better now.” - -“Will you let me call a cab for you? You don’t seem fit to walk.” - -“Oh, no cab, thanks! I would much rather walk--the air and the slow -movement does one a little good.” - -She was pale, and her voice was rather faint, and every line of her -dress, as I have said, was tired--tired to death--and yet not -ungracefully tired. - -“I cannot let you go like this alone.” His voice softened every moment; -they went on for a step or two together. “You had better--take my arm, -at least,” he said. - -She took it with a little cry and a sudden clasp. “I think you are not a -mere man, but an archangel of kindness and goodness,” she said, with a -faint laugh that broke down, and tears in her eyes. - -And I think for that moment, in the extraordinary revulsion of feeling, -Miss Lance almost believed what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - - -WHAT more is there to say? It is better, when one is able to deal poetic -justice all round, to reward the good and punish the evil. Who are the -good and who are the evil? We have not to do with murderers, with -breakers of the law, with enemies of God or man. If Aubrey Leigh had not -been exceedingly imprudent, if Bee had not been hot-headed and -passionate, there would never have been that miserable breach between -them. And the Sorceress, who destroyed for a time the peace of the -Kingsward family, really never at any time meant that family any real -harm. She meant them indeed, to her own consciousness, all the good in -the world, and to promote their welfare in every way by making them her -own. And as a matter of fact she did so, devoting herself to their -welfare. She made Colonel Kingsward an excellent wife and adopted his -children into her sedulous and unremitting care with a zeal which a -mother could not have surpassed. Her translation from scheming poverty -to abundance, and that graceful modest wealth which is almost the most -beautiful of the conditions of life, was made in a way which was quite -exquisite as a work of art. Nobody could ever have suspected that she -had been once poor. She had all the habits of the best society. There -was nowhere they could go, even into the most exalted regions, where the -new Mrs. Kingsward was not distinguished. She extended the Colonel’s -connections and interest, and made his house popular and delightful; and -she was perfect for his children. Even the county people and near -neighbours, who were the most critical, acknowledged this. The little -girls soon learned to adore their step-mother; the big boys admired and -stood in awe of her, submitting more or less to her influence, though a -little suspicious and sometimes half hostile. As for baby, who had been -in a fair way of growing up detestable and a little family tyrant, his -father’s new marriage was the saving of him. He scarcely knew as he grew -up that the former Miss Lance was not his mother, and he was said in the -family to be her idol, but a very well disciplined and well behaved -idol, and the one of the boys who was likely to have the finest career. - -Charlie, poor Charlie, was not so fortunate, at least at first. The -appointment which Colonel Kingsward declared he had been looking out for -all along was got as soon as Charlie was able to accept it, and he left -England when he was little more than convalescent. People said it was -strange that a man with considerable influence, and in the very centre -of affairs, should have sent his eldest son away to the ends of the -earth, to a dangerous climate and a difficult post. But it turned out -very well on the whole, for after a few years of languor and disgust -with the world, there suddenly fell in Charlie’s way an opportunity of -showing that there was, after all, a great deal of English pluck and -courage in him. I do not think it came to anything more than that--but -then that, at certain moments, has been the foundation and the saving -of the British Empire in various regions of the world. There was not one -of his relations who celebrated Charlie’s success with so much fervour -as his step-mother, who was never tired of talking of it, nor of -declaring that she had always expected as much, and known what was in -him. Dear Charlie, she said, had fulfilled all her expectations, and -made her more glad and proud than words could say. It was a poor return -for this maternal devotion, yet a melancholy fact, that Charlie turned -away in disgust whenever he heard of her, and could not endure her name. - -Bee, whose little troubles have been so much the subject of this story, -accomplished her fate by becoming Mrs. Aubrey Leigh in the natural -course of events. There was no family quarrel kept up to scandalise and -amuse society, but there never was much intercourse nor any great -cordiality between the houses of Kingswarden and Forestleigh. I think, -however, that it was against her father that Bee’s heart revolted most. - -THE END. - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress (complete), by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS (COMPLETE) *** - -***** This file should be named 52060-0.txt or 52060-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/6/52060/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress (complete) - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: May 13, 2016 [EBook #52060] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS (COMPLETE) *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="cb">THE SORCERESS</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="347" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE SORCERESS</h1> - -<p class="cb"><small>BY</small><br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -"THE SON OF HIS FATHER," "THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINFORD,"<br /> -"THE ROSE IN JUNE," "THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND,"<br /> -"WHITELADIES," "WITHIN THE PRECINCTS," "IT WAS A<br /> -LOVER AND HIS LASS," "ADAM GRAEME,"<br /> -ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY<br /> -<small>119 POTTER BULDING</small><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY</span><br /> -JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY<br /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:4px double black;font-weight: bold;"> - -<tr><td class="c"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a><b>CONTENTS</b><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL">XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">XLVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">XLIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_L">L., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LI">LI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LII">LII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">LIII., </a> -</td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="big">THE SORCERESS</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the most exciting event which had ever occurred in the family, -and everything was affected by it.</p> - -<p>Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of -life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was -something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was -anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to -one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were -never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said, -experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was twenty-one -and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to -speak, and enjoyed everything together—mamma by no means put aside into -the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything -just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone.</p> - -<p>To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and -had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on -a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days -were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always -been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not -take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in -everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must -not think that these three were all of the family by any means.</p> - -<p>Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many, -who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very -partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a -personage of high authority in the house. Papa had but lately left “the -elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife—and had gone -back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in -some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I -doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the -necessities of description, had been invented in those days.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great -<i>éclat</i> to the little group when he showed himself at their head, -drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went, -which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward -herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was -natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens, -and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among -these officers, red, blue, green, and white—of all the colours in the -rainbow—that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a -proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little -party with excitement.</p> - -<p>A proposal! The first in the family! Mamma’s head was as much turned by -it as Bee’s. She lay on the sofa in her white dressing gown, so flushed -with happiness and amusement and excitement, that you would have -supposed it was she who was to be the bride.</p> - -<p>And then it was so satisfactory a thing all round. If ever Mrs. -Kingsward had held anyone at arm’s length in her life it was a certain -captain of Dragoons who had clanked about everywhere after her daughters -and herself for three weeks past. The moment they had appeared anywhere, -even at the springs, where she went to drink her morning glass of -disagreeable warm water, at the concert in the afternoon, in “the rooms” -at night, not to speak of every picnic and riding party, this tall -figure would jump up like a jack-in-a-box. And there was no doubt that -the girls were rather pleased than otherwise to see him jump up. He was -six foot two at least, with a moustache nearly a yard long, curling in a -tawny and powerful twist over his upper lip. He had half-a-dozen medals -on his breast; his uniform was a compound of white and silver, with a -helmet that literally blazed in the sun, and his spurs clanked louder -than any other spurs in the gardens. The only thing that was wanting to -him was a very little thing—a thing that an uninstructed English person -might not have thought of at all—but which was a painful thing in his -own troubled consciousness, and in that of the regiment, and even was -doubtful to the English friends who had picked up, as was natural, all -the prejudices of the class into which their own position brought them.</p> - -<p>Poor Captain Kreutzner, I blush to say it, had no “Von” to his name. -Nobody could deny that he was a distinguished officer, the hope of the -army in his branch of the service; but when Mrs. Kingsward thought how -the Colonel would look if he heard his daughter announced as Madame -Kreutzner <i>tout court</i> in a London drawing-room, her heart sank within -her, and a cold perspiration came out upon her forehead. “And I don’t -believe Bee would care,” she cried, turning to her son for sympathy.</p> - -<p>Charlie was so well brought up a young man that he cared very much, and -gave his mother all the weight of his support. His office it was to -beguile Captain Kreutzner as to the movements of the party, to keep off -that bold dragoon as much as was possible; when, lo! all their -precautions were rendered unnecessary by the arrival of the real man -from quite another quarter, at once, and in a moment cutting the Captain -out!</p> - -<p>There was one thing Mrs. Kingsward could never be sufficiently thankful -for in the light of after events, and that was, that it was Colonel -Kingsward himself who introduced Mr. Aubrey Leigh to the family. He was -a young man who was travelling for the good of his health, or rather for -the good of his mind, poor fellow, as might be seen at a glance. He was -still in deep mourning when he presented himself at the hotel, and his -countenance was as serious as his hatband. Nevertheless, he had not been -long among them before Bee taught him how to smile, even to laugh, -though at first with many hesitations and rapid resuming of a still -deeper tinge of gravity, as if asking pardon of some beloved object for -whom he would not permit even himself to suppose that he had ceased to -mourn. This way he had of falling into sudden gravity continued with him -even when it was evident that every decorum required from him that he -should cease to mourn. Perhaps it was one of the things that most -attracted Bee, who had a touch of the sentimental in her character, as -all young ladies had in those days, when Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L. were -the favourite poets whom young ladies were expected to read. Well -brought up girls were not permitted, I need not say, to read Byron. -Shelley was a name of fear, and the poems of Mr. Thomas Campbell, not to -say Mr. Thomas Moore (carefully selected) were likely to promote that -quality.</p> - -<p>The pale young man, with his black coat, his hatband, his look of -melancholy, drove out the image of the Captain at once from Bee’s mind. -She had perhaps had enough of captains, fine uniforms, spurs, and all. -They had become what modern levity calls a drug in the market. They made -<i>Fenster</i> parade all day long under her windows; they thronged upon her -steps in the gardens; they tore the flounces from her tarlatan into -pieces at the balls. It was something far more original to sit out in -the moonlight and look at the moon with a sorrowful young hero, who -gradually woke up into life under her hand. Poor, poor boy!—so young -and so melancholy!—who had gone through so much!—who was really so -handsome when the veil of grief began to blow away!—who had such a -pretty name!</p> - -<p>Bee was only nineteen. She had mocked and charmed and laughed at a whole -generation of young officers, thinking of nothing but picnics and dinner -parties and balls. She wanted something new upon which to try her little -hand—and now it was thrown, just when she felt the need, in her way. -She had turned a young fool’s head several times, so that the operation -had lost its charm. But to bring a sad man back to life, to drive away -sorrow, to teach him to hold up his head again, to learn how sweet it -was to live and smile, and ride and run about this beautiful world, and -wake every day to a new pleasure—that was something she felt worthy of -a woman’s powers. And she did it with such effect that Mr. Aubrey Leigh -went on improving for three weeks more, and finally ended up with that -proposal which was to the Kingsward family in general the most amusing, -the most exciting, the most delightful incident in the world.</p> - -<p>And yet, of course, it was attended with a certain amount of anxiety -which in her—temporarily—invalid state was not very good for mamma. -Everybody insisted on all occasions that it was a most temporary state, -and that by the end of the summer she would be all right—the -palpitations quite calmed down, the flush—which made her so pretty—a -little subdued, and herself as strong as ever. But in the meantime this -delightful romantic incident, which certainly acted upon her like a -glass of champagne, raising her spirits, brought her some care as well. -Her first interview was of course with Bee, and took place in the -privacy of her chamber, where she cross-examined her daughter as much as -was compatible with the relations between them—- which indeed were -rather those of companions and comrades than of mother and daughter.</p> - -<p>“Now, Bee, my dear child,” she said, “remember you have always been a -little rover, and Mr. Leigh is so quiet. Do you think you really, -really, can devote yourself to him, and never think of another man all -your life?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Bee, “if you were not such a dear I should think you were -very insulting. Another man! Why, where should I find another man in the -world that was fit to tie Aubrey’s shoe?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Kingsward, dubiously; but she added, after a moment, -“You know, darling, that’s not quite the question. If you did find in -the after ages a man that perhaps was—fit to tie Mr. Leigh’s shoe?”</p> - -<p>“Why in all this world, <i>petite mère</i>, will you go on calling him Mr. -Leigh?”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “but I don’t feel,” she said again, -after a moment’s hesitation, “that I ought to go so far as to call him -Aubrey until we have heard from papa.”</p> - -<p>“What could papa find to object to?” said Bee. “Why, it was he who -introduced him to us! We should not have known Aubrey, and I should -never have been the happiest girl in the world, if it had not been for -papa. Dear papa! I know what he’ll say: ‘I can’t understand, my dear, -why you should hesitate for a moment. Of course, you don’t suppose I -should have introduced Mr. Leigh to my family without first -ascertaining, &c., &c.’ That, of course, is what papa will say.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say you are right, Bee. It is quite what I expect, for, of -course, a man with girls knows what it is, though for my part I confess -I always thought it would be a soldier—Captain Kreutzner or Otto -von——”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!” cried Bee, almost violently, light flashing out of the blue -eyes, which were so bright even on ordinary occasions as to dazzle the -beholder—you may imagine what fire came out of them now—“as if I -should ever have looked twice at one of those big, brainless, clinking -and clanking Germans. (N.B.—Mr. Aubrey Leigh was not tall.) No! Though -I may like foreigners well enough because it’s amusing to talk their -language and to feel that one has such an advantage in knowing German -and all that—yet, when it comes to be a question of spending one’s -life, an Englishman for me!”</p> - -<p>Thus, it will be seen, Bee forestalled the patriotic sentiments of a -later generation by resolving, in spite of all temptations, to belong to -other nations—to select an Englishman for her partner in life. It is -doubtful, however, how far this virtuous resolution had existed in her -mind before the advent of Aubrey Leigh.</p> - -<p>“I am sure I am very glad, Bee,” said her mother, “for I always had a -dread that you would be snatched off somewhere to—Styria or Dalecarlia, -or heaven knows where—(these were the first out-of-the-way names that -came to Mrs. Kingsward’s mind; but I don’t know that they were -altogether without reference or possibilities), where one would have had -no chance of seeing you more than once in two or three years. I am very -thankful it is to be an Englishman—or at least I shall be,” she added, -with a sigh of suspense, “as soon as I have heard from papa——”</p> - -<p>“One would think, <i>Mütterchen</i>, that you were frightened for papa.”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t like you ever to try and go against him, Bee!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Bee, lightly, “of course I shouldn’t think of going -against him—is the inquisition over?—for I promised,” she said, with a -laugh and a blush, “to walk down with Aubrey as far as the river. He -likes that so much better than those noisy blazing gardens, with no -shade except under those stuffy trees—and so do I.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really, Bee? I thought you thought it was so nice sitting under -the trees——”</p> - -<p>“With all the <i>gnadige</i> Fraus knitting, and all the <i>wohlgeborne</i> Herrs -smoking. No, indeed, I always hated it!” said Bee.</p> - -<p>She jumped up from where she had been sitting on a stool by her mother’s -sofa, and took her hat, which she had thrown down on the table. It was a -broad, flexible, Leghorn hat, bought in Florence, with a broad blue -ribbon—the colour of her eyes, as had often been said—floating in two -long streamers behind. She had a sash of the same colour round the -simple waist of her white frock. That is how girls were dressed in the -early days of Victoria. These were the days of simplicity, and people -liked it, seeing it was the fashion, as much as they liked crinolines -and chignons when such ornamental arrangements “came in.” It does not -become one period to boast itself over another, for fashion will still -be lord—or lady—of all.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward looked with real pleasure at her pretty daughter, -thinking how well she looked. She wore very nearly the same costume -herself, and she knew that it also looked very well on her. Bee’s eyes -were shining, blazing with brightness and happiness and love and fun and -youth. She was not a creature of perfect features, or matchless beauty, -as all the heroines were in the novels of her day, and she was conscious -of a great many shortcomings from that high standard. She was not tall -enough—which, perhaps, however, in view of the defective stature of Mr. -Aubrey Leigh was not so great a disadvantage—and she was neither fair -enough nor dark enough for a Minna or a Brenda, the definite and -distinct blonde and brunette, which were the ideal of the time; and she -was not at all aware that her irregularity, and her mingling of styles, -and her possession of no style in particular, were her great charms. She -was not a great beauty, but she was a very pretty girl with the -additional attraction of those blue diamonds of eyes, the sparkle of -which, when my young lady was angry or when she was excited in any more -pleasurable way, was a sight to see.</p> - -<p>“All that’s very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “but you’ve never -answered my question: and I hope you’ll make quite, quite sure before -it’s all settled that you do like Aubrey Leigh above everybody in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“<i>A la bonne heure</i>,” said Bee; “you have called him Aubrey at last, -without waiting to know what papa will say;” with which words she gave -her mother a flying kiss, and was gone in a moment, thinking very -little, it must be allowed, of what papa might say.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward lay still for a little, and thought it all over after Bee -was gone. She knew a little better than the others what her Colonel was, -and that there were occasions on which he was not so easy to deal with -as all the young ones supposed. She thought it all over from the moment -that young Mr. Leigh had appeared on the scene. What a comfort it was -to think that it was the Colonel himself who had introduced him! Of -course, as Bee said, before presenting anyone to his wife and family, -Colonel Kingsward would have ascertained, &c., &c. It was just how he -would write no doubt. Still, a man may introduce another to his wife and -family without being ready at once to accept him as a son-in-law. On the -other hand, Colonel Kingsward knew well enough what is the possible -penalty of such introductions. Young as Bee was, she had already -attracted a good deal of attention, though this was the first time it -had actually come to an offer. But Edward must surely have thought of -that. She was, though it seemed so absurd, and though Bee had laughed at -it, a little afraid of her husband. He had never had any occasion to be -stern, yet he had it in him to be stern; and he would not hesitate to -quench Bee’s young romance if he thought it right. And, on the other -hand, Bee, though she was such a little thing, such a child, so full of -fun and nonsense, had a spirit which would not yield as her mother’s -did. Mrs. Kingsward drew another long fluttering sigh before she got up -reluctantly in obedience to her maid, who came in with that other white -gown, not unlike Bee’s, over her arm, to dress her mistress. She would -have liked to lie still a little longer, to have finished the book she -was reading, to have thought over the situation—anything, indeed, to -justify her in keeping still upon the couch and being lazy, as she -called it. Poor little mother! She had not been lazy, nor had the chance -of being lazy much in her life. She had not begun to guess why it was -she liked it so much now.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> now to explain how it was that Mr. Aubrey Leigh was so -interesting and so melancholy, and thus awoke the friendship and -compassion, and secured the ministrations of the Kingsward family. He -was in deep mourning, for though he was only eight-and-twenty he was -already a widower, and bereaved beside of his only child. Poor young -man! He had married with every appearance of happiness and prosperity, -but his wife had died at the end of the first year, leaving him with a -baby on his inexperienced hands. He was a young man full of feeling, -and, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he had shut himself up -in his house in the country and dedicated himself to his child. -Dedicated himself to a baby two months old!</p> - -<p>There was nobody who did not condemn this unnecessary self-sacrifice. He -should have gone away; he should have left the child in the hands of its -excellent nurse, under the supervision of that charming person who had -been such a devoted nurse to dear Mrs. Leigh, and whom the desolate -young widower had not the courage to send away from his house. Her -presence there was a double reason, people said, why he should have gone -away. For though his sorrow and trouble was so great that nobody for a -moment supposed that he had any idea of such a thing, yet the presence -of a lady, and of a lady still called by courtesy a young lady, though -older than himself, and who could not be treated like a servant in his -house, was embarrassing and not very seemly, everybody said. Suggestions -were made to her that she should go away, but then she answered that she -had nowhere to go to, and that she had promised to dear Amy never to -forsake her child. The country ladies about who took an interest in the -young man thought it was “just like” dear Amy, who had always been a -rather silly young woman, to exact such a promise, but that Miss Lance -would be quite justified in not keeping it, seeing the child had plenty -of people to look after her—her grandmother within reach and her father -dedicating himself to her.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, did not see her duty in the same way; indeed, after -the poor little child died—and there was no doubt she had been -invaluable during its illness, and devoted herself to it as she had done -to its mother—she stayed on still at Leigh Court, though now at last -poor Aubrey was persuaded to go away. The mind of the county was -relieved beyond description when at last he departed on his travels. -These good people did not at all want to get up any scandal in their -midst. They did not very much blame Miss Lance for declining to give up -a comfortable home. They only felt it was dreadfully awkward and that -something should be done about it, though nobody knew what to do. He had -left home nearly six months before he appeared at the Baths with that -letter to Mrs. Kingsward in his pocket, and the change and the travel -had done him good.</p> - -<p>A young man of twenty-eight cannot go mourning all the days of his life -for a baby of eight months old, and he had already begun to “get over” -the death of his wife before the second event occurred. This troublous -beginning of his life had left him very sad, with something of the -feeling of a victim, far more badly treated than most in the beginning -of his career. But this is not like real grief, which holds a man’s -heart with a grip of steel. And he was in the stage when a man is ready -to be consoled when Bee’s blue eyes first flashed upon him. The -Kingswards had received him in these circumstances with more <i>abandon</i> -than they would have done in any other. He was so melancholy; his -confidences, when he began to make them, were so touching; his waking up -to interest and happiness so delightful to see. And thus, before anyone -had thoroughly realized it, the deed was done. They knew nothing about -Miss Lance—as how should they?—and what could she have had to do with -it if they had known?</p> - -<p>So there really was nothing but that doubt of Colonel Kingsward’s -approval to alloy the pleasure of the party, and it was only Mrs. -Kingsward who thought of it. Charlie pooh-poohed the idea altogether. “I -think I should know my father better than anyone,” the young man said, -with much scorn of his mother’s hesitation. He was very fond and very -proud of his mother, but felt that as a man himself, he probably -understood papa better than the ladies could. “Of course he will -approve; why shouldn’t he approve? Leigh is a very decent fellow, though -I don’t think all the world of him, as you girls do. Papa, of course, -knew exactly what sort of a fellow he was; a little too quiet—not Bee’s -sort at all. No, you may clamour as you like, but he’s not in the least -Bee’s sort——”</p> - -<p>“I’m supposed to prefer a noisy trooper, I believe,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Well, I should have said that was more like it—but mind you, the -governor would never have sent us out a man here who was not good enough -for anything. Oh, I understand the old boy!”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, how dare you?” cried his mother; but the horror was modified -by a laugh, for anything more unlike an old boy than Colonel Kingsward -it would not have been very easy to conceive.</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, you wouldn’t have me call him my honoured father, would -you?” the young man said. He was at Oxford, and he thought himself on -the whole not only by far the most solid and serious member of the -present party, but on the whole rather more experienced in the world -than the gentleman whom in the bosom of the family he still condescended -to call “papa.”</p> - -<p>As for little Betty, who up to this time had been Bee’s shadow, and who -had not yet begun to feel herself <i>de trop</i>, she, no more than her -sister, was moved by any of these cares. She was wholly occupied in -studying the new thing which had suddenly started into being before her -eyes. Betty was of opinion that it was entirely got up for her amusement -and instruction. When she and Bee were alone, she never ceased in her -interrogatory. “Oh, Bee, when did you first begin to think about him -like that? Oh, Bee, how did you first find out that he was thinking -about you? Oh, Bee, don’t you mind that he was once in love before?” -Such were the questions that poured in an incessant stream into Bee’s -ears. That young lady was equal to them all, and she was not unwilling -to let her sister share more or less in the new enlightenment that had -come to herself.</p> - -<p>“When did I first begin to think of him?” she said. “Oh, Betty, the -first minute I saw him coming through the garden with Charlie to speak -to mamma! There were all those horrid men about, you remember, in those -gaudy uniforms, and their swords and spurs, and so forth—such dreadful -bad taste in foreigners always to be in uniform——”</p> - -<p>“But, Bee,” cried Betty, “why, I’ve heard you say——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind what you’ve heard me say! I’ve been silly, I suppose, in -my day, like almost everybody. Aubrey says he cannot think how they can -live, always done up in those hot, stiff clothes—none of the ease of -Englishmen about them.”</p> - -<p>“Papa says they are such soldier-like men,” says little Betty, who had -not been converted from the <i>regime</i> of the officers, like Bee.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, papa—he is an officer himself, but he never wears his -uniform when he can help it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Betty, “you may say what you like—for my part, I do love a -nice uniform. I don’t want ever again to dance with a man in a black -coat. But Bee, you’re too bad—you won’t say a word, and I want so to -know how it all came about. What put it into your head? And what did you -say to one another? And was it he that began first—or was it you?”</p> - -<p>“You little dreadful thing,” said Bee; “how could a girl ever begin? It -shows how little you know! Of course he began; but we didn’t begin at -all,” she said, after a pause, “it just came—all in a moment when I -wasn’t thinking, and neither was he.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that he didn’t intend to propose to you?” said -Betty, growing pale.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Bee, impatient, “as if proposing was all! Do you think he -just came out with it point blank—‘Miss Kingsward, will you marry me?’ ”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Betty: “what did he say then if he didn’t say that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“I am sure if he had said ‘Oh, you little goose’ to me,” said Betty, “I -should never have spoken a word to him again.”</p> - -<p>“It is no use talking to little girls,” said Bee, with a sigh. “You -don’t understand; and, to be sure, how could you understand—at your age -and all?”</p> - -<p>“Age!” said Betty, indignant, “there is but fifteen months between us, -and I’ve always done everything with you. We’ve always had on new things -together, and gone to the same places and everything. It is you that are -very unkind now you have got engaged; and I do believe you like this big -horrid man better than me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee, again.</p> - -<p>“No, it isn’t a big but a little, horrid man. I made a mistake,” said -Betty, “not like Captain Kreutzner that you used to like so much. It’s -small people you care for now; not your own nice people like me and -mamma, but a man that you had never heard the name of when you first -came here, and now you quote and praise him, and make the most -ridiculous fuss about him, even to Charlie, who is far -nicer-looking!—and won’t even tell your sister what he says!”</p> - -<p>This argument came to so high a tone that mamma called out from her room -to know what was amiss. “It does not become you girls to carry on your -old scuffles and quarrels,” she said, “now that one of you, at least, is -so grown up and about to take upon herself the responsibilities of -life.”</p> - -<p>“Is Aubrey a responsibility?” Betty whispered in her sister’s ears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little silly thing!” Bee replied; and presently Mrs. -Kingsward’s maid came in to say that Mr. Leigh was in the sitting-room, -and would Miss Bee go to him as her mistress was not ready; for this was -the little fiction that was kept up in those days before Colonel -Kingsward’s letter had been received. It will be seen, however, that it -was but a fiction, and that as a matter of fact there was very little -restraint put on the young people’s intercourse. “You must not consider -that anything is settled; you must not think there’s any engagement,” -Mrs. Kingsward had said. “Indeed, indeed, I cannot take upon me to -sanction anything till I hear from her papa.” But virtually they met as -much as they liked, and even indulged in little talks apart, and -meetings by themselves, before Mrs. Kingsward was ready; so that as a -matter of fact this restriction did very little harm.</p> - -<p>And in due time Colonel Kingsward’s letter was received, and it was not -unfavourable. The Colonel said that, on the whole, he should have -preferred it had Mr. Leigh waited till they had all returned home. It -would have been a seemly forbearance, and saved Mrs. Kingsward a great -deal of anxiety; but as matters stood and as his dear wife approved, and -he heard nothing but good of Mr. Leigh, he would not withdraw the -provisional consent which she seemed to have given. “It will be -expedient in the circumstances that you should all return home as soon -as possible, that I may go into matters with the young man,” the Colonel -added in that part of his letter which was not intended to be read to -Aubrey Leigh. And he added, as Bee had prophesied, “You might have been -sure that I should not introduce a young man to my family, and to -yourself, my dear, without ascertaining previously,” etc., etc., just as -Bee had said. He added, “Of course I never contemplated anything of this -sort: but one can never tell what may happen when young people are -thrown together. The property is a good one, and the young man -unexceptionable, from all I can hear.” Then Mrs. Kingsward’s mind was -set at ease. It seemed to Bee that her father might have said something -on the subject of her happiness, and acknowledged Aubrey to be something -more than an unexceptionable young man. It was inconceivable, she -thought to herself, how cool people are when they come to that age. The -property good, and the young man unexceptionable—was that all? Did papa -take no more interest than that? But at all events the engagement was -now quite permitted and acknowledged, and they might walk out together -all day, and dance together all night, without a word said; for which -Bee forgave and instantly forgot—it was really of so little -importance—the coolness of papa.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward’s “cure” was over, and by this time most people were -leaving the Bath. Our party made their preparations for leaving too, in -the pleasantest way. It was not to be at all a rapid journey, which -would not have been good for Mrs. Kingsward. They were to make their way -at leisure from one beautiful old city to another across the breadth of -Germany, staying a day here and a day there, travelling for the most -part in a large, old-fashioned carriage, such as was the custom then, -with a wide-hooded seat in front, like the <i>banquette</i> of a French -diligence, in which two people could be extremely happy, seeing the -scenery much better than those inside could do, or perhaps not seeing -the scenery at all, but occupying each other quite as agreeably with the -endless talk of lovers, which is not interesting to anybody but -themselves. Before they set out upon this journey, however, which was to -hold so great a place in Bee’s life, a little incident occurred to her -which did not appear to be of very much consequence, but which made some -impression on her mind at the time, and vaguely appeared afterwards to -throw light on various other events. The German Bath at which the -little story of her love took place is surrounded with woods—woods of a -kind that are never seen anywhere else, though they are the special -feature of German Baths. They are chiefly composed of fir trees, and -they are arranged upon the most strictly mathematical principles, with -that precision which is dear to the German mind, row upon row standing -close together, as if they had been stuck in so at their present height, -with so many cubit feet of air to each, as in the London lodging-houses. -They are traversed by broad roads, with benches at intervals, and at -each corner there is a wooden board on which is painted indications how -to find the nearest <i>restauration</i> where beer is to be had, and the veal -of the country—for the German, in his hours of ease and amusement, has -continual occasion to be “restored.”</p> - -<p>Bee had gone out early in the morning to make a little sketch of an -opening in the trees through which a village spire was visible. There -were not many points for the artist in landscape, especially one of such -moderate powers as Bee, and she was very anxious to finish this to -present it, I need scarcely say, to Aubrey, as a memento of the place. -Probably there was some other sentimental reason—such as that they had -first spoken words of special meaning there, or had first exchanged -looks that were of importance in their idyll, or some other incident of -equal weight. She was seated on one of the benches, with her little -colour box and bottle of water, giving the finishing touches to her -sketch. Sooth to say, Bee was no great performer, and the ranks of the -dark trees standing arithmetically apart to permit of that little -glimpse of distance, were too much for her. They looked in her sketch -like two dark green precipices rather than like trees, and had come to a -very difficult point, when a lady coming along by one of the side walks, -round the corner past the <i>restauration</i>, suddenly sat down by Bee’s -side and startled her a little. She was not a girl who was easily -frightened, but the suddenness of the apparition out of the silent -morning when she had thought nobody was in sight was a little startling -and made her hand shake.</p> - -<p>“I hope I am not intruding upon you,” the lady said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” said Bee, looking up with her bright face. She was as fresh as -the morning in her broad Leghorn hat with the blue ribbon, and her eyes -that danced and sparkled. The stranger by her side was much older than -Bee. She was a handsome woman; dark, with fine eyes, too, a sidelong -look in them, and a curious half smile which was like La Gioconda, that -famous picture Bee had seen in the Louvre, as we all have. She thought -of La Gioconda at once, when she looked up into the lady’s face. She was -entirely dressed in black, and there could not have been found anywhere -a more perfect contrast to Bee.</p> - -<p>They got into conversation quite easily, for Bee was a girl who loved to -talk. The lady gave her several hints about her little picture which Bee -knew enough to know were dictated by superior knowledge, and then they -got talking quite naturally about the place and the people who were -there. After they had discussed the society and the number of English -people at the Bath, and Bee had disclosed the hotel at which she was -staying, and many details of her innocent life, which she was not at all -conscious of disclosing—the stranger began to inquire about various -people. It was not by any means at once that she introduced the name of -Leigh; not indeed till she had been over the Reynoldses, and the -Gainsboroughs, and the Collinses, under Bee’s exultant guidance and fine -power of narrative; then she said tentatively, that there was she -believed, at one of the hotels, a family of Leighs.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Bee, her countenance flushing over with a sudden brilliant -delightful blush, which seemed to envelop her from top to toe. She had -been looking up into her companion’s face so that the stranger got the -full benefit of this sudden resplendent change of colour. She then -turned very demurely to her sketch, and said meekly, “I don’t know any -family, but there is a Mr. Leigh at our hotel.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said the lady, but in a very different tone from Bee’s startled -“oh!” She said it coldly, as if recording a fact. “I thought,” she said, -“it was the Leighs of Hurstleigh, friends of mine. I may have been -deceived by seeing the name in the lists.”</p> - -<p>“But I think, indeed I am sure, that Mr. Aubrey Leigh is connected with -the Leighs of Hurstleigh,” Bee said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a young man, a widower, an inconsolable; I think I remember hearing -of him. Is that the man?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know if he is an inconsolable,” cried Bee, with a quick -movement of anger and then she thought how foolish that was, for of -course a stranger like this could have no unkind meaning. She added with -great gravity, “It is quite true that he has been married before.”</p> - -<p>Poor little Bee, she was not at all aware how she was betraying herself. -She was more vexed and indignant than words can say, when the woman (who -after all could not be a lady) burst into a laugh. “Oh! I think I can -see how matters stand with Aubrey Leigh,” this impertinent intruder -cried.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was just two days after the interview in the wood described above, -that the Kingsward party got under weigh for home, accompanied, I need -not say, by Aubrey Leigh. Bee had not told him of that chance meeting, -restrained I do not know by what indefinite feeling that he would not -care to hear of it, and also by the sensation that she had as good as -told the lady, who was so disagreeable and impertinent as to laugh, what -change had taken place in Aubrey’s sentiments, and what she had herself -to do with that change. It was so silly, oh, so silly of her, and yet -she had said nothing, or next to nothing. And there was no reason why -she should not have said whatever she pleased, now that the engagement -was fully acknowledged and known; indeed, if that woman were in any -society at all, she must have heard of it, seeing that, as Bee was -aware, not without pleasure, it had afforded a very agreeable diversion -to the floating community, a pleasant episode in the tittle-tattle of -the gardens and the wells. Bee had no absurd objection to being talked -of. She knew that in her condition of life, which was so entirely -satisfactory as a condition, everything that concerned a family was -talked over and universally known. It was a thing inevitable to a -certain position, and a due homage of society to its members. But -somehow she did not mention it to Aubrey, nor, indeed, to anyone, which -was a very unusual amount of reticence. She did not even give him the -sketch, though it was finished. She had been quite grateful for that -person’s hints at the time, and eagerly had taken advantage of them to -improve her drawing; but it seemed to her, when she looked at it now, -that it was not her own at all, that the other hand was so visible in it -that it would be almost dishonest to call it hers. This, of course, was -wholly fantastic, for even supposing that person to have given valuable -hints, she had never touched the sketch, and Bee alone had carried them -out. But, anyhow, her heart sickened at it, and she thrust it away at -the very bottom of the box that Moulsey was packing. She had no desire -to see the horrid thing again.</p> - -<p>In a day or two, however, Bee had altogether forgotten that interview in -the wood. She had so many things to occupy her mind. There were few -railways in those days, and the party had a long way to travel before -they came to Cologne, where that method of travelling began. They all -felt that common life would re-commence there and their delightful -wandering would be over. In the meantime, there was a long interval of -pleasure before them. The early breakfast at the hotel in the first -hours of the autumnal morning, the fun of packing everyone away in the -big coach, the books to be brought out to fill up corners, both of time -and space, and “Murray” then alone in his glory, with no competitive -American, no Badæker, no Joanne, to share his reign—spread out open at -the right place, so that mamma inside should be able to lay her finger -at once upon any village or castle that struck her—and above all the -contrivances to be carried out for securing the <i>banquette</i>, as Bee -said, for “ourselves,” made a lively beginning. Charlie and Betty -sometimes managed to secure this favourite place if the attention of the -others flagged for a moment, and though mamma generally interposed with -a nod or a whisper to restore it to the privileged pair, sometimes she -was mischievous too, and consented to their deprivation, and desired -them for once to keep her company inside. She generally, however, -repented of this before the day was over, and begged that their -favourite seat might be restored to them.</p> - -<p>“For they are really no fun at all,” the poor lady said. “I might as -well have two images from Madame Tussaud’s.”</p> - -<p>“It had been a little hard upon Aubrey at the moment of their departure -to find half the garrison round the carriage, and bouquets enough to -fill a separate vehicle thrust into every corner, the homage of those -warriors to the gracious ladies. He had been very cross, and had made a -great exhibition of himself, especially when Captain Kreutzner’s faggot -of forget-me-nots, tied with a ribbon like that on Bee’s hat, had been -presented with indescribable looks. What did the fellow mean by bringing -forget-me-nots? He wanted to pitch it out of the window as soon as they -were fairly started.</p> - -<p>“What an idiotic custom!” he cried. “What do the fools think you want -with such loads of flowers when you are starting on a journey?”</p> - -<p>“Why, it is just then you do want them,” cried Betty, who had a dozen or -so to her own share, “to smell sweet and show us how much our friends -think of us.”</p> - -<p>“They will not smell sweet very long, and then what will your friends -think of you?” said the angry lover.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Bee was detaching a little knot of the blue flowers -to put in her waistband? Bee, Bee! his own property, who had no right so -much as to look at another man’s flowers! And what did she do, seeing -the cloud upon his face, but arrange another little bouquet, which, -with her sweetest smile—the little coquette—she endeavoured to put -into his, Aubrey’s, button-hole! He snatched them out of her hand in a -sort of fury. “Do you want me never to forget that heavy brute of a -German?” he cried, in his indignation. “You may put him near your heart, -but I should like to kick him!” These very natural sentiments made Bee -laugh—which was cruel: but then poor Captain Kreutzner had been blotted -out of her life some time ago, and knew his fate, and had really no -right whatever to present her with these particular flowers. His lovely -bouquet with its blue ribbon was given to a girl in the first village, -and awakened the still more furious jealousy of another swain who was -less easily appeased than Aubrey; but this <i>ricochet</i> was not thought of -by the first and principal pair.</p> - -<p>There was not perhaps so many remarkable features in that journey as if -it had been through Italy. There were great plains to traverse, where -the chief sights were cottages and farmhouses, women going by with great -loads of freshly cut grass full of flowers on their heads, fodder for -the home-dwelling cows—or men carrying their hops clinging to the -pole, to be picked at home, or long straggling branches of the tobacco -plant; and in the evening the postillion would whip up his horses, and -Charlie in the <i>banquette</i>, or John, the manservant, in the rumble, -would tootle upon a horn which the former had acquired clandestinely -before the party set out—as they dashed through a village or little -town with lighted windows, affording them many a flying peep of the -domestic life of those tranquil places. And in the middle of the day -they stopped to rest somewhere, where the invariable veal was to be -found at some Guest-house a little better than the ordinary, where -perhaps a bigger village stood with all its high peaked stream: and at -night rattled into an old walled town with shadowy high houses which -belonged to the fourteenth century, and had not changed a whit since -that time. There they stayed a day or two, varying the confinement of -the coach by a course through everything that was to be seen, setting -out in a party through the roughly-paved streets, but parting company -before long, so that Aubrey and Bee would find themselves alone in the -shelter of a church or in an insignificant corner by the walls, while -the others pursued their sightseeing conscientiously.</p> - -<p>“As for me, what I like is the general aspect,” said Bee, with an air of -superiority. “I don’t care to poke into every corner, and Aubrey knows -the history, which is the chief thing.”</p> - -<p>“Are they talking all the time of the history?” said Betty, overawed.</p> - -<p>But this perhaps, was not the opinion of Charlie and mamma. No, they did -not care very much for the history. People are bad travellers in that -stage of life. They are too much interested in their own history. They -went about like a pair of Philistines through all these ancient streets, -talking of nothing but the things of to-day. The most serious part of -their talk was about the home in the depths of England in which they -were henceforth to spend their lives. Aubrey had ideas about -re-furnishing—about making everything new. It would be impossible to -tell the reader how bad was the taste of the time, and with what -terrible articles of furniture he proposed to replace the spindle legs -and marquetry of his grandfathers. But then these things were the -fashion, and supposed to be the best things of the time. To hear them -talking of sofas and curtains, and of the colour for the boudoir and the -hangings of the drawing-room in the midst of all those graceful old -places, was inconceivable. You would have said the stupidest, -unimpressionable pair, talking of ugly modern English furniture, when -they should have been noting the old world of Nuremberg—the unchanging -mediæval city. But you must remember that the furniture was only a -symbol of their love and their new life, and all the blessedness of -being together, and the endless delights of every day. The sofas and the -curtains meant the <i>Vita Nuova</i>, and the refurnishing of the old house a -beautiful fabric of all the honour and the joy of life.</p> - -<p>Then came the great river, and the progress down its shining stream, and -between those beautiful banks, where again they made several pauses to -enjoy the scenery. The Rhine is not now the river it was then. It was -still the great river of romance in those days—Byron had been there, -and the young people remembered Roland and his tower, with his love in -the white convent opposite, and felt a shudder at the thought of the -Lorelei as they floated under the high and gloomy bank. I doubt, -however, whether the lovers thought much even of these things. They were -busy just now about the gardens, which Bee was fully minded to remodel -and fill with everything that was new and delightful in the way of -flowers.</p> - -<p>“I shall have masses of colour about the terrace, and every spot -covered. I wonder which you like best, majolica vases or rustic -baskets?” Bee was saying, when her mother called her to point out the -Platz and Bishop Hatto’s tower.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, mamma, it’s very pretty. But you like clematis, Aubrey, for -the balustrade—to wind in and out of the pillars. Yes, yes, I can see -it well enough. I like every kind of clematis, even the common one, the -traveller’s joy—and it would hang down, you know, over that old bit of -wall you told me of. Do go forward, Aubrey, and let them see you are -taking an interest. I do see it all quite well, and it is very romantic, -and we are quite enjoying it I can assure you, mamma.”</p> - -<p>This was how they made their way down stream; in the moonlight nights -they ceased to talk of practical matters, and went back to the history -of their loves.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember, Bee, that first time in the wood——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aubrey, don’t you recollect that drive coming back in the -dark—before I knew——?”</p> - -<p>“But you always did know from the very beginning, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps I suspected—and used to think——”</p> - -<p>“You darling, what did you think?—and did you really care—as early as -that?”</p> - -<p>They went on like this whatever happened outside, giving a careless -glance at the heights, at the towers, at the robbers’ castle above and -the little villages below; not so much as looking at them, and yet -remembering them ever after, enclosing the flow of their young lives, as -it were, in that strong flowing of the Rhine, noting nothing and yet -seeing everything with the double sight which people possess at the -highest moment and crisis of their career. They came at length to -Cologne, where this enchanted voyage was more or less to end. To be -sure, they were still to be together; but only in the railway, with all -the others round them, hearing more or less what they said. They said -good-bye to the Rhine with a little sentiment, a delightful little -sadness full of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Shall we ever be so happy again?” said Bee, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, my sweet, a hundred times, and happier, and happier,” said the -young man; and thus they were assured it was to be.</p> - -<p>I don’t think any of them ever forgot that arrival at Cologne. They came -into sight of the town just in the evening, when the last glow of sunset -was still burning upon the great river, but lights beginning to show in -the windows, and glimmering reflected in the water. The Cathedral was -not completed then, and a crane, like some strange weird animal stood -out against the sky upon the top of the tower. The hotel to which they -were going had a covered terrace upon the river with lights gleaming -through the green leaves. They decided they would have their table -there, and dine with all that darkling panorama before their eyes -through the veil of the foliage, the glowing water, the boats moving and -passing, with now and then a raft coming down from the upper stream, and -the bridge of boats opening to give passage to a fuming fretting -steamboat. Aubrey and Bee went hand in hand up the steps; nobody noticed -in the half dark how close they were together. They parted with a close -pressure of warm hands.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be long, darling,” he said, as they parted, only for a moment, -only to prepare a little for the evening, to slip into a fresh dress, to -take out a new ribbon, to make one’s youthful self as fair as such -unnecessary adjuncts permitted.</p> - -<p>But what did Aubrey care for a new ribbon? The only blue he thought of -was that in Bee’s eyes.</p> - -<p>I do not think she was more than ten minutes over these little changes. -She dressed like a flash of lightning, Betty said, who could not find -her own things half so quickly, Moulsey being occupied with mamma. Such -a short moment not worth counting, and yet enough, more than enough, to -change a whole life!</p> - -<p>Bee ran down as light as air to the sitting-room which had been engaged -for the party. She felt sure that Aubrey would hurry, too, so as to have -a word before dinner, before the rest were ready—as if the whole day -had not been one long word, running through everything. She came lightly -to the door of the room in her fresh frock and her blue ribbons, walking -on air, knowing no shadow of any obstacle before her or cloud upon the -joyful triumphant sky. She did not even hear the sound of the subdued -voices, her faint little sob, strangest of all sounds at such a moment, -which seemed to come out to meet her as she opened the door. Bee opened -it wondering only if Aubrey were there, thinking of some jibe to address -to him about the length of time men took to their toilettes, if she -happened to be ready first.</p> - -<p>She was very much startled by what she saw. Her mother, still in her -travelling dress, sat by the table with a letter open in her hands. She -had not made any preparation for dinner—she, usually so dainty, so -anxious to get rid of the cloaks and of the soils of the journey. She -had taken off her hat, which lay on the table, but was still enveloped -in the shawl which she had put on to keep off the evening chills. As for -Aubrey, he was exactly as he had been when they parted with him, except -that all the light had gone out of his face. He was very pale, and he, -too, had a letter in his hand. He uttered a stifled exclamation when he -saw Bee at the door, and, lifting his arms as though in protest against -something intolerable, walked away to the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “Oh, go away, my dear, go away! I -mean—get something to eat, you and Charlie, and Betty, and then get to -bed. Get to bed! I am too tired to take anything, and I am going -upstairs at once.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you had been upstairs, mamma, half-an-hour ago. What is the -matter? You look like a ghost, and so does Aubrey. Has anything -happened? Mamma, you won’t look at me, and Aubrey turns his back. What -have I done? Is it anything about me?”</p> - -<p>“What nonsense, child!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a pretence at a smile. -“What could you have to do with it? We have both—Mr. Leigh and -myself—found letters, and we are busy reading them. I am sure the -dinner must be served. We ordered it in the balcony, don’t you remember? -Run away and make Charlie and Betty sit down at once. I am too tired. -Moulsey will run down in a little and get something for me.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Bee, “you cannot make up a story. Something has happened, -I am sure of it; and it is something about me.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, child! Go away and have your dinner. I would come if I could. -Don’t you see what a budget of letters I have got? And some of them I -must answer to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Have you letters, too, Aubrey?” said Bee, in her amazement, standing -still as she had paused, arrested by the sight of them, just within the -door.</p> - -<p>“Bee, I must beg you will not put any questions; go and do what I tell -you; your brother and sister will be coming downstairs. Yes, of course, -you can see that Mr. Leigh has his letters to read as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh! I wonder if we have all gone mad, or what is the matter? -Aubrey! tell me—you, at least, if mamma won’t. You must have had a -quarrel. Mamma, why do you call him Mr. Leigh?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for goodness sake, Bee, go away.”</p> - -<p>“I am not going away,” cried the girl. “You have had a quarrel about -something. Come, mamma, you must not quarrel with Aubrey—if he has done -something wrong or said something silly, I will answer for him, he never -intended it. Aubrey, what do you mean, sir, turning your back both on -mamma and me? Come here, quick, and ask her pardon, and say you will -never do it again.”</p> - -<p>Poor little Bee’s heart was fluttering, but she would not allow herself -to believe there was anything really wrong. She went close up to her -mother and stood by her, with a hand upon her shoulder. “Aubrey!” she -said, “never mind if you are wrong or not, come and beg mamma’s pardon, -and she will forgive you. There must not—there must not—oh, it is too -ridiculous!—be anything wrong between mamma and you. Aubrey!”</p> - -<p>He turned round slowly and faced them both with a face so pale that Bee -stopped short with a gasp, and could not say a word more. Mrs. Kingsward -had buried her face in her hands. Bee looked from one to the other with -a dismay which she could not explain to herself. “Oh, what is the -matter? What is the matter?” she said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was no merry dinner that night in the verandah of the hotel under -the clinging wreaths of green. Mrs. Kingsward went up to her room still -with her heavy shawl about her shoulders which she had forgotten, though -it added something to her discomfort—followed by Bee, pale and rigid, -offering no help, following her mother like an angry shadow. Charlie and -Betty met them on the stairs and stood aside in consternation, unable to -conceive what had happened. Mrs. Kingsward gave them a sort of troubled -smile and said: “Get your dinner, dears; don’t wait for us. I am too -tired to come down to-night.”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma——” they both began in remonstrance.</p> - -<p>“Go down and get your dinner,” said Mrs. Kingsward, peremptorily.</p> - -<p>As for Bee, she did not look at them at all. Her eyes were fierce with -some sentiment which Betty could not divine, and angry, blazing, as if -they might have set light to the hotel.</p> - -<p>Little Betty pressed against Charlie’s side as they went down, startled -and alarmed. “Bee has had a quarrel with mamma,” she whispered, in tones -of awe.</p> - -<p>“That’s impossible,” said Charlie.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it’s not impossible. There was once——”</p> - -<p>It comforted them both a little in the awful circumstances that such a -thing had perhaps happened before. They went very silently and much cast -down to that table in the verandah, whither obsequious waiters beckoned -them, and contemplated with dismay all the plates laid, all the glitter -of the lamps and the glasses.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we must not wait for them as they said so,” said Charlie, -sitting down in his place at the bottom of the table. “Tell Mr. -Leigh—that is the other gentleman—that we are ready.”</p> - -<p>“The other gentleman, sir,” said the waiter, who was the pride of the -establishment for his English, “has gone out.”</p> - -<p>“Gone out!” said Charlie. He could only stare at Betty and she at him, -not knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>“He has had his letters, too, sir,” said the waiter in a significant -tone.</p> - -<p>His letters! What could that have to do with it? Charlie also had had -his letters, one of them a bill which he did not view with any -satisfaction; but even at twenty-one a man already learns to disguise -his feelings, and sits down to dinner cheerfully though he has received -a bill by the post. Charlie’s mind at first could not perceive any -connection between Bee’s withdrawal upstairs and Aubrey’s disappearance. -It was Betty who suggested, sitting down very close to him, that it -looked as if Aubrey and Bee had quarrelled too.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that is what it is,” she said, as if she had found out a -satisfactory reason. “Lovers always quarrel; and mamma will have taken -Aubrey’s part, and Bee will be so angry, and feel as if she could never -forgive him. There, that is what it must be.”</p> - -<p>“A man may quarrel with his sweetheart,” said Charlie, severely, “but he -needn’t spoil other people’s dinner for that;” however, they comforted -themselves that this was the most likely explanation, and that all would -come right in the morning. And they were very young and hungry, having -eaten nothing since the veal at one o’clock. And these two made on the -whole a very satisfactory meal.</p> - -<p>The scene upstairs was very different. Mrs. Kingsward sent Moulsey away -on pretence of getting her some tea, and then turned to her daughter who -stood by the dressing-table and stared blankly, without seeing anything, -into those mysterious depths of the glass which are so suggestive to -people in trouble. She said, faintly, “Bee, I would so much rather you -would not ask me any more questions to-night.”</p> - -<p>“That is,” said Bee, “you would like to send me away to be miserable by -myself without even knowing what it is, while you will take your -sleeping draught and forget it. How can you be so selfish, mamma? And -you have made my Aubrey join in the conspiracy against me—my Aubrey -who belongs to me as papa does to you. If you are against us it is all -very well, though I can’t imagine why you should be against us—but at -least you need not interfere between Aubrey and me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear child, my poor darling!” said Mrs. Kingsward, wringing her -hands.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well to call me your poor child, when it is you that are -making me poor,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>She kept moving a little, first on one foot then on the other, but -always gazing into the glass which presented the image of an excited -girl, very pale, but lit up with a sort of blaze of indignation, and -unable to keep still. It was not that girl’s face, however, that Bee was -gazing at, but at the dim world of space beyond in which there were -faint far-away reflections of the light and the world. “And if you think -you will get rid of me like this, and hang me up till to-morrow without -knowing what it is, you are mistaken, mamma. I will not leave you until -you have told me. What is it? What has papa got in his head? What does -he say in that horrid—horrid letter? I wish I had known when I gave it -to you I should have thrown it into the river instead of ever letting it -come into your hands.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, you must know that this passion is very wrong and very improper. -You ought not to face me like that, and demand an answer. I am your -mother,” said Mrs. Kingsward, but with a falter which was all unlike -that assumption of authority, “and I have no need to tell you anything -more than I think is for your good.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I know where that comes from,” cried Bee; “that’s papa’s thunder! -that’s what he has told you to say! You don’t believe, yourself, that -you have a right to hang up a poor girl over some dreadful, dreadful -abyss, when she was so happy and never suspected anything.” Here Bee’s -voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered herself. “And to -drag her away from the one person that could support her, and to cut the -ground from under her feet, and never to tell her what it means!”</p> - -<p>It was at this point that Moulsey, with a little discreet cough to -herald her approach, came into the room, bearing a tray with tea, and a -little cover from which came a faint but agreeable odour. Mrs. Kingsward -was in great trouble about her child, but she was much exhausted and in -want of physical support, and it did seem to her hard that she might not -be permitted to eat the smallest of cutlets before embarking on a scene -such as she knew this would be. Oh, why didn’t papa come and say it -himself, when there was so much that was dreadful to say?</p> - -<p>“Shall I fetch something for Miss Bee, too?” said Moulsey. “It ain’t a -good thing for a young creature to go without her dinner. If she’s not -going down, ma’am, as would be much the best, I’ll just run and fetch a -little something for Miss Bee too.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, indeed, Bee, Moulsey is right. Think how miserable the others -will feel all alone, and thinking something has happened. Do go down, -darling, and strengthen yourself with a little food, and take a glass of -wine just for once to please me. And after that you shall be told -everything—all that I know.”</p> - -<p>Bee grew paler and paler, standing there before the glass, and her eyes -blazed more and more. “It is as bad as that, then!” she said under her -breath to herself, and then went away from where she was standing to the -further end of the room. “I shall wait here, mamma, till you have had -your tea. I know you want it. Oh, go away Moulsey! Let me alone! No, you -shall not bring me anything! or, if you do, I will throw it out of the -window,” she said, stamping her foot. The dark end of the room seemed -suddenly lighted up by a sort of aurora borealis, with the fire of poor -Bee’s burning eyes and the flashes here and there of her white -frock—oh, poor white frock! put on in the sunshine of life and -happiness to please her love, and now turned into a sort of sacrificial -robe.</p> - -<p>“Take it away, Moulsey; I can’t eat anything—I can’t, indeed—no more -than Miss Bee—”</p> - -<p>“But you must, ma’am,” said Moulsey. “Miss Bee’s young; she’s had -nothing to drain away her strength. But it’s far different with you, -after all your family and so weak as you are. If Miss Bee were a real -good girl, as I always thought her, she’d go away and get something -herself just for her poor mamma’s sake, and leave you alone for a moment -to get a little peace and rest.”</p> - -<p>“There is no rest for me,” murmured the poor lady. “Oh, papa, papa, why -didn’t you come and tell them yourself?”</p> - -<p>These piteous tones went to Bee’s heart. They moved her half with -contempt, half with compassion—with something of that high indignant -toleration of weakness which is one kind of pity. If mamma could eat and -drink at such a moment, why shouldn’t she be left to do it? The girl -started up and left the room in the quick flashing impulse of her -passion. She walked up and down in the corridor outside, her arms folded -over her high-beating, tumultuous heart. Yes, no doubt she was going to -be miserable, all her happiness was cut down and withered away, but in -her present passionate impulse of resistance and gathering of all her -forces to resist the catastrophe, which she did not understand, it could -scarcely be said that she was wretched yet. What was it—what was it? -she was saying to herself. It might still be something that would pass -away, which would be overcome by the determined, impassioned stand -against it, which Bee felt that it was in her to make. The thing that -was worst of all, that stole away her courage, was that Aubrey had -failed her. He should have been there by her side whatever happened. He -ought not to have abandoned her. No doubt he thought it was more -delicate, more honourable, more something or other; and that it was his -duty to leave her to brave it alone. It must have been one of those -high-flown notions of honour that men have. Honour! to leave a girl to -fight for herself and him, alone—but, no doubt, that was what had -seemed right in his eyes. Bee walked up and down in the half-lighted -passage, sometimes almost pushing against someone going up or down, -waiters or chambermaids or surprised guests, who looked after her when -she had passed; but she did not take any notice of them, and she heard -as she passed her mother’s door little sounds of tea-cups and dishes, -and Moulsey’s voice saying “A little more,” and her mother’s faint -replies. Poor mamma! After all, what ever it was, it could not be her -affair as it was Bee’s. She would be unhappy about it, but not all -unhappy. She had the others, who were all right. She had papa. It would -not shatter her to pieces even if one of the children was to be -shipwrecked. It was the shipwrecked one only who would be broken to -pieces. For the first time in her life Bee felt the poignant sensation, -the jealous pride, the high, desolate satisfaction of suffering. The -others could all eat and do the ordinary things. She was elevated over -all that, silent as on a Peak in Darien. She felt almost a kind of -dreadful pleasure in the situation, smiling to herself at the sounds of -her mother’s little meal. She could dine while Bee was miserable. They -could all dine—Charlie (which was natural), Betty, even Aubrey. She had -no doubt that he, too, must be seated, feeling as a man does that dinner -must go on whatever happens, at the table downstairs.</p> - -<p>After a while, which seemed a long time to Bee, Moulsey came out with -the tray. She was startled, and exclaimed under her breath at the -appearance of the girl walking up and down in the corridor: “I did -think you would have had the sense to go and join the others, Miss -Bee.” Bee was too much uplifted, too distant on her high pinnacle of -martyrdom, to make any reply, but when Moulsey ventured to add a word of -advice, to the effect that she must be careful of her mamma and not -weary her with questions and she so tired and so weak, the girl flashed -forth all her heart of indignation. “She has eaten her cutlet, it -appears,” cried Bee. “I should think she may answer my questions.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried the maid, who had the privileges of an old servant, “you -have got a heart without pity. You are just like your papa!”</p> - -<p>Bee swept past her into the room, where poor Mrs. Kingsward, who after -all had eaten but a morsel, sat lying back in an easy chair awaiting the -dreadful conflict which she knew was coming. Poor lady, she had lost all -her brightness, that pretty grace of the young mother among her grown up -children, which prompted so many compliments. She lay back in her easy -chair, feeling as she said “any age”—as old as any woman on the edge of -the grave, not knowing how she was to bear the onslaught that was -coming, and how she was to say what had to be said. He had borne it far -better than Bee—poor Aubrey, poor Aubrey! whom she must not call Aubrey -any more. He had not denied anything, he had fallen as it were at her -feet, like a house that had been undermined and had no sound -foundations, but Bee was different. Bee was a tower that had -foundations—a girl that was able to stand up even to papa, and why—why -had he not come to give forth his sentence in his own way?</p> - -<p>Bee came forward flashing into the light, in that white frock which -shone, and with those eyes that blazed through all the neutral tints in -the room. She did not sit down, which would have been a little relief, -but seized a chair and stood with her hand upon the back, leaning upon -it.</p> - -<p>“I hope, mamma,” she said, pitiless, “that you liked your tea, and ate -something—and that you are better now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” cried the poor lady; “if there is one reproach more dreadful -than another it is this of being able to eat when you ought to be -overwhelmed with trouble.” Mrs. Kingsward could scarcely keep from -crying at the imputation. And Bee, I fear, knew that it was the -unkindest thing that could be said.</p> - -<p>“Now, mamma,” she resumed, almost stonily, “it is time that you should -tell me what has happened. We arrived here all quite happy—it is just -an hour ago——” here Bee’s voice shook a little, but she commanded it -with an effort—“I ran up to dress for dinner, and when I came back in -about ten minutes I found you and Aubrey—with your letters—looking as -if you had both been dead and buried while I was away. You wouldn’t -answer me, and he never said a word. You had done something to him in -that little time to make him turn away from me, and yet you will not -tell me what it is. Here I am alone,” said Bee, once more with a quiver -in her voice. “Aubrey ought to be standing by me. I suppose he is having -his dinner downstairs, too, and thinking no more of me. I just stand -alone, nobody caring in all the world. What is the meaning of it, -mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Bee, you are very hard upon me. And poor Aubrey, he is having no -dinner—of that I am sure.”</p> - -<p>“You called him Mr. Leigh downstairs.”</p> - -<p>“So I did, and so I must, and all of us; but I cannot have you speaking -of him like that, poor, poor fellow; and just for this once—— Oh, Bee, -my darling, don’t stand and look at me so! I would rather have died than -say it either to him or to you. Your papa has been hearing I don’t know -what, and he has changed his mind about Mr. Leigh altogether, and says -it must not be.”</p> - -<p>“What must not be?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee! Oh, don’t take it so hard! Don’t look like that! -Your—your—engagement, my darling. Have patience; oh, have patience! He -has heard something. Men hear things that we would never hear. And he -doesn’t deny it. Oh! he doesn’t deny it. I had a hope that he would -contradict it at once, and flare up in a rage like you, and say it -wasn’t true. But he doesn’t deny it—poor boy, poor boy! And after that, -how can I say one word to papa?”</p> - -<p>“My engagement?” said Bee, in a hoarse voice. She had been staring at -her mother as in a dream—only partially hearing, not understanding at -all the rest that was said. “My engagement? He gave his consent. It was -all settled. You would not allow us till the letter came, but then it -was consent.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, dear. That was at first. He consented at first because—and -now it appears he has heard something—someone has called upon him—he -has discovered—and he writes to me that it must be broken off. Oh, Bee, -don’t think my heart doesn’t bleed for you. I think it will kill me. He -says it must be broken off at once.”</p> - -<p>“Who says so?” said Bee, in her passion. “He! One would think you were -speaking of God—that can say ‘Yes’ to-day and ‘No’ to-morrow, and build -things up and then snatch them down. But I will not have it! I am not a -doll, to be put in one position and then in another, as anybody pleases. -My engagement! It is mine; it is not his.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, think; it is papa you are speaking of. Dear, I feel for you—I -feel for you! but so does he. Oh, my darling, you don’t know what you -are saying. Do you think he would do anything to make you unhappy if he -could help it—your papa, Bee, who has been so good to you all your -life?”</p> - -<p>“I do not care how good he has been. He is not good now. How will it -harm him? He sits at home, and he thinks he can do as he pleases. But -not with me. It is my affair more than it is his. He thinks he can break -his word and it doesn’t matter—but I have given my word, and it does -matter. Break my engagement!” cried Bee, her young bosom swelling, the -sob rising in her throat that would soon choke her voice. “It is mine -and not his; and nobody in the world shall break it. You can tell him -so, mamma, or I will write myself and tell him so. I am not a wax image -to take any shape he pleases. Who is he? He is not God——”</p> - -<p>“Bee—he is your father——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my father! Yes, I do whatever he tells me. If he says I am to fetch -anything I run like a little dog. I have never been disobedient. But -this—this is different. I am not a child any longer. And, mamma, not -for him nor for anyone—not even for you will I take back my word.”</p> - -<p>“Bee! You make me say a great deal more than I meant to say. I thought -you would have been a good child and seen that papa must know best. My -poor, poor little girl, there is worse behind. Mr. Leigh, whom we all -thought so much of——”</p> - -<p>“Aubrey,” Bee managed to say, though for no other word could she command -her voice.</p> - -<p>“Darling, he has deceived us. He is not what he seems. He has done, oh, -so wrong—there have been things—that you ought never to hear——”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” said Bee. She had to speak in monosyllables with her labouring -breath. “Wait!—not behind his back.” She rushed to the bell and rung it -so wildly that both waiter and chambermaid appeared in alarm, with -Moulsey rushing in calling for a doctor, and saying that her lady was -going to faint. Bee pushed the woman aside and turned to the waiter, who -stood anxious at the door. “Mr. Leigh!” she cried, impatiently; “the -gentleman—who was with us: tell him—to come here.”</p> - -<p>“The tall young gentleman?” said the waiter.</p> - -<p>“No—the other: tell him he is to come here—instantly—this moment.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the man. “The other gentleman? He have -been gone away this half-hour.”</p> - -<p>“Gone away!” she cried. And it seemed to Bee that the blackness of -darkness closed over her and the room and everything in it. She did not -faint, oh no, no such happiness—but everything grew dark, and through -the dark she heard her own voice speaking—speaking, and did not know -what she said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">But</span> Aubrey had not gone away. He had gone out in the dizziness of a -great downfall, scarcely knowing how to keep his feet steady as he -wandered along the dark street, not knowing where he went. The landscape -that had charmed them all so much—was it scarcely an hour ago?—the -lamps reflected in the water; the verandah, with its wreaths of green; -the brilliant yet mysterious glimmer of the moon, made his heart sink to -look at them now. He strayed off into the darkest of the narrow streets, -into the great gloom of the cathedral shadow, where he could see nothing -but a poor light twinkling here and there, making the darkness visible. -Oh! how certain it is that, however sweet they may seem, your sins will -find you out! Oh! how more than certain if you have let yourself be -dragged down once, only once, in a spotless life, that the one fault -will be made into the central fact of your whole existence. If he had -been a bad, dissipated man, it would have been only fair. But this poor -young fellow was like the young man whom our Lord loved though he went -away. All good things he had kept from his youth up—but once, only -once, half distracted by grief, and by the desire which is so natural to -escape from grief, and by infernal temptation, he had fallen—oh, there -was no need to tell him how he had fallen! Had it not been the canker in -his soul ever since? And now this one thing, this miserable, -much-repented fault, which revolted, disgusted, horrified himself, was -brought up against him as if it were the pattern upon which he had -shaped his life.</p> - -<p>And now, what was left for him but to fall down, down into the -unfathomable abyss? The distracted feelings with which he had broken -away from home, the horror and dismay that at once belonged to his -natural grief and made the burden of it a thousand times harder to bear, -all rushed back upon him, whirling him down and down to dimmer and more -awful depths. He had partially healed himself in the intolerableness of -his trouble by travel and change, and the arbitrary forgetfulness which -comes from absence and the want of any association which could call back -to him what was past; and then the touch of Bee’s soft, girlish hand, -the sound of her voice, had suddenly called him back into an enchanted -land where everything had again become possible. He had hesitated for -some time, wondering if he might dare—he who had a secret smirch upon -him which nobody suspected—to avail himself of this way of salvation. -The reader will think that he had not hesitated very long—poor -Aubrey—seeing that the introduction, the acquaintance, the love, the -engagement had all occurred within the small space of one month; but to -the brooding spirit the hours of one interminable day are long enough -for a chronicle. Something like the phenomena of love at first sight had -occurred in the bleeding yet young heart, which had felt itself cut -loose from all the best associations of life. Deliverance, recreation, -the new beginning of life and all its possibilities had gleamed upon him -in Bee’s blue eyes. Her appearance swept away everything that was dark -and ominous in his life. Did he dare to ask for her hand, to set out -again to make himself a new career? He had worked at that question -almost from the first day, discussing it with himself for the three -weeks preceding their engagement, waking and sleeping, almost without -intermission; and then in a moment he had forgotten all controversy, and -let forth without intention the words that had been lying, so to speak, -on the threshold of his lips—and in that moment all the clouds had been -swept away. He was only eight and twenty after all—so young to have -such a past behind him, and what so natural as that his life should -begin again—begin now as for the first time? He had hesitated in the -first fervour of his betrothal whether he should not tell all his story. -But there was no one to tell it to but Mrs. Kingsward—a lady, even a -young lady, not looking much older than Bee herself. That is one of the -drawbacks of a young mother. She was still in the sphere of the girls, -not in that of the old ladies whom Heaven has ordained to represent the -mothers of the race. How could he tell to her the story of that -entanglement? If Colonel Kingsward had been there, Aubrey was of opinion -that he would have made a clean breast of everything to him. But I think -it very likely that he might not have done so. He would have intended -it, and he would have put it off from day to day; and then he knew how -lightly men of the world look upon such matters. What would have -horrified Mrs. Kingsward would probably call forth nothing but a -pooh-pooh from her husband. Aubrey, as it proved, was mistaken there, -for Colonel Kingsward had ideas of his own, not always corresponding to -those of the ordinary man of the world; but no doubt had he heard the -story from that side and not from the other, he would have regarded it -in a very different light.</p> - -<p>But it was too late—too late for these reflections now. The fiat had -gone forth, the sentence had been pronounced beyond appeal. Oh, Bee, -Bee, she was too good for him; too fresh, too bright, unsullied by the -world, for a man who had gone through so much already although he was -still young enough. He who had loved and married—though, oh, how -differently!—poor little Amy, who was nobody, whom he had liked for her -yielding sweetness, sweetness which had cost him so dear—he who had -been a father, who had lost his way in life amid the fogs of death and -grief—how had he now dared to think that such a girl as Bee should -dedicate her fresh young life to restore him again to the lost -possibilities of his? It seemed to him the greatest presumption, the -most dreadful, cynical, almost blasphemous attempt. It was the way of -the world—to think that any woman, however good, might be sacrificed to -the necessities of a man’s restoration whatever he had done; everybody -thought so, his own mother even. But he, Aubrey, should have known -better—he should have known that even at his best he could never have -been good enough for Bee, and to think that he had dared now when he was -no longer at his best! What a fool, what a fool he had been! He had come -to be able to endure the daylight and “get on” well enough when he had -arrived at the Bath and seen her first. Why had he not contented himself -with that, knowing that he had no right to expect more? And now there -was nothing—nothing before him but a plunge into the unutterable -darkness—darker than ever, without any hope—worse almost, if worse -were possible, than when he had fled from his home.</p> - -<p>He did not know how long he had been roaming about the dark town -pondering all these dreadful thoughts. When he went back to the hotel, -which he finally did, worn out, not knowing where else to go, one -reproachful waiter, with eyes that said he ought to have been in bed -long ago, was waiting for him with a curt demand what he would have to -eat, and all the house, except that deserted eating-room, where one -light twinkled—reproachful, like the waiter—was shut up. He went to -his room when he had swallowed some brandy, which was the only thing he -could find to put a little warmth into his chilled limbs and despairing -heart, and threw himself miserable upon his bed, where I have no doubt -he slept, though he was not aware of it—as Bee did, though she had no -intention of doing so.</p> - -<p>The only one who was really a sufferer in this respect was poor Mrs. -Kingsward, who was ill, and who had been far more agitated than her -feeble strength could bear. She it was who lay and wondered all through -the night what she must do. Was he really gone without a word, thus -proving how much he was in the wrong, and how right the Colonel was? It -would have saved her from a great deal of embarrassment, but I do not -think Mrs. Kingsward wished that Aubrey might have really gone. It was -too summary, it was not natural, it would show Colonel Kingsward to have -been too right. Oh! she believed he was right! She did not doubt that -his decision was for the best any more than she doubted that it was -inexorable: but still the heart revolted a little, and she hoped that he -might not be proved so unutterably right as that. And poor Bee—poor -little Bee! She did not know, poor child, that there were bitters in the -sweetest cup—that if she had twenty years of Aubrey she would not -probably have thought quite so much of him as now—that nobody was -perfect, which was a conviction that had been forced upon Mrs. -Kingsward’s own mind, though it was not a strong one, by the passage of -the years. And then the poor lady went off into perplexed considerations -of what she personally must do. Must he leave them all at once, travel -home in a different carriage, avoid them at the stations, not venture to -come near their table when they dined on the way? It would seem so -ridiculous, and it would be so embarrassing after their very close -intercourse. But men never thought of these little things. She felt sure -that the Colonel would expect her never to let the two meet again. And -how could she do that when they were both travelling the same way? -Besides, was it fair, was it just, would Bee endure it—never to see him -again?</p> - -<p>Bee woke up in all the energy of despair. It burst upon her in the first -moment of her waking that he had gone away, that it was all over; but -her mind, when it had time to think, rejected that idea; he would not, -could not have gone without a word, without even saying farewell, -without asking her—anything, anything—to forgive him or to forget him, -or to be faithful to him, or not to believe what was said against him. -One or other of these things Aubrey must say to her before he went away. -Therefore, he could not have gone away, and everything was still -possible. In her passion and pride she had refused last night to let her -mother tell her what it was. She had resolved that Aubrey should be -present, that he should hear the accusation against him, that he should -give his own explanation—that was only just, she said to herself—the -poorest criminal had a right to that! And Aubrey should have it. He -should not, whatever papa said and whatever mamma said, be condemned -unheard. She dressed in great haste and rang the bell energetically to -ascertain if he had come back. But the chambermaid who answered Bee’s -bell was stupid and could not understand what Herr it was about whom the -young lady questioned her so closely. Had he come back? Oh, yes, she -believed all the Herren had come back; there was not a bed to be had in -the house. But what Herr was it whom the gracious young lady sought. -The old gentleman in the next room, who was so ill? She heard that he -was a little better this morning—or the young Herr in number ten, or -the Herr whose eyes were so bad, who was going to the great doctor at -Dusseldorf? Perhaps poor Bee’s German was at fault. She was still -attempting to make the matter clear when Moulsey came in with the news -that Mrs. Kingsward was very poorly, and had not slept at all, a -statement which Betty, rushing in half-dressed, confirmed anxiously. -“Mamma has had a very bad night; and what is the matter, Bee, that we -are all at sixes and sevens, and why did you lock your door? I came up -as soon as I could—as soon as Charlie would let me. He said it was -dreadful, nobody coming down; and that we must eat through the dinner -for the sake of appearances. And Aubrey never showing neither, and me -obliged to sleep in mamma’s room because you had locked the door.”</p> - -<p>“I want to know,” said Bee, “whether Aubrey came back last night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how should I know?” said Betty, “and why shouldn’t he come back? -Of course he must have come back. Is he going anywhere else but home? I -wish people would not get letters,” said the girl. “You are all so -ridiculous since those letters came last night. Letters are nice when -they are nice. But, oh! how much nicer it was yesterday morning when you -had none, and we were all quite happy, and mamma well, and Aubrey and -you as funny as you could be!”</p> - -<p>There flashed upon Bee as she spoke the whole bright panorama of -yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky nor a trouble in the world. Mamma as -fresh as the morning, the river shining, the steamboat thrilling through -the water with a shiver of pleasure in its wooden sides, every group -adding amusement, and they themselves affording it, no doubt, to the -rest. How conscious they had been when they laughed under their breath -at the young German pairs, that they themselves were lovers too, quite -as happy, if not so demonstrative. Oh! yesterday—yesterday! You might -as well say last century for anything that resembled it now. Bee turned -almost fiercely to Moulsey, who stood looking on with that air of -knowing all about it which so often exasperated the girls, and requested -her to go downstairs immediately and ask if Mr. Leigh had come back. -Moulsey hesitated and protested that the chambermaid would know. “And -you that know the language, Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Go down directly and inquire if Mr. Leigh has come back. You know the -waiter that speaks such good English as well as I do,” said Bee, -peremptorily. And Moulsey could do nothing but obey.</p> - -<p>Yes, Mr. Leigh had come back; he had occupied his room, but was not yet -up so far as the attendants knew. There came such a change on Bee’s face -at this news as startled both the curious observers. The light grew less -fierce, more like the usual sunny brightness in her eyes. A softening -came over her face. Her colour flashed back. “I want to know when mamma -is coming downstairs,” she said. “Moulsey—or no, stop. I’ll go myself -and see.”</p> - -<p>Moulsey was so roused that she caught the young lady by the arm. “If it -was your papa himself, my lady shan’t be disturbed,” she said. “And not -by you, Miss Bee, as are the cause of it all; not if you should put a -knife into me afore her door.”</p> - -<p>“How dare you say I am the cause of it all?”</p> - -<p>“Because it’s the truth,” said the enraged maid. “She was worrited -enough before by those letters, and you coming in like the wind, like -your papa himself, as I always said you were his living image; and -stopping her in the middle of her little bit of cutlet that would have -given her strength, and questioning of her like a drum-major, and pacing -up and down outside the door like a wild beast. Mind my words: you don’t -know, none of you, how little strength my poor lady’s got. And you’re -all so masterful, every one, with mamma here and mamma there, and you’ll -not find out till it’s too late——”</p> - -<p>“But mamma’s better,” cried Betty. “She has taken her cure, and she’s -all right till next year.”</p> - -<p>“I only wish as you may all find it so, miss,” said Moulsey, folding her -arms across her broad chest and shaking her head.</p> - -<p>Bee was awe-struck for a moment by this speech, but she knew that -Moulsey was always a croaker, and it was quite true about the cure. She -paused a little uncertain, and then she resumed in a subdued voice—</p> - -<p>“I never want to disturb mamma. But Moulsey, we’ve got to leave here -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“That can’t be,” said Moulsey, decisively. “My lady is not fit to travel -after such a bad night, and I won’t have it,” she said. “The doctor has -put my lady into my hands, and he says ‘She’s not to be overtired. Mind, -I don’t respond for nothing if she’s overtired.’ And she just shan’t -go—that’s flat. And you may all say what you like, and your papa, too.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-day?” said Bee, with another change of countenance. It flashed -upon her that another day’s delay would give time for all the -explanations in which she could not help hoping. Her excited pulses -calmed down a little. She was not alarmed about her mother. Had she been -so, it would no doubt have given her thoughts another direction. But Bee -knew nothing of illness, much less anything of death. She was not -afraid of them. In her experience people might be ill occasionally, but -they always got better. Mamma, too, would be better presently, when she -got up; and then they could all meet, and the letters and the whole -matter could be discussed. And it seemed to be impossible—impossible -that from this some better conclusion could be arrived at. There had -been so much confusion last night, when it burst upon them like a -thunderstroke. When looked at calmly, without flurry or haste, the -better moment would bring better views, and who could say that all might -not yet be well?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Emboldened</span> by this thought Bee went downstairs to breakfast, which was -spread again in the verandah in the warm sunshine of the autumnal -morning. The new hope, though it were a forlorn one, restored her -youthful appetite as well as her courage, and her coffee and roll were a -real restorative after the long fast and agitated night. But there was -no appearance of Aubrey, neither at the table nor in the passages, nor -anywhere about. He seemed to have disappeared as if he had never been. -When Charlie came down from his mother’s room, where he had been shut up -with her for some time, Bee, who had no particular respect for Charlie’s -opinion or inclination to allow him any authority over herself, such as -an elder brother is sometimes supposed to have, began at once to -question him. “Where is Aubrey?” she said. “Why doesn’t he come to -breakfast? Will you go and look for Aubrey, Charlie?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I will do no such thing,” said Charlie, almost roughly. “I hope -he has had the sense to go away. I should just like to see him come -calmly down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. If he came, then I -can answer for it, you should not be allowed to say a word to him, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Who should prevent me?” cried Bee, looking up with her eyes on fire and -her nostrils dilating. She had not noticed before what a cloud was upon -Charlie’s face and how heavy and scowling were his brows. She added, -springing up, “We shall soon see about that. If you think I shall do -what you tell me, or condemn any man unheard——”</p> - -<p>“The cad! He never denied it. You can ask mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I will not ask anyone but Mr. Leigh,” said Bee, throwing back her head; -“and I advise you to mind your own business, and not to call names that -may come back upon yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Stop where you are, Bee. I never went out into the world under false -pretences. A man is a cad when he does that.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not stop for you, nor anyone but my parents,” said Bee, in a -splendid flush of anger, her countenance glowing, her eyes blazing. -“Stand out of my way. Oh, if that is all, and you want to make a scene -for the edification of the tourists, I can go in by the other door.”</p> - -<p>And she did so, leaving Charlie standing flushed and angry, but quite -unable, it need scarcely be said, to coerce his sister. To make an -attempt of this kind, which comes to nothing, is confusing and -humiliating. He looked round angrily for a moment to see if it were -possible to intercept her, then, yielding to necessity, sat down where -Betty, eager and full of a thousand questions, sat calling for -explanations. That is the good of a family party, there is always -someone ready to hear what you have to say.</p> - -<p>Bee went at once to the English-speaking waiter, and asked for Mr. -Leigh, whom the man, curious as all lookers-on are at a social drama -going on under their eyes, declared to be still in his room. She sent -him off instantly with a message, and stood in the hall awaiting his -return, angry and brave, like the rose in George Herbert’s poem, yet -soon getting shamefaced and troubled, as the people coming and going, -travellers, visitors, attendants, stared at her and brushed against her -as they passed. Bee never forgot all her life the gleam of the river at -the foot of the steps, of which she had a glimpse through the -doorway—the Rhine barges slowly crossing that little space of vision, -the little boats flitting across the gleam of the rosy morning, and the -strong flowing tide, the figures going up and down breaking the -prospect.</p> - -<p>The man came back to her after a time, looking half sympathetic, half -malicious, with the message that the gentleman was just going out.</p> - -<p>“Just going out!” She repeated the words half-consciously. “Was it -Aubrey that sent her that message? Aubrey—who yesterday would not let -her out of his sight, who followed her everywhere, saw every sign she -made, heard every word almost before it was spoken!” The surprise and -the pang together made her heart sick. She could not rush upstairs and -knock at his door and call him out imperatively, to tell her immediately -what it all meant—at least, though it occurred to her that this would -be the most natural thing to do, she did not. Intimidated by the -circumstances, by the half impertinence of the waiter, by the stare of -the people about, she reflected for a moment breathlessly that he must -come out this way, and that if she remained there she must see him. But -Bee’s instinct of a young woman, now for the first time awakened, made -her shrink from this. When she was only a little girl, so very short a -time ago, she did not mind who looked at her, who pushed past her. But -now everything was different!</p> - -<p>She went away, still holding her head high that nobody (above all not -Charlie, who was watching her through the glass of the verandah) should -guess that her courage was drooping, and going into the deserted -sitting-room, where last night that blow had fallen upon her, sat down -and wrote to her lover a hurried little note:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Oh, Aubrey, what is the matter? Have you deserted me without a -word? Do you think I am like them, to take up any report? I don’t -know what report there is—I don’t know what it is, this terrible -thing that has come between us. What is it? I will take your word -and nobody else’s. I don’t believe you have done anything that is -wrong. Aubrey! come and tell me out of your own mouth. I told mamma -last night I would hear nothing unless you were there; but you were -gone away, they said. And now you send me word that you are going -out and can’t see me. Going out and can’t see <i>me</i>! What does it -all mean?</p> - -<p>“If it is some fad of honour, of not seeing me against <i>their</i> -will—though I do think your first duty is to me, Aubrey, before -anyone else in the world—but if it should be so, mamma will be -down here at twelve o’clock—and I invite you to meet her, to hear -what is said, to answer for yourself and for me. If you have done -anything wrong, what does that matter? Don’t we all do wrong? And -why should it come between you and me? Am I without sin that I -should throw stones at you? Aubrey, you can’t throw everything away -without a word. You can’t desert me without a word. I can bear -anything—anything, rather than this.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Your <span class="smcap">Bee</span>——.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Bee, poor child, shrank from intrusting this to the impertinent waiter, -who had a leer in his eye as if he were defending his own side from the -importunities of the other. She went out furtively into the hall and -studied the numbers of the rooms and the names of the tenants upon the -board, necessity quickening her perceptions, and then she stole -upstairs and gave her poor little appeal into the hands of the stout -chambermaid who watched over that part of the hotel. It was for the Herr -in No. 10, and the answer was to be brought immediately to the little -salon No. 20 downstairs. “Eine Antwort,” she said over and over again in -her imperfect speech. “Schnell, schnell!” This, with the aid of a -thaler—for it was before the days of the mark—produced perfect -understanding in the mind of the maid, who with becks and wreathed -smiles accepted the commission, and in a short time brought her back the -answer for which she waited with feverish anxiety. It was very much -shorter than her own.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I am not worthy to stand before you. I cannot and I must not take -advantage of your innocence; better I should disappear altogether -than wound your ears with what they say. But I will not since you -will it so. At twelve o’clock then, Bee, my darling, I will stand -up before your mother, and say what I can for myself. Bee, my own -dearest, my only hope!”</p></div> - -<p>This last was scrawled across the paper as if he had put it in after the -despair of the former part. It was this that the poor little girl fixed -upon—the sweet words to which she had been accustomed, which her heart -was fainting for. It was not, one would have said, a very cheerful note -for a love-letter. But Bee was ridiculously cheered by it. So long as -she was his own dearest, his hope, his darling—so long as there was no -change in his love for her—why then, in the long run, whatever was -said, everything must come right.</p> - -<p>I need not follow Bee to her mother’s bedside, when Mrs. Kingsward woke -and for the first moment did not remember what had happened.</p> - -<p>“Is that you, Bee?” she said, smiling, not thinking.</p> - -<p>“Are you better, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, just in my usual——,” said Mrs. Kingsward. And then she -caught a fuller sight of her daughter’s face. Bee had none of her usual -pretty colour, the light in her eyes was like fire. The mother gave a -little feeble cry, and in a moment was no longer in her usual, but lost -in the feverish mists of a trouble far too great for her to bear. “Oh, -Bee! Oh, Bee!”</p> - -<p>“We had better not say anything about it, mamma, to agitate you. I have -told him you will be ready at twelve o’clock, that I may know what the -story is, and what he has to say.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward struggled up to a sitting position. “At twelve o’clock? -No! I cannot, I cannot!” Then she dropped back upon her pillows sobbing, -“Oh, Bee, spare me; I am not equal to it. There is Charlie can read your -papa’s letter. Bee! Bee!”</p> - -<p>“Charlie!” cried Bee, with a flash of fury. “Who is Charlie, that he -should sit in judgment on Aubrey and me? If he has anything to do with -it, I tell you, mamma, I will go away. I will go with Aubrey. I will not -hear a word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee,” cried Mrs. Kingsward, holding out her hot, feverish hands, “I -am not fit for it! I am not fit for it! If I am to travel to-morrow—ask -Moulsey—I ought to stop in bed and be quiet all day.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that it matters,” said Bee, sternly, “whether we travel -to-morrow or in a week. To go home will be no pleasure to me.”</p> - -<p>“If we were there, then papa could manage it all himself; he is the -proper person. On a journey is not the time to settle things so -important. I will write and tell him I have put it all off, and have not -said anything, till he could do it himself.”</p> - -<p>“But that will not be true,” cried the young Rhadamanthus, inexorable, -with her blazing eyes.</p> - -<p>“O Bee! you are dreadfully, dreadfully hard upon me!” the poor young -mother said. This is the drawback of being so young a mother, just as -young as your grown-up children. It is very delightful, when all is -sunny and bright, but in a great emergency like this it is trying for -all parties when a girl’s mother is only, so to speak, a girl like -herself. Bee lifted up her absolute young head, and gave forth her -ultimatum unmoved.</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, it must be as you choose. If you think my happiness is of -less consequence than the chance of a headache to yourself, I have -naturally nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p>A headache! That was all she knew.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward was ready by twelve o’clock, much against Moulsey’s will, -who dressed her mistress under protest. “I ain’t one to interfere with -what’s going on in a family,” said Moulsey, as she combed out the long -locks, tangled with the restlessness of a troubled night, which were as -silky and as smooth as Bee’s. “I’m only a servant, and I knows my place; -but you’re not fit to struggle among them young ones. The nursery -children, it’s all very well; if they’re naughty you whip them, or you -put them in a corner, and there’s a good cry and all right again. But -when it comes to a business with a young lady and a gentlemen, the -Colonel ought to have come himself, or he ought to have put it off till -we all got home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish, I wish he had!” Mrs. Kingsward said, sighing. “I am not in -the least what I used to be, Moulsey; don’t you think I am very -different from what I used to be? I have not half the strength.”</p> - -<p>“There often is,” said Moulsey, “a time when a lady isn’t so strong, -after all these children and everything. It takes a deal out of you, it -do. And I don’t hold much with them foreign cures. I’m one that stands -for home. And there’s where you ought to be, ma’am, whatever anyone may -say.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure it is where I wish to be,” said the poor lady, “but we must -not be unjust, Moulsey. My cure did me a great deal of good, and I liked -being out and seeing everything just as much as the girls.”</p> - -<p>“That is just it, ma’am,” said Moulsey; “you’re a deal too much the same -as the young ladies, and can’t make up your mind as you haven’t the -strength for it. I’m not one to ask any questions, but I can’t help -seeing there’s something wrong. Don’t you give in to Miss Bee in -everything. I wouldn’t go down to make up the quarrel if I was you. -Leave ’em to themselves, and it’ll all come right. Bless us, lovers’ -quarrels is nothing—it wouldn’t be half the fun if it wasn’t for that.”</p> - -<p>Moulsey knew very well this was no lovers’ quarrel; but it seemed to her -a good way of satisfying herself what it was.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if that were all!” sighed the poor lady. “Moulsey, you are an old -friend, and take an interest in the family. You have known Miss Bee -since ever she was born. I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. It is -no quarrel; it’s something the Colonel has heard about Mr. Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“All lies, ma’am, I don’t make no manner of doubt.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so, Moulsey; oh, do you think so? Have you heard anything? -You often know more, hearing the servants speak, than we do. If you have -any light to throw on the subject, oh, do so, do! I shall be grateful to -you all my life.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know as I have any light to throw. I knew as there was some -trouble at the time the poor young lady died—some friend of hers, as -Mr. Leigh, being a kind-hearted gentleman, couldn’t turn out of the -house—and it made a talk. But if there was anything wrong, you take my -word, ma’am, it was none of his fault.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it’s so easy to say that, Moulsey; but the man must bear the -blame.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve always heard, ma’am, as it was the woman that got the blame; and -right enough, for they often deserve it the most,” Moulsey said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish—I wish, whoever was to blame, that it was not I that had -to clear it up,” poor Mrs. Kingsward said.</p> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -<span class="i0">“Oh, cursed spite,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">That ever I was born to set it right.”<br /></span> -</div></div> - -<p>She would not have said this, poor lady. She would have thought it -swearing and unbecoming for a woman’s lips; still, Hamlet’s sentiment -was hers, with much stronger reason. She looked like anything but a -strong representative of justice as she went downstairs. Charlie had -come to give her his arm, and though he was very tender to her, Charlie -had no idea of sparing her any more than Bee. He, too, thought that it -was only the risk of a headache, and that a headache was no such great -matter. Charlie’s idea was, however, that what the governor said was, of -all things on earth, the most important to be carried out—especially -when it did not concern himself.</p> - -<p>Bee was sitting at the window looking out upon the river, seeing the -reflections flash and the boats pass. The steamer had just started with -its lively freight—the steamboat which had brought them down the stream -yesterday, with all its changing groups, and the pairs of German lovers -with their arms about each other in the beatitude of the betrothal. All -just the same, but how different, how different! She did not rise, but -only turned her head when her mother came in. She was on the other side. -She did not see, with so many other things in her head, how fragile Mrs. -Kingsward looked. Betty was the only one who perceived at all that mamma -was less strong than usual, and even Betty took no notice, for she, too, -was on the other side. As for Charlie, he stood behind her, a sort of -representative of executive force at the back of Justice, backing her -authority up. It was he who arranged her chair, her footstool, the shawl -Moulsey had insisted she should wear, and which Charlie, who knew -nothing about shawls, huddled up about her neck, not unlike the judge’s -ermine. He did it all, not with sympathetic touches as the girls would -have done had they not been on the other side, but rather with an eye to -her dignity as a representative of the law.</p> - -<p>And then, just as the hour of noon sounded from all the church clocks, -Aubrey came in. He was very pale, but dressed with care, no symptoms of -neglect about him, with an air of preparation which became a man who was -going to stand his trial. Bee jumped up from her seat and went up to -him, putting her hand through his arm, and Betty, half-frightened, with -a glance at her mother, offered him a timid hand. She sat down behind -them, on a chair that was ranged against the wall. The defendant’s side -was her side. She wanted to show that, and yet not to go against mamma. -Charlie took no notice at all of the new comer, but stood scowling, -looking at nobody, behind his mother’s chair.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward, frightened at her own dignity and breathless with -agitation, cried, “Oh, Mr. Leigh!” which was a kind of salutation. She -had some papers in her lap, over which her hands fluttered restlessly, -her husband’s letter, and something else beside, and she looked at the -group before her with a little dubious smile, asking pardon of the -culprit whom she had come here—oh, so much against her will—to try for -his life.</p> - -<p>“Now, mamma,” said Bee, in a cheerful voice, “we are quite ready, Aubrey -and I—”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Kingsward’s</span> opening speech was a wonder to hear. She sat and looked -at them all for a moment, trying to steady herself, but there was -nothing to steady her in what she saw before her—Aubrey and Bee, the -pair who had been so sweet to see, such a diversion in all -circumstances, so amusing in their mutual absorption, so delightful in -their romance. It all flashed back to her mind; the excitement of Bee’s -first proposal, the pleasure of seeing “her bairn respected like the -lave,” though Mrs. Kingsward might not have understood what these words -meant, the little triumph it was to see her child engaged at nineteen, -when everybody said there was nobody for the girls to marry—and now to -have that triumph turned into humiliation and dismay! And to think of -Bee’s bright face overcast, and her happiness over, and poor Aubrey -thrown out into the uttermost darkness. Had she seen Charlie it might -have given her some support, for Charlie was the impersonation of -immovable severity; but Betty’s wistful little face behind the other -pair, coming out from Aubrey’s shadow by moments to fix an appealing -look upon her mother, was not calculated to make her any stronger. She -cleared her throat—she tried hard to steady her voice. She said, “Oh, -my dear children,” faltering, and then the poor lady ended in a burst of -sobbing and tears. It gave her a little sting and stimulant to see -through her weeping that though little Betty ran towards her with kisses -and soothing, Bee took no notice, but stood hard and unaffected in her -opposition, holding close to Aubrey’s arm. Mrs. Kingsward indeed got no -sympathy except from little Betty. Charlie put his hand imperatively -upon her shoulder, recalling her to herself, and Bee never moved, -standing by the side of Aubrey Leigh. The mother, thus deserted, -plucked up a little spirit in the midst of her weakness.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” she said, “I do not think it is quite nice of you to stand there -as if your own people were against you. We are not against you. There -has been, I fear, a great mistake made, which Colonel Kingsward”—here -she turned her eyes to Aubrey—“has found out in—in time; though it is -a pity, a sad pity, that it was not found out before. If Mr. Aubrey had -only been frank and said at once—but I don’t see what difference that -would have made. Papa says that from what he has heard and discovered -things must not go any further. He is sorry, and so am I, that they have -gone so far, and the engagement must be broken off at once. You hear -what I say, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“I heard you say so last night, mamma, but I say it is my engagement, -and I have a right to know why. I do not mean to break it off——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how can I make explanations—how can I enter into such a question? -I appeal to you, Mr. Aubrey—tell her.”</p> - -<p>“She ought not to ask any explanations. She is a minor, under age. My -father has a right to do whatever he pleases—and she has none to ask -why.”</p> - -<p>This was how Charlie reasoned on the height of his one-and-twenty years. -Charlie was the intolerable element in all this question. Aubrey cast a -look at him, and forcibly closed his own lips to keep in something that -was bursting forth. Bee defied him, as was natural, on the spot. “I will -not have Charlie put in his opinion,” she cried. “He has nothing to do -with me. Even if I obeyed papa, I certainly should not obey him.”</p> - -<p>“Let Aubrey say, himself,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “whether you ought to be -told everything, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“It is cruel to ask me,” said Aubrey, speaking for the first time. “If -Bee could know all—if you could know all, Mrs. Kingsward! But how could -I tell you all? Part of this is true, and part is not true. I could -speak to Colonel Kingsward more freely. I am going off to-night to -London to see him. It will free you from embarrassment, and it will give -me perhaps a chance. I did not want to put you to this trial. I am ready -to put myself unreservedly in Colonel Kingsward’s hands.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Bee, hastily, “it seems I am of no sort of importance at -all to anyone. I am told my engagement is broken off, and then I am told -I am not to know why, and then——. Go, then, Aubrey, as that is your -choice, and fight it out with papa, if you please.” She loosed her arm -from his, with a slight impulse, pushing him away. “But just mind -this—everybody,” she cried; “you may think little of Bee—but my -engagement shall not be broken by anybody but me, and it shall not be -kept on by anybody but me; and I will neither give it up nor will I hold -to it, neither one nor the other, until I know why.”</p> - -<p>Then the judge and the defendant looked each other in the face. They -were, as may be supposed, on opposite sides, but they were the only two -to consult each other in this emergency. Aubrey responded by a movement -of his head, by a slight throwing up of his hand, to the question in -Mrs. Kingsward’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Then you shall know as much as I can tell you, Bee. Your father had a -letter last week, from a lady, telling him that she had a revelation to -make. The letter alarmed your father. He felt that he must know what it -meant. He could not go himself, but he sent Mr. Passavant, the lawyer. -The lady said that she had lived in Mr. Leigh’s house for years, in the -time of his late wife. She said Mr. Leigh had—had behaved very badly to -her.”</p> - -<p>“That I do not believe,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>The words flashed out like a knife. They made a stir in the air, as if a -sudden gleam had come into it. And then all was still again, a strange -dead quiet coming after, in which Bee perceived Aubrey silent, covering -his face with his hand. It came across her with a sudden pang that she -had heard somebody say this morning or last night—“He did not deny it.”</p> - -<p>“And that he had promised her—marriage—that he was engaged to her, as -good as—as good as married to her—when he had the cruelty—oh, my dear -child, my dear child!—to come to you.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey took his hand away from his white face. “That,” he said, in a -strange, dead, tuneless voice, “is not true.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, more shame to you, Aubrey, more shame to you,” cried Mrs. -Kingsward, forgetting her judicial character in her indignation as a -woman, “if it is not true!—” She paused a moment to draw her breath, -then added, “But indeed you were not so wicked as you say, for it is -true. And here is the evidence. Oh!” she cried, with tears in her eyes, -“it makes your conduct to my child worse; but it shows that you were not -then, not then, as bad as you say.”</p> - -<p>Bee had dropped into the chair that was next to her, and there sat, for -her limbs had so trembled that she could not stand, watching him, never -taking her eyes from him, as if he were a book in which the -interpretation of this mystery was——</p> - -<p>“Never mind about me,” he said, hoarsely. “I say nothing for myself. -Allow me to be as bad as a man can be, but that is not true. And what is -the evidence? You never told me there was any evidence.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Mrs. Kingsward, fully roused, “I told you all that was in my -husband’s letter last night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—that she,” a sort of shudder seemed to run over him, to the keen -sight of the watchers—“that she—said so. You don’t know, as I do, that -<i>that</i> is no evidence. But you speak now as if there was something -more.”</p> - -<p>She took a piece of folded paper from her lap. “There is this,” she -said, “a letter you wrote to her the morning you went away.”</p> - -<p>“I did write her a letter,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward held it out to him, but was stopped by Charlie, who put -his hand on her arm. “Keep this document, mother. Don’t put the evidence -against him into a man’s power. I’ll read it if Mr. Leigh thinks -proper.”</p> - -<p>Once more Aubrey and Bee together, with a simultaneous impulse, looked -at this intruder into their story.</p> - -<p>“Mamma! send him away. I should like to kill him!” said Bee within her -clenched teeth.</p> - -<p>“Be quiet, Charlie. Mr. Leigh, I am ready to put this or any other -evidence against you into your hands.”</p> - -<p>He bowed very gravely, and then stood once more as if he were made of -stone. Mrs. Kingsward faltered very much, her agitated face flushed. “It -begins,” she said, in a low fluttering voice, “My dear little wife——”</p> - -<p>Then there came a very strange sound into the agitated silence, for -Aubrey Leigh, on trial for more than his life, here laughed. “What more, -what more?” he said.</p> - -<p>“No, it is not that. It is—‘I don’t want my dear little wife to be -troubled about anything. It can all be done quite easily and quietly, -without giving an occasion for people to talk; a settlement made and -everything you could desire. I shall make arrangements about everything -to-day.’ It is signed A. L., and it is in your handwriting. Bee, you can -see it is in his handwriting; look for yourself.”</p> - -<p>Bee would not turn her head. She thought she saw the writing written in -fire upon the air—all his familiar turns in it. How well she knew the -A. L.; but she did not look at it—would not look. She had enough to do -looking at his face, which was the letter—the book she was studying -now.</p> - -<p>“No doubt it is my handwriting,” he said, “only it was addressed not to -any other woman, but to my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Your wife died two years ago, Mr. Leigh; and that is dated -Christmas—this year.”</p> - -<p>“That is a lie!” he cried; then restrained himself painfully. “You know -I don’t mean you—but the date and the assumption is entirely a lie. -Give me time, and I will tell you exactly when it was written. I -remember the letter. It was when I had promised Amy to provide for her -friend on condition that she should be sent away—for she made my house -miserable.”</p> - -<p>“And yet—and yet, Mr. Leigh——. Oh, don’t you see how things -contradict each other? She made your house miserable, and yet—— when -your wife was dead, and you were free——”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, growing paler and paler. “And yet!” he said. “I know -what you mean. That is the infernal art of it. My own folly has cut the -ground from beneath my feet, and put weapons into every hand against me. -I know—I know.”</p> - -<p>Again there came into Bee’s mind the words she had heard last night—“He -does not deny it.” And yet he was denying it with all his might! -Denying, and not denying—what? The girl’s brain was all in a maze, and -she could not tell.</p> - -<p>“You see?” said Mrs. Kingsward, gently. “Oh, I am sorry for you in my -heart. Perhaps you were led into—a connection that you feel not to -be—desirable. That I can understand. But that you should think you -could save yourself by means of an innocent girl, almost a child, and -impose yourself on a family that had no suspicions!—oh, Mr. Leigh, Mr. -Leigh! you ought to have died sooner than have done that!”</p> - -<p>He looked at her piteously for a moment, and then a dreadful sort of -smile came upon his face. “I allow,” he said, “that that would have been -the best.”</p> - -<p>And there fell a silence upon the room. The sun was shining outside, and -the sound of the water gurgling against the sides of boats, and of all -the commotion of the landing place, and of the hundreds of voices in the -air, and of the chiming of the clocks, came in and filled the place. -And just then there burst out a carillon from one of the steeples -setting the whole to music, harmonising all the discords, and sweeping -into this silence with a sudden rush of sound as if some bodily presence -had come in. It was the touch too much for all these excited and -troubled people. Mrs. Kingsward lay back in her chair and began to weep -silently. Aubrey Leigh turned away from where he was standing and leant -his head against the wall. As for Bee, she sat quite still, dazed, not -able to understand, but crushed out of all her youthful self-assertion -and determination to clear it all up. She to clear it up!—who did not -even understand it, who could not fathom what was meant. That there was -something more than met the eye, something that was not put into words, -seemed to show vaguely through the words that were said. But what it was -Bee could not tell. She could not understand it all. And yet that there -was a fatal obstacle rising up between her and her lover, something -which no one could disperse or clear away, not a mistake, not a -falsehood, not a thing that could be passed over triumphantly and -forgotten—not as youth is so quick to believe a mere severity, tyranny, -arbitrary conclusion of papa—she felt in every fibre of her frame. She -could not deny it or struggle against it; her very being seemed -paralysed. The meaning went out of her face, the absolute, certain, -imperious youthfulness died out of her. She who loved to have her own -way, who had just protested that she would neither give up nor hold fast -except by her own will and understanding, now sat dumb, vaguely staring, -seeing shadows pass before her and hearing of things which were -undeniable, mighty things, far more powerful than her little hot -resolutions and determinations. Bee had never yet come face to face with -any trouble which could not be smoothed away. There was her own -naughtiness, there were Charlie’s escapades at school and college—some -of which she had known were serious. But in a little while they had been -passed over and forgotten, and everything had been as before. One time -she remembered papa had threatened not to let Charlie go back to Harrow, -which was a dreadful thing, exposing him and his naughtiness to all the -world. But after a while papa had changed his mind, and everything had -gone smoothly as before. Could papa change his mind now? Would time make -it, even if he did, as it was before? Bee had not mental power enough to -think these things, or ask these questions of her own will. But they -went through her mind as people come in and go out by an open door.</p> - -<p>It was Aubrey who was the first to speak. The carillon stopped, or else -they got used to the sound and took no further notice of it, and he -collected himself and came forward again to the middle of the room. He -said, “I know it will be a relief that I should go away. There is an -afternoon train which I shall take. It is slow, but it does not matter. -I shall be as well there as anywhere—or as ill. I shall go direct to -Colonel Kingsward and lay my whole case before him. He will perhaps -confront me with my accuser—I hope so—if not, he will at least hear -what I have to say for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Leigh! Oh, Aubrey! I can’t wish you anything but well, -whatever—whatever may be done!”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsward, I looked for nothing less from your kind -heart. Will you give me that letter?”</p> - -<p>She put it into his hands without the least hesitation, and he examined -it—with a sort of strained smile upon his face. “I should like to take -this back to Colonel Kingsward,” he said. Then added quickly with a -short laugh, “No, I forgot; there might be suspicions. Send it back to -him, please, by the first post, that he may have it when I get there.” -He gave the letter back, and then he looked round wistfully. “May I say -good-bye to Bee?”</p> - -<p>She got up at the words, feeling herself vaguely called upon—yet quite -dull, dumb, with all sorts of thoughts going and coming through those -wide-open doors of her mind—thoughts like strays which she seemed to -see as they passed. Even Aubrey himself appeared a ghost. She got up and -stood awaiting him when he approached her, not putting out a finger. -Nobody interfered, not even Charlie, who was fuming internally yet -somehow did not move. Aubrey went up to her and put his hands upon her -shoulders. Her unresponsiveness sent a chill to his heart.</p> - -<p>“Have you given me up, Bee?” he cried, “Already, already!” with anguish -in his voice.</p> - -<p>She could not say a word. She shook her head like a mute, looking at him -with her dazed eyes.</p> - -<p>“She does not understand it—not a word!” he said.</p> - -<p>Bee shook her head again. It was all she could do. No, she did not -understand, except that it was a kind of dying, something against which -nobody could struggle. And then he kissed her on her forehead as gravely -as though he had been her father; and the next moment was gone—was it -only out of the room, or out of the world, out of life?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was a slow train. The slowest train that there is, is, of course, -far, far quicker than any other mode of conveyance practicable in a land -journey, but it does not seem so. It seems as if it were delay -personified to the eager traveller, especially on the Continent. In -England, when it stops at a multiplicity of stations at which there is -nothing to do, it at least goes on again in most cases after it has -dropped its half-passenger or taken in its empty bag of letters. But -this can never be said of a German or even of a brisker Belgian train. -The one in which Aubrey was meandered about Liege, for instance, till he -had mastered every aspect of that smoky but interesting place. It -stopped for what looked like an hour at every little roadside station, -in order, apparently, that the guard might hold a long and excited -conversation about nothing at all with the head man of the place. And -all the while the little electric bell would go tingling, tingling upon -his very brain. Thus he made his slow and weary progress through the -afternoon and evening, stopping long at last at a midnight station -(where everything was wrapped in sleep and darkness) for the arrival of -the express, in which the latter portion of the journey was to be -accomplished more quickly. If there had been anything wanted to complete -the entire overthrow of a spirit in pain it was such an experience. All -was dismal beyond words at the place where he had to wait—one poor -light showing through the great universe of darkness, the dark big world -that encompassed it around—one or two belated porters wandering through -the blackness doing mysterious pieces of business, or pretending to do -them. A poor little wailing family—a mother and two children, put out -there upon a bench from some other train, one of the babies wailing -vaguely into the dark, the other calling upon “mamma, mamma,” driving -the poor mother frantic—were waiting like himself. It gave Aubrey a -momentary consolation to see something that appeared at least to the -external eye more forlorn than he. He remembered, too, that there had -once been a baby cry that went to his heart, and though all the -associations connected with that had now turned into gall and -bitterness, so that the sound seemed like a spear penetrating his very -being, and he walked away as far as the bounds of the station would -allow, to get, if possible, out of hearing of it—yet pity, a better -inspiration, at last gained the day. He went up and spoke to the woman, -and found that she was an English workman’s wife making her way home -with her children to a mother who was dying. They had turned her out -here, with her babies, to wait—ah, not for the express train which was -to carry on the gentleman, but for the slow, slow-creeping third-class -which only started in the morning, and which would, after other long -waits at other places, reach England sometime, but she could scarcely -tell when.</p> - -<p>“And must you pass the night here out in the cold?” said Aubrey.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t not to call a cold night, sir,” said the woman, meekly, “and -they’ve got plenty on to keep them warm.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try and get them to open the waiting-room for you,” said Aubrey.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, sir; thank you kindly, but don’t take the trouble—the rooms -are that stuffy. It’s better for them in the open air, and they’ll go to -sleep in a little while. Baby will be quite warm on my lap, and Johnny’s -lying against me.”</p> - -<p>“And what is to become of you in this arrangement?” said Aubrey, looking -pitifully, with eyes that had known the experiences both of husband and -father, upon this little plump human bed, which was to stand in the -place of down pillows for the children.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll do very well, sir, when they go to sleep,” she said, looking -up at him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“And when does your train go?”</p> - -<p>“Not till six in the morning,” she replied; “but perhaps that’s all the -better, for I’ll be able to get them some bread and milk, and a good -wash before we start.”</p> - -<p>Well, it was not much of an indulgence for a man who was well off. He -might have thrown it away on any trifle, and nobody would have wasted a -thought on the subject. He got hold of one of the wandering ghosts of -porters, and got him, with a douceur, to change the poor woman’s cheap -ticket for her into one for the express, and commissioned him, if -possible, to get her a place in a sleeping carriage, where, I fear, she -was not likely to be at all a warmly welcomed addition to the luxurious -young men or delicate ladies in these conveyances. He saw that there was -one found for her which was almost empty when the train came up. He -scarcely knew if she were young or old—though indeed, as a matter of -fact, the poor little mother, bewildered by her sudden elevation among -the gentlefolks, and not quite sure that she would not have preferred to -remain where she was and pick up in the morning her natural third-class -train, was both young and pretty, a fact that was remarked by the one -young lady in the carriage, who saw the young man through the window at -her side, and recognised him in a flash of the guard’s lantern, with -deep astonishment to see him handing in such a woman and such children -to the privileged places. He disappeared himself into the dark, and -indeed took his place in the corner of a smoking carriage, where his -cigar was a faint soother of pain. In his human short-sightedness, poor -Aubrey also was consoled a little, I think, by the thought that this -poor fellow-passenger was comfortable—she and her children—and that -instead of slumbering uneasily on a bench, she was able to lay the -little things in a bed. It seemed to him a good omen, a little -relaxation of the bonds of fate, and he went away cheered a little and -encouraged by this simple incident and by the warmth of the kindness -that was in his heart.</p> - -<p>He spoke to them again on one or two occasions on the way, sent the poor -woman some tea in the morning, bought some fruit for the children, and -again on the steamboat crossing, when he listened to the account of how -they were going on, from Dover, with a certain interest. When they -parted at the train he shook hands with the mother, hoping she would -find her relation better, and put a sovereign into Johnny’s little fat -hand. The lady who had been in the sleeping carriage kept her eye upon -him all the time. She was not by any means a malicious or bad woman, but -she did not believe the poor woman’s story of the gentleman’s kindness. -She was, I am sorry to say, a lady who was apt to take the worst view of -every transaction, especially between men and women. People who do so -are bound in many cases to be right, and so are confirmed in their -odious opinion; but in many cases they are wrong, yet always hold to it -with a faith which would do credit to a better inspiration. “I thought -young Mr. Leigh was going to marry again,” she said to a friend whom she -met going up to town.</p> - -<p>“Oh, so he is! To the nicest girl—Bee Kingsward, the daughter of one of -my dearest friends—such a satisfactory thing in every way.”</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t there something,” said the lady of the sleeping carriage, “about -a woman, down at his place in the country?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think there was ever anything against him. There was a -woman who was a great friend of his poor wife, and lived with them. The -wife was a goose, don’t you know, and could not be made to see what a -foolish thing it was. My opinion is that he never could abide the woman, -and I am sure she made mischief between them. But I believe that silly -little Mrs. Leigh—poor thing, we should not speak ill of those that are -gone—made him promise on her deathbed that this Miss Something-or-other -should not be sent away from the house. It was a ridiculous arrangement, -and no woman that respected herself would have done it. But she was -poor, and it’s a comfortable place, and, perhaps, as there was no -friendship between them she may have thought it was no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she thought she would get over him in time and make him marry -her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can’t tell what she thought! He rushed off in a hurry at a -moment’s notice, nobody knowing what he intended, after the poor baby -died, the very day of its funeral. Not much to be wondered at, poor -young man, after all he had gone through. I don’t know how things were -settled with Miss Lance, but I believe that she has gone at last. And I -am delighted to hear of his engagement. So will all his neighbours in -the county be.”</p> - -<p>“I should not like a daughter of mine to marry a man like that.”</p> - -<p>“Why? I wish a daughter of mine could have the chance. Everybody likes -him at home. Do you know anything of Aubrey Leigh?”</p> - -<p>He did not know in the least that this talk was going on as the train -went rushing on to town; his ears did not tingle. He was in the next -carriage, divided only by a plank from these two ladies in their -compartment. The woman who took the bad view of everything did not wish -him any harm. She did not even think badly of him. She thought it was -only human nature, and that young men will do that sort of thing, -however nice they may be, and whatever you may say of morals and so -forth. I do not think, though she had made that little conventional -speech, that she would at all have hesitated to give her own daughter to -Aubrey, provided that she had a daughter. His advantages were so -evident, and the disadvantages, after all, had so little to do with -actual life.</p> - -<p>Aubrey did not present himself before Colonel Kingsward that night. He -did not propose to follow him to Kingswarden, the old house in Kent, -which was the sole remnant of territorial property belonging to the -family. He wanted to have all his wits about him, to be cool and -self-possessed, and able to remember everything, when he saw the man who -had given him Bee and then had withdrawn her from his arms. He already -knew Colonel Kingsward a little, and knew him as a man full of -<i>bonhommie</i>, popular everywhere—a man of experience, who had been about -the world, who knew men. By this time Aubrey had recovered his spirits a -little. He thought it impossible that such a man, when a younger than -himself laid bare his heart to him, could fail to understand. It was -true that the Colonel was probably a martinet in morals as he was in his -profession, and Aubrey had that behind him which he could not deny. He -would not attempt to gloss it over, to make excuses for it. He would lay -his life in this man’s hand as if he had been his confessor. And -surely, surely the acknowledged sin would find absolution, the -extenuating circumstances would be considered, the lie with which that -accusation was accompanied would recoil upon the accuser. The young man -buoyed himself up with these thoughts through the long evening. He did -not go out or to his club, or anywhere where he was known. In September -there are not so many inducements to stray about London. He sat in his -room and thought of Bee, and wrote little letters to her, which were a -relief to his mind though he knew he could not send them. By this time -he reflected they must have started. They were beginning their journey -as he ended his. He hoped that Charlie, that lout, would have the sense -to take care of his mother, to see that she suffered as little as -possible, to prevent her from having any trouble—which I fear was not -the view at all that Charlie took of his duty to his mother. Aubrey, -like all outsiders, had a clearer view of Mrs. Kingsward’s condition -than her family had arrived at. He was very sorry for her, poor, -delicate, tender woman—and grieved to the bottom of his heart that this -trouble should have come upon her through him. Bee was different. There -would be so many ways, please God, if all went well—and he could not -bring himself to think that all would not go well—in which he could -make it up to his Bee. Finally, he permitted himself to write a little -letter to meet his darling on her return, and enclosed in it another to -Mrs. Kingsward, directed to Kingswarden. They would receive it when they -entered their house—and by that time, surely by that time, his letters -would not be any longer a forbidden thing.</p> - -<p>That morning it rained, and the London skies hung very low. The world -had the effect of a room with a low roof, stifling and without air. He -set out to walk to Colonel Kingsward’s office. I forget whether the -Intelligence Department of the War Office was in existence at that time, -or if it has always been in existence only not so much heard of as in -our vociferous days. If it did exist then, it was, of course, in Pall -Mall, as we all know. Aubrey set out to walk, but soon recollected that -muddy boots detracted from a man’s appearance, especially in the eyes of -a spick and span person like Colonel Kingsward, who never had a speck -upon any garment, and accordingly he got into a hansom. It did not go -any faster than the beating of his heart, and yet he could have wished -that it should only creep along like the heavier cabs. He would have put -off this interview now had he been able. To think that you are within an -hour at most of the moment when your life shall be settled for you -absolutely by another person’s will, and that your happiness or -unhappiness rest upon the manner in which he will look at the question, -the perception he will have of your difficulties, the insight into your -heart, is a terrible thing—especially if you know little of the person -who has thus become endowed, as it were, with the power of life and -death over you—do not know if his understanding is a large or limited -one, if he has any human nature in him, or only mere conventionality and -the shell of human nature. It is seldom, perhaps, that one man is thus -consciously in the power of another—and yet it must come to that more -or less, every day.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was in his room, seated at his writing table with -piles of books and maps, and masses of newspapers all round him. He was -an excellent linguist, and there were French papers and German papers, -Russian, Scandinavian—all kinds of strange languages and strange little -broadsheets, badly printed, black with excessive ink, or pale with -imperfect impression, on the floor and the table. He had a large paper -knife at his hand in ivory, with the natural brown upon it, looking like -a weapon which could cut a man, not to say a book, in pieces. He looked -up with an aspect which Aubrey, whose heart was in his mouth, could not -read—whether it was mere politeness or something more—and bade Mr. -Leigh be seated, putting aside deliberately as he did so the papers with -which he was engaged. And then he turned round with the air of a man who -says: Now you have my entire attention—and looked Aubrey in the face. -The young man was facing the light which came in from a large high -window reaching nearly to the roof. The elder man had his back half -turned from it, so that his regard was less easy to read. It was not -quite fair. Aubrey had everything against him; his agitation, his -anxiety, an expressive tell-tale face, and the light searching every -change that took place in it; whilst his opponent was calm as his own -paper knife, impassive, with a countenance formed to conceal his -emotions, and the light behind him. It was not an equal match in any -way.</p> - -<p>“I have come direct from Cologne,” Aubrey said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes. I believe my wife says so in her letter.”</p> - -<p>“You have news from them to-day? I hope that Mrs. Kingsward is better.”</p> - -<p>“My wife never at any time speaks much of her health. She was a little -fatigued and remained another day to rest.”</p> - -<p>“She is very delicate, sir,” said Aubrey. He did not know why, unless it -was reluctance to begin what he had to say.</p> - -<p>“I am perfectly acquainted with Mrs. Kingsward’s condition,” said the -Colonel, in a tone which was not encouraging. He added, “I don’t suppose -you took the trouble to come here, Mr. Leigh, in order to speak to me -about my wife’s health.”</p> - -<p>“No. It is true. I ought not to waste the time you have accorded me. I -do not need to tell you, Colonel Kingsward, what I have come about.”</p> - -<p>“I think you do,” said the Colonel, calmly. “My letter to my wife, which -I believe she communicated to you, conveyed all I had to say on the -matter. It was not written without reflection, nor without every -possible effort to arrive at the truth. Consequently, I have no desire -to re-open the subject. It is in my mind concluded and put aside.”</p> - -<p>“But you will hear me?” said Aubrey. “You have heard one statement, -surely you will hear the other. No man is condemned unheard. I have come -here to throw myself upon your mercy—to tell you my story. However -prejudiced you may be against me——”</p> - -<p>“A moment, Mr. Leigh. I have no prejudice against you. I am not the -judge of your conduct. I claim the right to decide for my daughter—that -is all. I have no prejudice or feeling against you.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward,” cried Aubrey, “for God’s sake listen! Hear what I -have to say!”</p> - -<p>The Colonel looked at him again. Perhaps it was the passion of -earnestness in the young man’s face that touched him. Perhaps he felt -that it was unwise to leave it to be said that he had not heard both -sides. The end was that he waved his hand and said:</p> - -<p>“My time is not my own. I have no right to spend it on merely private -interests; but if you will make your story as short as possible I will -hear what you have to say.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> story which Aubrey Leigh had to tell was indeed made as short as -possible. To describe the most painful crisis in your life, the moment -which you yourself shudder to look back at, which awakens in you that -fury of self-surprise, horror and wonder which a sudden departure from -all the habits of your life brings after it when it is guilt, is not an -easy thing; but it supplies terse expressions and rapidity of narration. -There is no desire to dwell upon the details, and to tell a story so -deeply affecting one’s self to a politely unsympathetic listener who -does not affect to be much interested or at all moved by the subtle -self-defence which runs through every such statement, is still more -conducive to brevity. Aubrey laid bare the tempest that had swept over -him with a breathless voice and broken words. He could not preserve his -equanimity, or look as if it were an easy thing for him to do. He made -the most hurried description of the visitor who had taken possession of -his house, saying not a word beyond the bare fact. It had been deeply -embarrassing that she should be there, though at first in the melancholy -of his widowerhood he had not thought of it, or cared who was in the -house. Afterwards he was prevented from doing anything to disturb her by -his promise to his dying wife. Then had come the anxiety about the baby, -the wavering of that little life in which the forlorn young father had -come to take a little pleasure. She had been very kind to the child, -watching over it, and when the little thing died, when the misery of the -fresh desolation, and the pity of it, and the overwhelming oppression of -the sad house had quite overcome the spirit of its young master, then -she had thrown herself upon him, with all the signs of a sudden passion -of sympathy and tenderness. Had any confessor skilled in the accounts of -human suffering heard Aubrey’s broken tale he could have found nothing -but truth in it, and would have recognised the subtle sequence of events -which had led to that downfall. But Colonel Kingsward, though not -unlearned in men, listened like a man of wood, playing with the large -paper-knife, and never looking towards the penitent, who told his story -with such a strain of the labouring breast and agonised spirit. Had a -young officer in whom he had no particular interest thus explained and -accounted for some dereliction of duty he might have understood or -sympathised. But he had no wish to understand Aubrey; his only desire -was to brush him off as quickly as possible, to be done with his -ridiculous story, to hear of him no more. He might be as little guilty -as he described himself. What then? Aubrey’s character was nothing to -Colonel Kingsward, except as it affected his daughter. He had cut him -off from all connection with his daughter, and it was now quite -immaterial to him whether the man was a weak fool or a deceiver. -Probably from as much as he heard while thus listening as little as he -could, Leigh was in the former class, and certainly he did not intend -to take a weak fool, who had shown himself to be at the mercy of any -designing woman, into his family as the husband of Bee. Give him the -benefit of the doubt, and allow that it had happened so, that the woman -was much more to blame than the man, and what then? A sturdy sinner on -the whole was not less but more easily pardoned than a weak fool.</p> - -<p>“This is all very well, Mr. Leigh,” Colonel Kingsward said, “and I am -sorry that you have thought it necessary to enter into these painful -details. They may be quite true. I will not offend you by doubting that -you believe them to be quite true. But how, then, do you account for the -letter which my wife, I believe, showed you, and which came direct from -the lady’s own hand to mine?”</p> - -<p>“The letter was a letter which I wrote to my wife two years ago. There -had been discussions between us on this very subject. I promised, on -condition that Miss Lance should leave us, to make such arrangements for -her comfort as were possible to me—to settle a yearly income on her, -enough to live on.”</p> - -<p>“Was that arrangement ever carried out?”</p> - -<p>“No; my wife became ill immediately after. I found her on my return in -Miss Lance’s arms, imploring that so long as she lived her friend should -not be taken from her. What could I do? And that prayer was changed on -my poor Amy’s deathbed to another—that I would never send Miss Lance -away; that she should always have a home at Forest-leigh and watch over -the child.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish to arouse any such painful recollections—especially as -they can be of no advantage to anyone—but how does this letter come to -have the date of last Christmas, more than a year after Mrs. Leigh’s -death?”</p> - -<p>“How can I tell that, sir? How can I tell how the devilish web was woven -at all? The note had no date, I suppose, and the person who could use it -for this purpose would not hesitate at such a trifle as to add a date.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh, I repeat the whole matter is too painful to be treated by -me. But how is it, if you regarded this lady with those sentiments, -that you should have in a moment changed them, and, to put the mildest -interpretation upon your proceedings, thus put yourself in her power?”</p> - -<p>The young man’s flushed and anxious face grew deadly pale. He turned his -eyes from the inquisitor to the high blank light pouring in from the -large window. “God knows,” he said, “that is what I cannot explain—or -rather, I should say, the devil knows!” he cried with vehemence. “I was -entirely off my guard—thinking, heaven knows, of nothing less.”</p> - -<p>“The devil is a safe sort of agency to put the blame on. We cannot in -ordinary affairs accept him as the scapegoat, Mr. Leigh—excuse me for -saying so. I will not refuse to say that I allow there may be excuses -for you, with a woman much alive to her own interests and ready for any -venture. You did write to her, however, on the day you left?”</p> - -<p>“I wrote to her, telling her the arrangement I had proposed to my wife, -in the very letter which she has sent to you—that I would carry it out -at once, and that I hoped she would perceive, as I did, that it was -impossible we should remain under the same roof, or, indeed, meet -again.”</p> - -<p>“That was on what date?”</p> - -<p>“The evening before my child’s funeral. Next day, as soon as it was -over, I left the house, and have never set foot in it again.”</p> - -<p>“Yet this lady, to whom you had, you say, sent such a letter, was at the -funeral, and stood at the child’s grave leaning on your arm.”</p> - -<p>“More than that,” cried Aubrey, with a gasp of his labouring breath, -“she came up to me as I stood there and put her arm, as if to support -me, within mine.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel could not restrain an exclamation. “By Jove,” he said, “she -is a strong-minded woman, if that is true. Do you mean to say that this -was after she had your letter?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. I sent it to her in the morning. I was anxious to avoid -any scene.”</p> - -<p>“And then, on your way to London, on that day, you went to your -solicitors, and gave instructions in respect to Miss Lance’s -annuity—which you say now had been determined on long before?”</p> - -<p>“It was determined on long before.”</p> - -<p>“But never mentioned to any one until that time.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon; on the day on which I wrote that letter to my wife I -went direct to my lawyer and talked the matter over freely with Mr. -Morell, who had known me all my life, and knew all the -circumstances—and approved my resolution, as the best of two evils, he -said.”</p> - -<p>“This is the most favourable thing I have heard, Mr. Leigh. He will, of -course, be able to back you up in what you say?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Morell!” Aubrey sprang to his feet with a start of dismay. “I -think,” he cried, “all the powers of hell must be against me. Mr. Morell -is dead.”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other for a moment in silence. A half smile came -upon the Colonel’s face, though even he was a little overawed by the -despair in the countenance of the young man.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that it matters very much,” he said, “for, after all, Mr. -Leigh, your anxiety to get rid of your wife’s companion might have two -interpretations. You might have been sincerely desirous to free yourself -from a temptation towards another woman, which would have given Mrs. -Leigh pain. A man does not sacrifice two hundred a year without a strong -motive. And subsequent events make this a far more likely reason than -the desire to get rid of an unwelcome inmate.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell whether my motive was likely or not. I tell you, sir, -what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes—but unfortunately without any corroboration—and the story is -very different from the other side. It appears from that that you wished -to establish relationship during your poor wife’s life, and that it was -the lady who was moved by pity for you in a moment of weakness—which is -much more according to the rule in such matters.”</p> - -<p>“It is a lie!” Aubrey cried. “Colonel Kingsward, you are a man—and an -honourable man. Can you imagine another man, with the same principles as -yourself, guilty of such villainy as that? Can you believe——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh,” said the other, “it is unnecessary to ask me what I can -believe; nor can I argue, from what I would do, as to what you would do. -That may be of good Christianity, you know, but it is not tenable in -life. Many men are capable enough of what I say; and, indeed, I do you -the credit to believe that you were willing to keep the temptation at a -distance—to make a sacrifice in order to ease the mind of your wife. I -show a great deal of faith in you when I say that. Another man might say -that Mrs. Leigh had exacted it from you as a thing necessary to her -peace.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey Leigh rose up again, and began to pace the room from one side to -the other. He could not keep still in his intolerable impatience and -scorn of the net which was tightening about his feet. Anger rose up like -a whirlwind in his mind; but to indulge it was to lose for ever the -cause which, indeed, was already lost. When he had gained control over -himself and his voice, he said, “We had neighbours; we had friends; our -life was not lived in a corner unknown to the world. There is my mother; -ask them—they all know——.”</p> - -<p>“Does anyone outside know what goes on between a husband and wife?” said -Colonel Kingsward. “Such discussions do not go on before witnesses. If -poor Mrs. Leigh——”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” cried Aubrey, stung beyond hearing, “I will not permit any man to -pity my wife.”</p> - -<p>“It was beyond my province I allow, but one uses the word for those who -die young. I don’t know why, for if all is true that we profess to -believe they certainly have the best of it. Well, if Mrs. Leigh, to -speak by the book, had any such burden on her mind, and really felt her -happiness to depend on the banishment of that dangerous companion, it is -not likely that she would speak of it either to your neighbours or to -your mother.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? My mother was of that mind, though not for that villainous -reason; my mother knew, everybody knew—everybody agreed with me in -wishing her gone. I appeal to all who knew us, Colonel Kingsward! There -is not a friend I have who did not compassionate me for Amy’s insensate -affection. God forgive me that I should say a word against my poor -little girl, but it was an infatuation—as all her friends knew.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think we are now getting into the region of the extravagant?” -Colonel Kingsward said. “I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey had to pause again to master himself. If this man, with his -contemptuous accents, his cool disdain, were not Bee’s father!—-- but -he was so, and, therefore, must not be defied. He answered after a time -in a subdued voice. “Will you allow me—to send one or two of them to -tell you what they know. There is Fairfield, with whom you are -acquainted already, there is Lord Langtry, there is Vavasour, who was -with us constantly——”</p> - -<p>“To none of these gentlemen, I presume, would Mrs. Leigh be likely to -unfold her most intimate sentiments.”</p> - -<p>“Two of them have wives,” said Aubrey, determined to hold fast, “whom -she saw familiarly daily—country neighbours.”</p> - -<p>“I must repeat, Mr. Leigh, I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you will not hear any evidence, Colonel -Kingsward?—that I am condemned already?—that it does not matter what I -have in my favour?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward rose to dismiss his suitor. “I have already said, Mr. -Leigh, that I am not your judge. I have no right to condemn you. Your -account may be all true; your earnestness and air of sincerity, I allow, -in a case in which I was not personally involved, would go far to making -me believe it was true. But what then? The matter is this: Will I allow -my daughter to marry a man of whom such a question has been raised? I -say no: and there I am within my clear rights. You may be able to clear -yourself, making out the lady to be a sort of demon in human shape. My -friend, who saw her, said she was a very attractive woman. But really -this is not the question. I am not a censor of public morals, and on the -whole it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are guiltless or -not. The sole thing is that I will not permit my daughter to put her -foot where such a scandal has been. I have nothing to do with you but -everything with her. And I think now that all has been said.”</p> - -<p>“That is, you will not hear anything more?”</p> - -<p>“Well—if you like to put it so—I prefer not to hear any more.”</p> - -<p>“Not if Bee’s happiness should be involved?”</p> - -<p>“My daughter’s happiness, I hope, does not depend upon a man whom she -has known only for a month. She may think so now. But she will soon know -better. That is a question into which I decline to enter with you.”</p> - -<p>“Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,” said -Aubrey, with a coarse laugh. He turned as if to go away. “But you do not -mean that this is final, Colonel Kingsward—— not final? Not for ever? -Never to be revised or reconsidered—— even if I were as bad as you -think me?”</p> - -<p>“How needless is all this! I have told you your character does not -concern me—and I do not say that you are bad—or think so. I am sorry -for you. You have got into a rather dreadful position, Mr. Leigh, for a -young man of your age.”</p> - -<p>“And yet at my age you think I should be cut off for ever from every -hope of salvation!”</p> - -<p>“Not so; this is all extravagant—ridiculous! And if you will excuse me, -I am particularly busy this morning, with a hundred things to do.”</p> - -<p>Poor Aubrey would have killed with pleasure, knocked down and trampled -upon, the immovable man of the world who thus dismissed him; but to be -humble, even abject, was his only hope. “I will try, then, to find some -moment of leisure another time.”</p> - -<p>“It is unnecessary, Mr. Leigh. I shall not change my mind; surely you -must see that it is better for all parties to give it up at once.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never give it up.”</p> - -<p>“Pooh! one nail drives out another. You don’t seem to have been a -miracle of constancy in your previous relationships. Good morning. I -trust to hear soon that you have made as satisfactory a settlement of -other claims.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Other</span> claims! What other claims? Aubrey Leigh went out of the office in -Pall Mall with these words circling through his mind. They seemed to -have nothing to do with that which occupied him, which filled every -thought. His dazed memory and imagination caught them up as he went -forth in the fury of suppressed anger, and the dizzy, stifled sensation -of complete failure. He had felt sure, even when he felt least sure, -that when it was possible to tell his tale fully, miserable story as it -was, the man to whom he humbled himself thus, not being a recluse or a -mere formalist—a man of the world—would at least, to some degree, -understand and perceive how little real guilt there might be even in -such a fault as he had committed. It was not a story which could be -repeated in a woman’s ears; but a man, who knew more or less what was in -man—the momentary lapses, the sudden impulses, the aberrations of -intolerable trouble, sorrow, and despair——. Aubrey did not take into -account the fact that there are some men to whom such a condition as -that into which he himself had fallen in the desolation of his silent -house—when death came a second time within the sad year, and his young -soul felt in the first sensation of despair that he could not bear it; -that he was a man signalled out by fate, to whom it was vain to -struggle, to whom life was a waste and heaven a mockery—was -inconceivable. Colonel Kingsward was certainly not a man like that. He -would have said to himself that the mother being gone it was only a -blessing and advantage that the child should go too, and he would have -withdrawn himself decorously to his London lodgings and his club, and -his friends would all have said that it was on the whole a good thing -for him, and that he was young, and his life still before him. So, -indeed, they had said of Aubrey, and so poor Aubrey had proved for -himself. Had there not been that terrible moment behind him, that -intolerable blackness and midnight of despair, in which any hand that -gripped his could lead him till the light of morning burst upon him, and -showed him whither in his misery he had been led!</p> - -<p>Satisfy other claims? The words blew like a noxious wind through his -brain. He laughed to himself softly as he went along. What claims had he -to satisfy? He had done all that honour and scorn could do to satisfy -the harpy who had dug her claws into his life. Should he try to -propitiate her with other gifts? No, no! That would be but to prolong -the scandal, to give her a motive for continuance, to make it appear -that he was in her power. He was in her power, alas, fatally as it -proved, if it should be so that she had made an end of the happiness of -his life. She had blighted the former chapter of that existence, -bringing out all that was petty in the poor little bride over whom she -had gained so complete an ascendancy, showing her husband Amy’s worst -side, the aspect of her which he might never have known but for that -fatal companion ever near. And now she had ruined him -altogether—ruined him as in old stories the Pamelas of the village were -ruined by a villain who took advantage of their simplicity. What lovely -woman who had stooped to folly could be more ruined than this unhappy -young man? He laughed to himself at this horrible travesty of that old -familiar eighteenth century tale. This was the <i>fin de siecle</i> version -of it, he supposed—the version in which it was the designing woman who -seized upon the moment of weakness and the man who suffered shipwreck of -everything in consequence. There was a horrible sort of ridicule in it -which wrought poor Aubrey almost to madness. When the woman is the -victim, however sorely she may be to blame for her own disgrace, a sort -of pathos and romance is about her, and pity is winged with indignation -against the man who is supposed to have taken advantage of her weakness. -But when it is a man who is the victim! Then the mildest condemnation he -can look for is the coarse laugh of contempt, the inextinguishable -ridicule, to which even in fiction it is too great a risk to expose a -hero. He was no hero—but an unhappy young man fallen into the most -dreadful position in which man could be, shut out of all hope of ever -recovering himself, marked by the common scorn—no ordinary sinner, a -man who had profaned his own home, and all the most sacred prejudices of -humanity. He had felt all that deeply when he rushed from his house, a -man distraught not knowing where he went. And then morning and evening, -and the dews and the calm, and the freshness and elasticity inalienable -from youth had driven despair and horror away. He had felt it at last -impossible that all his life—a life which he desired to live out in -duty and kindness, and devotion to God and man—should be spoiled for -ever by his momentary yielding to a horrible temptation. He had thought -at first that he never could hold up his head again. But gradually the -impression had been soothed away, and he had vainly hoped that such a -thing might be left behind him and might be heard of no more.</p> - -<p>Now he was undeceived—now he was convinced that for what a man does he -must answer, not only at the bar of God, where all the secrets of the -heart are revealed, but also before men. There are times in which the -former judgment is more easy to think of than the latter—for God knows -all, everything that is in favour of the culprit, while men only know -what is against him. A man with sorrow in his heart for all his -shortcomings, can endure, upon his knees, that all-embracing gaze of -infinite understanding and pity. But to stand before men who -misconstrue, mis-see, misapprehend, how different a thing it is—who do -not know the end from the beginning, to whom the true balance and -perfect poise of justice is almost impossible—who can judge only as -they know, and who can know only the husk and shell of fact, the -external aspect of affairs by the side which is visible to them. All -these thoughts went through Aubrey’s mind as he went listlessly about -those familiar streets in their autumnal quiet, no crowd about, nothing -to interrupt the progress of the wayfarer. He went across the Green -Park, which is brown in the decadence of summer, almost as solitary as -if he had been in his own desolate glades at home. London has a -soothing effect sometimes on such a still, sunny autumn day, when it -seems to rest after the worry and heat and strain of all its frivolity -and folly. The soft haze blurs all the outlines, makes the trees too -dark and the sky too pale; yet it is sunshine and not fog which wraps -the landscape, even that landscape which lies between Pall Mall and -Piccadilly. It soothed our young man a little in the despair of his -thoughts. Surely, surely at eight-and-twenty everything could not be -over. Bee would in a year or two be the mistress of her own actions. She -was not a meek girl, to be coerced by her father. She would judge for -herself in such a dreadful emergency. After all that had passed, the -whole facts of the case would have to be submitted to her, which was a -thought that enveloped him as in flames of shame. Yet she would judge -for herself, and her judgment would be more like that of heaven than -like that of earth. A kind of celestial ray gleamed upon him in this -thought.</p> - -<p>And as for these other claims—well, if any claim were put forth he -would not shrink—would not try to compromise, would not try to hide -his shame under piles of gold. Now he had no motive for concealment, he -would face it out and have the question set straight in the eye of day. -To be sure, for a man to accuse a woman is against the whole -conventional code of honour. To accuse all women is the commonplace of -every day; but to put the blame of seduction upon one is what a man dare -not do save in the solitude of his chamber—or in such a private -inquisition as Aubrey had gone through that day. This is one of the -proofs that there is much to be said on both sides, and that it is the -unscrupulous of either side who has the most power to humble and to -destroy. But the bravado did him good for the moment—let her make her -claim, whatever that claim was, and he would meet it in the face of day!</p> - -<p>Other ideas came rapidly into Aubrey’s mind when he strolled listlessly -into his club, and almost ran against the friend in whose house he had -first met Colonel Kingsward, and through whom consequently all that had -afterwards happened had come about. “Fairfield!” he cried, with a gleam -of sudden hope in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Leigh! You here?—I thought you were philandering on the banks of—some -German river or other. Well! and so I hear I have to congratulate you, -my boy—and I’m sure I do so with all my heart——”</p> - -<p>“You might have done so a week ago, and I should have responded with all -mine. But you see me fallen again on darker days. Fate’s against me, it -seems, in every way.”</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s the matter?” cried his friend. “I expected to see you -triumphant. What has gone wrong? Not settlements already, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Settlements! They are free to make what settlements they like so far as -I am concerned.”</p> - -<p>“Kingsward’s a very cool hand, Aubrey. You may lose your head if you -like, but he always knows what he is about. You are an excellent -match——”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said poor Aubrey, with a laugh. “Not badly off; a mild, -domestic fellow, with no devil in me at all.</p> - -<p>“I should not exactly say that. A man is no man without a spice of the -devil. Why, what’s the matter? Now I look at you, instead of a -victorious lover, you have the most miserable hang-dog——”</p> - -<p>“Hang-dog, that is it—a rope’s end, and all over. Hang it, no! I am not -going to give in. Fairfield, I don’t want to speak disrespectfully of -any woman.”</p> - -<p>“Is it Mrs. Kingsward who is too young, herself, to think of enacting -the part of mother-in-law so soon as this?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Kingsward is a sort of an angel, Fairfield, if it were not -old-fashioned to say so—and, alas, I fear, she will not enact any part -long, which is so much the worse for me.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t say so! That pretty creature, with all her pretty ways, and -her daughter just the same age as she! Poor Kingsward. Aubrey, if a man -shows a little impatience with your raptures in such circumstances, I -don’t think you ought to be hard upon him.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe he knows what are the circumstances, nor any of them. -It is not from that cause, Fairfield. You know Miss Lance, poor Amy’s -friend——”</p> - -<p>Once more he grew hot all over as he named her name, and turned his face -from his friend’s gaze.</p> - -<p>“Remember her! I should think so, and all you had to bear on that point, -old man. We have often said, Mary and I, that if ever there was a -hero——”</p> - -<p>“Fairfield! they have got up a tale that it was I who kept her at -Forest-leigh against poor Amy’s will, and that my poor wife’s life was -made miserable by my attentions to that fi——.” Fiend he would have -said, but he changed it to “woman,” which meant to him at that moment -the same thing.</p> - -<p>Fairfield stared for a moment—was he taking a new idea into his -commonplace mind? Then he burst into a loud laugh. “You can call the -whole county to bear witness to that,” he cried. “Attentions! Well, I -suppose you were civil, which was really more than anyone expected from -you.”</p> - -<p>“You know, and everybody knows, what a thorn in the flesh it was. My -poor Amy! Without that, there would have been no cloud on our life, and -it all arose from her best qualities, her tender heart, her -faithfulness——”</p> - -<p>A dubious shade came over Fairfield’s face. “Yes, no doubt; and Miss -Lance’s flattery and blandishments. Aubrey, I don’t mind saying it now -that you are well quit of her—that was a woman to persuade a fellow -into anything. I should no more have dared to keep her—especially -after—in my house, and to expose myself to her wiles——”</p> - -<p>“They never were wiles for me,” said Aubrey, again turning his head -away. It was true, true—far more true than the fatal contradiction of -it, which lay upon his heart like a stone. “I never came nearer to -hating any of God’s creatures than that woman. She made my life a burden -to me. She took my wife from me——. She—— I needn’t get dithyrambic -on the subject; you all know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we all know; but you were too soft-hearted. You should have -risked a fit of tears from poor Mrs. Leigh—excuse me for saying so -now—and sent her away.”</p> - -<p>“I tried it a dozen times. Poor Amy would have broken her heart. She -threatened even to go with her. And they say women don’t make -friendships with each other!”</p> - -<p>Fairfield shrugged his shoulders a little. “I suffer myself from my -wife’s friends,” he said; “there’s always some ‘dear Clara’ or other -putting the table out of joint, making me search heaven and earth when -there’s anybody to dinner to find an odd man. But Mary has some——” -Sense, he was going to say, but stopped short. Mrs. Fairfield was one of -those who had concluded long ago that dear Amy was a little goose, taken -sad advantage of by her persistent friend.</p> - -<p>“Fairfield,” said Aubrey, “you could do me a great service if you would. -Colonel Kingsward has just told me that he can’t send out a royal -commission to examine my friends on this subject. You see him sometimes, -I suppose. I know you belong to one of his clubs. Still more, he’s at -his office all the morning, and you know him well enough to look in upon -him there.”</p> - -<p>“Well?” said Fairfield, dubiously.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you stretch a point for my sake, and go—and tell him the real -state of affairs in respect to Miss Lance, and how untrue it is, how -ridiculously untrue, that she was kept at Forest-leigh by any will of -mine? Why, it was a thing, as you have just said, that all the county -knew! An infatuation—and nothing less than the bane of my whole -married life.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know—everybody thought so,” Mr. Fairfield said. That new -idea—was it perhaps germinating faintly in his mind?—no one had -thought of any other explanation, but yet——”</p> - -<p>“If you were only to say so—only as much as that—that all my friends -recognised the state of the case.”</p> - -<p>“I could say that,” said Fairfield, with hesitation. “Don’t think me -unfriendly, Aubrey, but it’s a little awkward for a man to interfere in -another man’s affairs, and it’s not only your affairs that I know so -well, but you see Kingsward’s too——”</p> - -<p>“I am aware of that, Fairfield; still, to break off what I believe in my -heart would be for his daughter’s happiness too——”</p> - -<p>“To be sure there’s the young lady to be taken into consideration,” said -Fairfield, dubiously.</p> - -<p>It will be as well to carry this incident to its completion at once. Mr. -Fairfield at the last allowed himself to be convinced, and he went that -afternoon to the club, to which he still belonged by some early -military experiences, and where Colonel Kingsward was one of those who -ruled supreme. He knew exactly when to find him at the club, where he -strolled in after leaving his office, to refresh himself with a cup of -tea, or something else in its place. The intercessor went up to the -table at which the Colonel sat with the evening paper, and conversed for -a little on the topics of the day. After these had been run over, and -the prospects of war slightly discussed—for Colonel Kingsward had not -much respect for Mr. Fairfield’s opinion on that subject—the latter -gentleman said abruptly—</p> - -<p>“I say, Kingsward, I am very sorry to hear there is some hitch in the -marriage which I was so glad to hear of last week.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, oh! So Leigh has been with you, I presume?” the Colonel replied.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and, upon my life, Colonel, there is not a word of truth in any -talk you may have heard about that Miss Lance——. We all know quite -well the whole business. You should hear Mary on the subject. Of course, -he can’t say to you, poor fellow, that his first wife was a little -queer, and that that woman made her her slave.”</p> - -<p>“No; it wasn’t to be expected that he would tell me that.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s true. She got completely the upper hand of that poor little -thing. The husband had no influence. I believe he hated her—like the -devil.”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said the Colonel, with a strange smile, “yet it is a -curious thing that he endured her all the same, and also that a wife -should insist so in keeping another woman in her husband’s constant -company—and an attractive woman, as I hear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! a devil of a woman,” cried Fairfield. “I was telling Aubrey I -should no more have ventured to expose myself to her blandishments——. -One of those sort of women, you know, that you cannot abide, yet who can -turn you round their little finger.”</p> - -<p>“And what did he say to that?” the Colonel asked, still with that smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he said she never had any charm for him—and I believe it—for what -with poor little Mrs. Leigh’s whims and vagaries, and the other’s -flatteries and adulation and complete empire over her, his life was -made a burden to him. You should hear Mary on that subject—none of the -ladies could keep their patience.”</p> - -<p>“Yet it appears Mr. Aubrey Leigh kept his—— until he got tired,” said -the Colonel. “Believe me, Fairfield, when there is such an unnatural -situation as that, there must be more in it than meets the eye.”</p> - -<p>Fairfield, a good, steady soul, who generally had his ideas suggested to -him, went away very serious from that interview. It was very strange -indeed that a woman should prefer her friend to her husband, and make -things wretched for him in order to keep her comfortable—it was very -curious that with a woman so much superior to Amy in the house, a woman -of the kind that turn men’s heads, that mild Aubrey Leigh, who was not -distinguished for force of character, should have never sought a -moment’s relief with her from poor Mrs. Leigh’s querulousness. Fairfield -accelerated his departure by an hour or two in order not to meet Aubrey -again before he had poured those strange doubts and suggestions into his -own Mary’s ears.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> party of travellers whose progress had hitherto been like that of a -party of pleasure, who had been interested in everything they saw, and -hailed every new place with delight, as if that had been the haven of -all their hopes, travelled home from Cologne in a very different spirit. -For one thing, it could not be concealed that Mrs. Kingsward was ill, -which was a thing that she herself and the whole family stoutly, one -standing by another, had hitherto been able to deny. She had not gone -far, not an hour’s journey, when she had to abandon her seat by the -window—where it had always been her delight to “see the country,” and -point out every village to her children—and lie down upon the temporary -couch which Moulsey prepared for her with shawls and cushions along one -side of the carriage. She cried out against herself as “self-indulgent” -and “lazy,” but she did not resist this arrangement. It effectually took -any pleasure that there might have been out of the journey: for Bee, as -may be supposed, though she was not melancholy, and would not admit, -even to Betty, in the closest confidence, that she was at all afraid of -the ultimate issue, was certainly self-absorbed, and glad not to be -called upon to notice the scenery, but allowed to subside into a corner -with her own thoughts. Charlie was in the opposite corner, exceedingly -glum, and not conversible. Bee would not speak to him or look at him, -and even Betty, that little thing, had said, “Oh, Charlie, how could you -be so nasty to Aubrey?” for her sole salutation that morning. He was not -sure even that his mother, though he had stood on her side and backed -her up, was pleased with him for it. She talked to him, it is true, -occasionally, and made him do little things for her, but rather in the -way in which a mother singles out the pariah of the family, the one who -is boycotted for some domestic offence, to show him that all are not -against him, than in the tone which is used to a champion and defender. -So it was not wonderful that Charlie was glum; but to see him in one -corner, biting or trying to bite the few hairs that he called his -moustache, with his brows bent down to his chin, and his chin sunk in -the collar of his coat—and Bee in another, very different—indeed, her -face glorified with dreams, and her eyes full of latent light, ready to -flash out at any moment—was not cheerful for the others.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward looked at them from one to another, and at little Betty -between busied in a little book, with that baffled feeling which arises -in the mind of a delicate woman when the strong individualities and -wills of her children become first developed before her, after that time -of their youth when all were guided by her decision, and mamma’s leave -was asked for everything. How fierce, how self-willed, how determined in -his opposition Charlie looked like his father, not to be moved by -anything! And Bee, how possessed by those young hopes of her own, which -the mother knew would be of no avail against the fiat gone forth against -her! Mrs. Kingsward knew her husband better than her children did. She -knew that having taken up his position he would not give in. And Bee, -with all that light of resistance in her eyes—Bee as little willing to -give in as he! The invalid trembled when she thought of the clash of -arms that would resound over her head—of the struggle which would rend -her cheerful house in two. She did not at all realise that the cheerful -days of that house were numbered—that soon it would be reduced into its -elements, as a somewhat clamorous, restless, too energetic brood of -children, with a father very self-willed, who hitherto had known nothing -of them but as happy and obedient creatures, whose individual -determinations concerned games and lessons, and who, so far as the -conduct of life was affected, were of no particular account. Mrs. -Kingsward was not yet aware that this was the dolorous prospect before -her household; she only thought, “How am I to manage them all?” and felt -her heart fail before Charlie’s ill humour and <i>parti pris</i>, and before -the bright defiance in Bee’s eyes. Poor Aubrey, whom she had learned to -look upon as one of her own, half a son, and half a brother—poor -Aubrey, who had gone so wrong, and yet had so many excuses for him, a -victim rather than a seducer—what was happening to Aubrey this fine -September morning? It made her heart sick in her bosom as she thought of -all these newly-raised conflicting powers, and she so little able to -cope with them. If she did not get strong soon, what would all these -children do? Charlie would go back to college, and would be out of it. -He had so strong a will, and was so determined to get on, that little -harm would happen to him—and besides, he was entirely in accord with -his father, which was a great matter. But Bee—Bee! It seemed to Mrs. -Kingsward that it was on the cards that Bee might take matters into her -own hands, and run away with her lover, if her father would not yield. -What else was there for these young creatures? Mrs. Kingsward knew that -she herself would have done so in the circumstances had <i>her</i> lover -insisted; and she knew that he would no more have consented to such a -sentence—never, never!—than he had done to anything he disliked all -his life. And Bee was like him, though she had never hitherto been -anything but an obedient child. Mrs. Kingsward could not help picturing -to herself, as she lay there, the elopement—Bee’s room found empty in -the morning, the note left on the table, the so easy, so certain -explanation, which already she felt herself to be reading. And then her -husband’s wrath, his unalterable verdict on the criminal “never to enter -this house again!” Poor mother! She foresaw, as we all do, tortures for -herself, which she was never to be called upon to bear.</p> - -<p>As for Betty, it was the most tiresome journey in all her little -experiences. A long journey was generally fun to Betty. The scuffle of -getting away, of seeing that all the little packets were right, of -abusing Moulsey for hiding away the luncheon basket under the rugs and -the books in some locked bag, the trouble of securing a compartment, -arranging umbrellas and other things in the vacant seats to make believe -that every place was full, the watch at every station to prevent the -intrusion of strangers, the running from one side to another to see the -pretty village or old castle, or the funny people at the country -stations and the queer names—the luncheon in the middle of the day, -which was as good as a pic-nic—all these things much diverted Betty, -who loved the rapid movement through the air, and to feel the wind on -her face; but none of these delights were to be had to-day. She was in -one of the middle places, between Charlie, so glum and in a temper, and -Bee, lost in her own thoughts and without a word to say, and opposite to -mamma, who was so much more serious than usual, giving little Betty a -smile from time to time, but not able to speak loud enough to be heard -through the din of the train. She tried to read her book but it was not -a very interesting book, and it was short too, and evidently would not -last out half the journey. Betty was the only member of the party who -had a free mind. The commotion of the romance between Bee and Aubrey had -been pure amusement to her. It would be a bore if it did not end in a -speedy marriage, with all the excitement of the presents, the -trousseau, the dresses (especially the bridesmaids’ dresses), the -wedding day itself, the increased dignity of Betty as Miss Kingsward, -the pleasure of talking of “my married sister,” the pleasure of visiting -Bee, in her own house, and sharing all her grandeur as a county lady. To -miss all this would be a real trial, but Betty had confidence in the -fitness of things, and felt it was impossible that she should miss all -this. And she was at ease in her little mind, and the present dreariness -of this unamusing, unattractive journey hung all the more heavy upon her -consciousness now.</p> - -<p>They arrived next day, having slept at Brussels to break the journey for -Mrs. Kingsward, and the Colonel met them, as in duty bound, at Victoria. -He gave Charlie his hand, and allowed Bee and Betty to kiss him, but his -whole attention, as was natural, was for his wife.</p> - -<p>“You look dreadfully tired,” he said, with that half-tone of offence in -which a man shows his disappointment at the aspect of an invalid. “You -must have been worried on the journey to look so tired.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I have not been at all worried on the journey—they have all -been so good, sparing me every fatigue; but it is a tiresome long way, -Edward, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course, I know: but I never saw you look so tired before.” He -cast a reproachful look round upon the young people, who were all ready -to stand on the defensive. “You must have bothered your mother to -death,” he said. “I am sorry I did not come out for her myself—undoing -all the effect of her cure.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you will see, I shall be all right when I get home,” Mrs. Kingsward -said, cheerfully. “As for the children, Edward, they have all been as -good as gold.”</p> - -<p>“You had better see to the luggage and bring your sisters home in a cab. -I can’t let mamma hang about here,” said the Colonel, in his peremptory -way. “Moulsey will come with us. I suppose you three have brains enough -to manage by yourselves?”</p> - -<p>Thus insulting his grown-up children, among whom a flame of indignation -lighted up, partially burning away their difficulties between -themselves, Colonel Kingsward half carried his wife to the carriage. “I -thought at first I should have waited at Kingswarden till you came back. -I am glad I changed my mind and came back to Harley Street,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it to Harley Street we are going?” said Mrs. Kingsward, faintly. -“I had rather hoped for the country, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t look much like another twenty miles of a journey,” said her -husband.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps not. I own I shall be glad to be quiet,” the poor lady -said. What he wished had always turned out after a moment to be just -what his wife wished for all the years of their union. She even meekly -accepted the fact that the children—the nursery children, as they were -called—the little ones, who were no trouble but only a refreshment and -delight, would have been too much for her that first night. Secretly, -she had been looking forward to the touch and sight of her placid -smiling baby as the one thing that would do her good—and all those -large wet kisses of Johnny and Tommy and Lucy and little Margaret, and -the burst of delighted voices at the sight of mamma. “Yes, I believe it -would have been too much for me,” she said, with a look aside at -Moulsey, who, as on many a previous occasion, would dearly have loved to -box her master’s ears. “And I <i>do</i> believe it would have been too much -for me,” Mrs. Kingsward added, when that confidential attendant put her -to bed.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it would, ma’am,” Moulsey said. “They would have made a noise, -bless them—and baby will not go to anyone when he sees me—and -altogether I shall be more fit for them, Moulsey, after a good night’s -rest——”</p> - -<p>“If you get that, you poor dear,” said Moulsey, under her breath. But -her mistress did not hear that remark any more than many others which -Moulsey made in her own mind, always addressed to that mistress whom she -loved. “If he said dying would be good for you, you would say you were -sure of it, and that was what you wanted most,” the maid said within -herself.</p> - -<p>It must not, however, be supposed from this that Colonel Kingsward was -not a good husband. He had always been like a lover, though a somewhat -peremptory one, to his wife. And without him her young, gay, -pleasure-loving ways, her love of life and amusement might have made her -a much less successful personage, and not the example of every virtue -that she was. Had Mrs. Kingsward had the upper hand, the family would -have been a very different family, and its career probably a very -broken, tumultuous, happy-go-lucky career. It was that strong hand which -had controlled and guided her, which had been, as people say, the making -of Mrs. Kingsward; and though she feared his severity in the present -crisis, she yet felt the most unspeakable relief from the baffled, -helpless condition in which she had looked at her children, feeling -herself all unable to cope with them in the presence of papa.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if he thinks we are cabbages,” was Bee’s indignant exclamation -as he turned his back upon them.</p> - -<p>“Apparently,” said Charlie, coming a little out of his sullenness. “Look -here, you girls, get into this omnibus—happily we’ve got an -omnibus—with the little things, while I go to the Custom House to get -the luggage through.”</p> - -<p>“Betty, you get in,” said Bee. “I will go with you, Charlie, for I have -got mamma’s keys.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you give them to me?” Charlie cast a gloomy look about, thinking -that Leigh might perhaps be somewhere awaiting a word, a thought which -now for the first time traversed Bee’s mind, too.</p> - -<p>“Then, Betty, you had better go with him, for he doesn’t know half the -boxes,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you can come yourself if you like,” said Charlie, feeling in that -case that this was the safest arrangement after all.</p> - -<p>“No, Betty had better go. Betty, you know Moulsey’s box and that new -basket that mamma brought me before we left the Baths.”</p> - -<p>“Come along yourself, quick, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“No, I shall stop in the omnibus.”</p> - -<p>“When you have made up your minds,” cried Betty, who had slipped out of -the vehicle at the first word. Betty thought it would be more fun to go -through the Custom House than to wait all the time cooped up here.</p> - -<p>And Bee had her reward; for Aubrey was there, waiting at a distance -till the matter was settled. “I should have risked everything and come, -even if the penalty had been a quarrel with Charlie,” Aubrey said, “but -I must not quarrel with anyone if I can help it. We shall have hard work -enough without that.”</p> - -<p>“You have seen papa?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have seen him: but I have not done myself much good, I fear,” -said Aubrey, shaking his head. “Bee, you won’t give me up whatever they -may say?”</p> - -<p>“Give you up? Never, Aubrey, till you give me up!”</p> - -<p>“Then all is safe, my darling. However things look now they can’t hold -out for ever. Lies must be found out, and then—in time—you will be -able to act for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think papa will stand to it like that, Aubrey?”</p> - -<p>Aubrey shook his head. He did not make any reply.</p> - -<p>“Tell me. Is it a lie?” she said.</p> - -<p>He bent down his head upon her hand, kissing it.</p> - -<p>“Not all,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice. “ I said that—at -Cologne——”</p> - -<p>“I did not understand,” said Bee. “No; it does not matter to me, -Aubrey—not so very much; but if you promised——”</p> - -<p>“I never promised—never! My only thought was to escape——”</p> - -<p>“Then I can’t think what you have done wrong. Aubrey, is she tall, with -dark hair, and beautiful dark eyes, and a way of looking at you as if -she would look you through and through?”</p> - -<p>“Bee!” he said, gripping her fast, as if someone had been about to decoy -her away.</p> - -<p>“And a mouth,” said Bee, “that is very pretty, but looks as if it were -cut out of steel? Then, I have seen her. She sat down by me one day in -the wood, when I was doing that sketch, and gave me such clever hints, -telling me how to finish it, till she made me hate it, don’t you know. -Is she horribly clever, and a good artist? and like that——”</p> - -<p>“Bee! What did that woman say to you?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing very much. Asked me about the people at the hotel, and if there -were any Leighs—not you, she pretended, but the Leighs of Hurst-leigh, -whom she knew. I thought it very strange at the time why she should ask -about the Leighs without knowing anything—and then I forgot all about -it. But to-day it came back to my mind, and I have been thinking of -nothing else. Aubrey—she is older than you are?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And she made you promise to marry her?” said Bee, half unconscious yet -half conscious of that wile of the cross-examiner, coming back to the -point suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Never, Bee, never for one moment in my misery! That I should have to -make such a confession to you!—but there was no promise nor thought of -a promise. I desired nothing—nothing but to escape from her. You don’t -doubt my word, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“No; I don’t doubt anything you say. But I think she is a dreadful woman -to get anybody in her power, Aubrey. My little drawing was for you. It -was the place we first met, and she told me how to do it and make it -look so much better. I am not very clever at it, you know; and then I -hated the very sight of it, and tore it in two. I don’t know why.”</p> - -<p>“I understand why. Bee, you will be faithful to me, whatever you are -told?”</p> - -<p>“Till I die, Aubrey.”</p> - -<p>“And never, never believe that for a moment my heart will change from -you.”</p> - -<p>“Not till I hear it from yourself,” she said, with a woeful smile. The -despair in him communicated itself to her, who had not been despairing -at all.</p> - -<p>“Which will never be—and when you are your own mistress, my -darling——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we shan’t have to wait for that!” she cried, with a burst of her -native energy. “Dear Aubrey, they are coming back; you must go away.”</p> - -<p>“Till we meet again, darling?”</p> - -<p>“Till we meet again!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bee</span> stole into her mother’s room as she went upstairs before that first -dinner at home which used to be such a joyous meal. How they had all -enjoyed it—until now. The ease and space, the going from room to room, -the delight in finding everything with which they were familiar, the -flowers in the vases (never were any such flowers as those at home!), -the incursions of the little ones shouting to each other, “Mamma’s come -home!” Even the little air of disorder which all these interruptions -brought into the orderly house was delightful to the young people. They -looked forward as to an ideal life, to beginning all their usual -occupations again and doing them all better than ever. “Oh, how nice it -is to be at home!” the girls had said to each other. Instead of those -hotel rooms, which at their best are never more than hotel rooms, a -<i>genre</i> not to be mistaken, how delightful was the drawing-room at home, -with all its corners—Bee’s little table where she muddled at her -drawings, mamma’s great basket of needlework where everything could be -thrown under charitable cover, Betty’s stool on which she sat at the -feet of her oracle of the moment, whoever that might be, and all the -little duties to be resumed—the evening papers arranged for papa (as if -he had not seen enough of them in the daytime in his office!), the -flowers to see after, the little notes to write, all the pleasant -common-places of the home life. But to-night, for the first time, dinner -was a silent meal, hurried over—not much better than a dinner at a -railway station, with a sensation in it of being still on the road, of -not having yet reached their destination. The drawing-room was in brown -holland still, for they were all going on to Kingswarden to-morrow. The -house felt formal, uninhabited, as if they had come home to lodgings. -All this was bad enough; but the primary trouble of all was the fact -that mamma was upstairs—gone to bed before dinner, too tired to sit up. -Such a thing had never happened before. However tired she was, she had -always so brightened up at the sensation of coming home.</p> - -<p>And papa, though kind, was very grave. The happiness of getting his -family back did not show in his face and all his actions as it generally -did. Colonel Kingsward was very kind as a father, and very tender as a -husband; the severity of his character showed little at home. His wife -was aware of it, and so were the servants, and Charlie, I think, had -begun to suspect what a hand of iron was covered by that velvet glove. -But the girls had never had any occasion to fear their father. Bee -thought that the additional gravity of his behaviour was owing to -herself and her introduction of a new individual interest into the -family; so that, notwithstanding a touch of indignation, with which she -felt the difference, she was timid and not without a sense of guilt -before her father. Never had she been rebellious or disobedient before; -and she was both now, determined not to submit. This made her -self-conscious and rather silent; she who was always overflowing with -talk and fun and the story of their travels. Colonel Kingsward did not -ask many questions about that. What he did ask was all about “your -mother.”</p> - -<p>“She is not looking so well as when she went away,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, it’s only because she’s so tired,” cried little Betty. Betty -taking upon her to answer papa, to take the responsibility upon her -little shoulders! But Bee felt as if she could not say anything.</p> - -<p>“Do you really think so?” he said, turning to that confident little -speaker—to Betty. As if Betty could know anything about it! But Bee -seemed paralysed and could not speak.</p> - -<p>She stole, as I have said, into her mother’s room on her way upstairs, -but she had hardly time to say a word when papa came in to see if Mrs. -Kingsward had eaten anything, and how she felt now that she was -comfortably established in her own bed. It irritated Bee to feel herself -thus deprived of the one little bit of possible expansion, and stirred -her spirit. With her cheek to her mother’s, she said in her ear, “Mamma, -I saw Aubrey at the station,” with a thrill of pleasure and defiance in -saying that, though secretly, in her father’s presence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a faint cry of alarm.</p> - -<p>“And he told me,” continued Bee, breathless in her whisper, “that papa -was firm against us.”</p> - -<p>“Bee! Bee!”</p> - -<p>“And we promised each other we should never, never give up, whatever -anyone might say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, child, how dare you, how dare you?” Mrs. Kingsward said.</p> - -<p>How Bee’s heart beat! What an enlivening, inspiriting strain of -opposition came into her mind, making her cheeks glow and her eyes -flame! The whisper was, perhaps, a child’s device, perhaps a woman’s -weakness, but it exhilarated her beyond description to say all this in -the very presence of her father. There was a sensation of girlish -mischief in it as well as defiance, which relieved all the heavier -sentiments that had weighed down her heart.</p> - -<p>“What are you saying to your mother, Bee? She must not be disturbed. Run -away and let her rest. If we are to go back to Kingswarden to-morrow she -must get all the rest that is possible now.”</p> - -<p>“I was never the one to disturb mamma,” said Bee, bestowing another kiss -on her mother’s cheek.</p> - -<p>“Oh, be a good child, Bee!” pleaded Mrs. Kingsward, almost without -sound; for by this time the Colonel was hovering over the bed, with a -touch of suspicion, wondering what was going on between these two.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma dear, always,” said Bee, aloud.</p> - -<p>“What is she promising, Lucy? And what were you saying to her? Bee -should know better at her age than to disturb you with talk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, Edward. She was only giving me a kiss, and I told her to -be a good child—as I am always doing; thinking to be heard, you know, -for so much speaking,” the mother said, with a soft laugh.</p> - -<p>“Bee has always been a sufficiently good child. I don’t think you need -trouble yourself on that point. The thing is for you to get well, my -dear, and keep an easy mind. Don’t trouble about anything; leave all -that to me, and try and think a little about yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I always do, Edward,” she said with a smile.</p> - -<p>He shook his head, but agitation had brought a colour to her cheeks, and -to persuade one’s-self that it is only fatigue that makes a beloved face -look pale is so easy at first, before any grave alarm has been roused. -Yet, Colonel Kingsward’s mind was not an easy one that night. He was <i>au -fond</i>, a severe man, very rigid as to what he thought his duty, taking -life seriously on the whole. His young wife, who loved pleasure, had -made him far more a man of society than was natural or indeed pleasing -to him; but he had thus got into that current which it is so difficult -to get out of without a too stern withdrawal, and his large young family -had warmed his heart and dressed his aspect in many smiles and graces -which did not belong to him by nature. The mixture of the rigid and the -yielding had produced nothing but good effects upon his character till -now. But there is no telling what a man is till the first conflict of -wills arises in his own household. Hitherto there had been nothing of -the kind. His children had amused him and pleased him and made him -proud. Their health, their prettiness, their infantile gaiety and -delight in every favour accorded to them had been all so many tributes -to his own supreme influence and power. Their very health was a standing -compliment to his own health and vigour, from whom they took their -excellent constitutions, and to the wonderful care and attention to -every law of health which he enforced in his house. Not a drain escaped -trapping, not a gas was left undisposed of where Colonel Kingsward was. -He had every new suggestion in his nursery that sanitary science could -bring up. “And look at the result!” he was in the habit of saying. Not a -pale face, not a headache, not an invalid member there. And among the -children he was as the sun in his splendour. Every delight rayed out -from him. The hour of his coming home was watched for; it was the -greatest treat for the little boys to go in the dogcart with Simmons, -the groom, to fetch papa from the station, while the others assembled at -the door as at a daily celebration to see him arrive. Charlie was now a -man grown, but he was a good boy, full of all right impulses, and there -had never been any difficulty with him.</p> - -<p>Thus Colonel Kingsward had been kept from all knowledge of those -contrarieties of nature which appear even in the most favoured regions. -He was of opinion that he surrounded his wife with every care, bore -everything for her, did not suffer the winds of heaven to visit her -cheek too roughly. And it was true. But he was not at all aware that she -saved him anything, or that his joyful omnipotence and security from -every fret and all opposition depended upon her more than on anything -else in the world. He did not know the little inevitable jars which she -smoothed away, the youthful wills growing into individuality which she -kept in check. Which was a pity, for the strong man was thus deprived of -the graces of precaution, and knew no more than the merest weakling -what, as his children grow into men and women, every man has to face and -provide against. If Colonel Kingsward was too arbitrary, too trenchant -in his measures, too certain that there was no will but his own to be -taken into account, the blame must thus be partially laid upon those -natural fictions of boundless love and duty and sweet affectionate -submission, which grow up in the nursery and reign as long as childhood -lasts—until a more potent force of self or will or love, comes in to -put the gentle dream to flight.</p> - -<p>It was thus that Colonel Kingsward considered the matter about Bee. It -had been, of course, necessary to cross Bee two or three times in her -life before. It had been necessary, or at least he had thought it -necessary, to send her to school; it had been thought expedient to keep -her back a year longer than she wished from appearing in the world. -These decisions had cost tears and a little struggle, but in a few days -Bee had forgotten all about them—or so, at least, her father thought. -And a lover—at nineteen—what was that but another plaything, a -novelty, a compliment, such as girls love? How could it mean anything -more serious? Why, Bee was a child—a little girl, an ornamental adjunct -to her mother, a sort of reflection, not to be detached for a long time -from that source of all that was delightful in her. Colonel Kingsward -had felt with a delighted surprise that the child and the mother did -“throw up” each other when he began to go out with them together. Bee’s -young beauty showing what mamma’s had been, and Mrs. Kingsward’s beauty -(so much higher and sweeter than any girl’s wild-rose bloom could be) -showing what in the after days her child would grow to. To cut these two -asunder for a stranger—another man, an intruding personality thrusting -himself between the child and her natural allegiance—was oppressive in -any shape. At the first word, indeed, and in the amusement furnished him -by the letters that had been poured upon him, Colonel Kingsward’s -consent had been given almost without thought. Aubrey Leigh was a good -match, he had a fine place, a valuable estate, and was well spoken of -among men. If Lucy was so absurd as to wish her daughter to marry; if -Bee, the silly child, was so foolish as to think of leaving her father’s -house for another, that was probably as good a one as she could have -chosen. I don’t know if fathers generally feel it a sort of desecration -when their young daughters marry. Some fathers do, and some brothers, as -if the creature pure by nature from all such thoughts were descending to -a lower place, and becoming such an one as themselves. Colonel Kingsward -was not, perhaps, visionary enough for such a view, yet he was slightly -shocked in his sentiment about the perfection of his own house by this -idea on his child’s part of leaving it for another. However, it was true -he had a very large family, and to provide so well for one of them at -the very outset of her career was a thing which was not to be despised.</p> - -<p>But when the second chapter of this romance, all so simple, so natural -in its first phase, opened out, and there appeared a dark passage -behind—a woman wronged who had a claim upon the man, a story, a -scandal—whether it were true or untrue!—Colonel Kingsward, in his -knowledge of the world, knew that it did not so much matter whether a -story was true or untrue. It stuck, anyhow; and years, generations -after, when, if false, it had been contradicted and exploded, and -acknowledged to be false, people still would shake their heads and say, -“Wasn’t there some story?” For this reason he was not very rigid about -the facts, part of which, at least, the culprit admitted. There was a -woman and there was a story, and all the explanations in the world could -not do away with these. What did it matter about the man? He, Colonel -Kingsward, was not Aubrey Leigh’s keeper. And as for Bee, there would be -some tears, no doubt, as when she was sent to school—a little passion -of disappointment, as when she was kept back for a whole year, from -seventeen to eighteen, in her “coming out”—but the tears and the -passion once over, things would go on the same as before. The little -girl would go back to her place, and all would be well.</p> - -<p>This was the man’s delusion, and perhaps it was a natural one, and he -was conscious of wishing to do the best thing for her, of saving her -from the after tortures which a wife has to endure whose husband has -proclivities towards strange women, and capabilities of being “led -away.” That was a risk that he could understand much better than she -could, at her age. The fellow might be proud of her, small blame to -him—he might strive to escape from disgraceful entanglements by such an -exceptionable connection as that of Colonel Kingsward, of Kingswarden, -Harley Street, and the Intelligence Department; he might be very much in -earnest and all that. He did not altogether blame the man; indeed, he -was willing enough to allow that he was not a bad fellow, and that he -was popular among his friends.</p> - -<p>But these were not enough in the case of a girl like Bee. And it was -certainly for her good that her father was acting. She had known the man -a month, what could he be to her in so short a time? This is the most -natural of questions, constantly asked, and never finding any sufficient -answer. Why should a girl in three or four weeks be so changed in all -her thoughts as to be ready to give up her father’s house, the place in -which she has all her associations, the company in which she has been -so happy, and go away to the end of the world, perhaps with a man whom -she has known only for a month? It is the commonest thing in the world, -but also the most mysterious, and Colonel Kingsward refused to believe -in it, as so many other fathers have done. Bee would cry, and her mother -would console her. She would fly into a childish passion, and struggle -against her fate—for a few days. She would swear that she would never, -never give up that new plaything, and the joy of parading it before the -other girls, who perhaps had not such toys to play with—but all that -nonsense would give way in a little to firm guidance and considerate -care, and the fresh course of amusement and pleasure which the winter -would bring.</p> - -<p>The winter is by no means barren to those who spend it habitually in -town. It has many distractions. There is the theatre, there are -Christmas gatherings without number, there are new dresses also to be -got for the same, perhaps a pretty new bonnet or two thrown in by a -penitent father, very sorry even in his own interests to give his -little girl pain. If all these pleasant things could not make up for the -loss of a man—of doubtful character, too—whom she had only known for a -month, Colonel Kingsward felt that it would be a strange thing indeed, -and altogether beyond his power to explain.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not possible, however, to remove Mrs. Kingsward to Kingswarden -next day. She was too much fatigued even to leave her bed, and the -doctor who came to see her, her own familiar doctor who had sent her to -Germany to the celebrated bath, looked a little grave when he saw the -condition in which she had come home. “No fatigue, no excitement,” was -what he enjoined. She was to have nothing to excite, nothing to disturb -her—to go to the country? Oh, yes, but not for some days. To see the -children? Certainly, the children could not be kept from their mother; -but all in moderation, with great judgment, not too long at a time, not -too often. And above all she must not be worried. Nothing must be done, -nothing said to cross or vex her. When he heard from the Colonel a very -brief and studiously subdued version of a little family business which -had disturbed her—“I need not keep any secrets from you, doctor. The -fact is that someone wanted to marry my girl Bee, and that I made some -discoveries about him which obliged me to withdraw my consent.” The -doctor formed his lips into a whistle, to which he did not give vent. -“That accounts for it,” he said.</p> - -<p>“That accounts for—what?” cried Colonel Kingsward, not without -irritation.</p> - -<p>“For the state in which I find her. And mind my words, Kingsward, you’d -better let your girl marry anybody that isn’t a blackguard than risk -that sort of shock with your wife. Never forget that her life—— I mean -to say that she’s very delicate. Don’t let her be worried—stretch a -point—have things done as she wishes. You will find it pay best in the -end.”</p> - -<p>“For once you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Colonel -Kingsward; “my wife is not a woman who has ever been set upon having her -own way.”</p> - -<p>“Let her have it this time,” said the doctor, “and you’ll never repent -it. If she wants Bee to marry, let her marry. Bee is a dear little -thing, but her mother, Kingsward, her mother—is of far more consequence -to you than even she—”</p> - -<p>“That is a matter of course,” said Colonel Kingsward. “Lucy is of more -importance to me than all the world beside; but neither must I neglect -the interests of my child.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother the child,” cried the doctor, “let her have her lover; the -mother is what you must think of now.”</p> - -<p>“You seem tremendously in earnest, Southwood.”</p> - -<p>“So I am—tremendously in earnest. And don’t you work your mind on the -subject, but do what I say.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that my wife is in a—state of danger?”</p> - -<p>“I mean that she must be kept from worry—she must not be -contradicted—things must not be allowed to go contrary to her wishes. -Poor little Bee! I don’t say you are to let her marry a blackguard. But -don’t worry her mother about it—that is the chief thing I’ve got to -say.”</p> - -<p>“No, I shan’t worry her mother about it,” said the Colonel, shutting his -mouth closely as if he were locking it up. When Dr. Southwood was gone, -however, he stopped the two girls who were lingering about to know the -doctor’s opinion, and detaching Betty’s arm from about Bee’s waist drew -his eldest daughter into his study and shut the door. “I want to speak -to you, Bee,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa.” In this call to her alone to receive some communication, -Bee, as may be imagined, jumped to a conclusion quite different from -what her father intended, and almost for the moment forgot mamma.</p> - -<p>“The doctor tells me that above everything your mother must be kept from -worry. Do you understand? In the circumstances it is extremely important -that you should know this.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she cried, half in indignation half in disappointment, “do you -think that I would worry her—in any circumstances?”</p> - -<p>“I think that girls of your age often think that no affairs are so -important as your own, and it is very likely that you may be of that -opinion, and I wish you to know what the doctor says.”</p> - -<p>“Is mamma—very ill?” Bee asked, bewildered.</p> - -<p>“He does not say so—only that she is not to be fretted or contradicted, -or disturbed about anything. I feel it necessary to warn you, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Why me above the rest?” she cried. “Am I likely to be the one to worry -mamma?”</p> - -<p>“The others have no particular affairs of their own to worry her with. -There must be no private talks, no discussions, no endeavours to get her -upon what you may suppose to be your side.”</p> - -<p>Bee gave her father a glance of fire, but she felt that a little -prudence was necessary, and kept the tumult of feeling which was within -her as much as possible in her own breast. “I have always talked to -mamma of everything that was in my mind,” she said, piteously. “I don’t -know how I am to stop. She would wonder so if I stopped talking; and how -can I talk to her except of things that are in my mind?”</p> - -<p>“You must learn,” said the Colonel, “to think of her more than of -yourself.” He did not at all mean to prescribe to her a course of -conduct more elevated than that he meant to pursue himself, but then it -was only in action that he meant to carry out his purposes, he was not -afraid of committing himself in speech.</p> - -<p>Bee looked at him again with a gaze that asked a great many questions, -but she only answered, “I will try my very best, papa.”</p> - -<p>“If you do, I am sure you will succeed, my dear,” he said, in a gentler -tone.</p> - -<p>“Is that all?” she asked, hesitating.</p> - -<p>“That is all I want with you just now.”</p> - -<p>Bee turned away towards the door, and then she paused and made a step -back.</p> - -<p>“Papa!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Would you mind telling me—I will not say a word to her—but oh, please -tell me—”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said the Colonel. He went to his writing table, and -sitting down began to turn over his papers. His tone was slightly -impatient, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Papa, you must know what it is. I know that you have seen—Mr. Leigh!”</p> - -<p>“How do you know anything about it? What have you to do with whom I have -seen? Run away. I do not mean to enter into any explanations on this -subject with you.”</p> - -<p>“Then with whom will you enter into explanations? You cannot speak to -mamma; she must not be worried. Papa, I am not a little girl now, to be -told to run away.”</p> - -<p>“You seem to be determined not to lose a moment in telling me so.”</p> - -<p>“I should not have told you so,” said Bee, looking at him over the high -back of his writing-table, “if you had not told me I was not to talk to -mamma.”</p> - -<p>He looked up at her, and their eyes met; both of them keenly, fiercely -blue, lit up with fires of combat. It is often imagined that blue eyes -are the softest eyes—but not by those who are acquainted with the kind -which belonged to the Kingswards, which might have been called -sapphires, if sapphires ever flash and cut the air as diamonds do. They -were not either so dark as sapphires—they were like nothing but -themselves, two pairs of blue eyes that might have been made to order, -so like were they to each other, and both blazing across that table as -if they would have set the house on fire.</p> - -<p>“That’s an excellent point,” he said. “I can’t deny it. What made you so -terrifically clever all at once?”</p> - -<p>There is nothing more stinging than to be called clever in the midst of -a discussion. Bee’s eyes seemed to set fire to her face, at least, which -flashed crimson upon her father’s startled sight.</p> - -<p>“When one has someone else to think of, someone’s interests to take care -of——”</p> - -<p>“Which are your own interests—and vastly more important than anything -which concerns your father and mother.”</p> - -<p>“I never said so—nor thought so, papa—but if they are different from -yours, that’s no reason,” said Bee, bold in words but faltering in -manner, “is it, why I should not think of them, if, as you say, they’re -my own interests, papa?”</p> - -<p>“You are very bold, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“What am I to do if I have no one to speak for me? Papa, Aubrey——”</p> - -<p>“I forbid you to speak with such familiarity of a man whom you have -nothing to do with, and whom you scarcely know.”</p> - -<p>“Papa, Aubrey—” cried Bee, with astonishment.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward jumped up from his table in a fury of impatience. “How -dare you come and besiege me here in my own room with your Aubrey?—a -man whom you have not known a month; a stranger to the family.”</p> - -<p>“Papa, you must let me speak. You allowed me to be engaged to him. If -you had said ‘no’ at first, there might, perhaps, have been some reason -in it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—some reason!” he repeated, with an angry laugh.</p> - -<p>“Yes, for even then it was not your own happiness that was in question. -It was I, after all, that was to marry him.”</p> - -<p>“And you think that is a reason for defying me?”</p> - -<p>“It is always said to be a reason—not for defying anybody—but for -standing up for what you call my own interests, papa—when they are -somebody else’s interests as well. You said we might be engaged—and we -were. And how can I let anyone, even you, say he is a stranger? He is my -<i>fiancé</i>. He is betrothed to me. We belong to each other. Whatever -anyone may say, that is the fact,” cried Bee, very rapidly, to get it -all out before she was interrupted.</p> - -<p>“It is not at all a cheerful or pleasant fact—if it changes my little -Bee, whom I thought I knew, to this flushed and brazen woman, fighting -for her——. Go, child, and don’t make an exhibition of yourself. Your -mother’s daughter! It is not credible—to assault me, your father, in my -own room, for the sake of——”</p> - -<p>“Papa! don’t you remember that it is said in the Bible you are not to -provoke your children to wrath? Mamma would have stood up for you, I -suppose, when she was engaged to you. I may be flushed,” cried Bee, -putting her hands to her blazing cheeks, “how could I help it? Forced to -talk to you, to ask you—on a subject that gives you a right to speak to -me, your own child, like that——”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think I have a right to speak as the circumstances demand -to my own child,” said the Colonel, cooling down; “but why you should -be forced, as you say, to take up such an unbecoming and unwomanly -position is beyond my guessing.”</p> - -<p>“It is because I have no longer mamma to speak for me,” Bee said.</p> - -<p>The creature was not without skill. Now she came back to the point that -was not to be gainsaid.</p> - -<p>“We have had quite enough of this,” Colonel Kingsward replied. “Your -mother, as you are quite aware, never set up her will against mine. She -was aware, if you are not, that I knew the world better than she did, -and was more competent to decide. Your mother would never have stood up -to me as you have done.”</p> - -<p>“It would have been better, perhaps, sometimes, if she had,” cried Bee, -carried away by the tide of her excitement. Colonel Kingsward was so -astounded that he had scarcely power to be angry. He gazed at his -excited child with a surprise that was beyond words.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, papa! Forgive me! I never meant that; it came out before I -was aware.”</p> - -<p>“The thought must have been there or it could not have come out,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; there was no thought there. It may be so with you, but not with -us, papa. Words come into our mouths. We don’t think them; we don’t mean -to say—they only seem to—hook on to—something that went before; and -then they come out with a crash. Oh, forgive me, forgive me, papa!”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” he said, with a half laugh, “that may be taken as a woman’s -exposition of her own style of argument.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call me a woman,” she said, with her soft small voice, aggrieved -and wounded, drawing closer to him. “Oh, papa! I am only your little -girl after all.”</p> - -<p>“A naughty little girl,” he said, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“And without mamma to speak for me,” added Bee.</p> - -<p>The Colonel laughed aloud. “You wily little natural lawyer!” he said; -but immediately became very grave, for underneath this burst of half -angry amusement Bee had given him a shock she did not know of. All -unaware of the edge of the weapons which she used with a certain -instinctive deftness, it did not occur to her that these words of hers -might penetrate not only deeper than she thought, but far deeper than -her own thoughts had ever gone. His wife’s worn face seemed suddenly to -appear before Colonel Kingsward’s eyes in a light which he had never -seen before, and the argument which this child used so keenly, yet so -ignorantly, pierced him like a knife. “Without mamma to speak for me!” -These words sounded very simple to Bee, a mischievous expedient to trap -him in the snare he had laid for her. But if the time should ever come -when they should be true! The Colonel was struck down by that arrow -flown at a venture. He went back to his table subdued, and sat down -there. “That will do,” he said, “that will do. Now run away and leave me -to my work, Bee.”</p> - -<p>She came up to him and gave him a timid kiss, which the Colonel accepted -quietly in the softening of that thought. She roamed about the table a -little, flicking off an imperceptible speck of dust with her -handkerchief, arranging some books upon the upper shelf of his bureau, -sometimes looking at him over that row of books, sometimes lingering -behind him as if doing something there. He did not interfere with her -movements for a few minutes, in the <i>attendrissement</i> of his thoughts. -Without a mother to speak for her! Poor little girl, if that should ever -be so! Poor little children unconscious in their nursery crying for -mamma; and, oh, worse than all, himself without his Lucy, who had made -all the world sweet to him! He was a masterfull man, who would stand to -his arms in any circumstances, who would not give in even if his heart -was broken; but what a strange, dull, gloomy world it would be to him if -the children had no mother to speak for them! He made a sudden effort to -shake off that thought, and the first thing that recalled him to himself -was to hear Bee, having no other mischief, he supposed, to turn her hand -to, heaping coals upon the little bit of fire which had been lighted for -cheerfulness only.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” he cried, “are you still there? What are you doing? The room is -like an oven already, and you are making up a sort of Christmas fire.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so sorry—I forgot,” cried Bee, putting down the shovel -hastily. “I thought it wanted mending—for you always like a good fire.”</p> - -<p>“Not in September,” he said, “and such weather; the finest we have had -since July. Come, cease this fluttering about—you disturb me—and I -have a hundred things to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa.” Bee’s little figure stole from behind him in the meekest -way. She stopped in her progress towards the door to give a touch to the -flowers on a side table; and then she went slowly on, going out. She had -got her hand upon the handle of the door, and Colonel Kingsward thanked -heaven he had got rid of her for the moment, when she turned round, -eyeing him closely again though keeping by that means of escape. “Papa,” -she said, softly, “after all the talk we have been having—you perhaps -don’t remember that—you have never—answered my question yet.”</p> - -<p>“What question?” he said sharply.</p> - -<p>Bee put her hands together like a child, she looked at him beseechingly, -coaxingly, like that child returning to its point, and then she said -still more softly, “About Aubrey, dear papa!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I will</span> not attempt to follow in detail the course of that autumn. It was -a fine season, and Mrs. Kingsward was taken to her home in the country -and recovered much of her lost health in the serene ending of the month -and the bright days of October, which was a model October—everything -that month ought to be. The trees had scarcely begun to take any -autumnal colouring upon them when they reached Kingswarden—a house -which stood among the Surrey hills; an old house placed not as modern -houses are, pitched upon hillsides, or at points where there is “a -view.” The old Kingswards had been moved by no such ridiculous modern -sentiments. They had planted their mansion in a sheltered spot, where it -would be safe from the winds that range over the country and all the -moorland heights. The gates opened upon a wild country road with an -extravagant breadth of green pathway and grassy bank on either -side—enough to have made a farmer swear, but very pleasant to the eye -and delightful to a horse’s feet, as well as to the pedestrians, whether -they were tramps or tourists, who walked or rode on bicycles—the latter -class only—from London to Portsmouth. The house was old, red, and -straggling, covered with multitudes of creepers. Sheets of purple -clematis—the Jackmanni, if anybody wishes to know; intolerable name for -such a royal garment of blossom—covered half-a-dozen corners, hanging -down in great brilliant wreaths over old ivy and straggling Virginia -creeper and the strong stalks of the climbing roses, which still bore -here and there a flower. Other sheets of other flowers threw themselves -about in other places as if at their own sweet will, especially the wild -exuberance of the Traveller’s Joy; though I need not say that this -wildness was under the careful eye of the gardener, who would not let it -go too far. I cannot attempt to tell how many other pleasant and -fragrant and flowery things there were which insisted on growing in that -luxurious place, even to the fastidious Highland creeper, which in that -autumn season was the most gay, luxuriant, and delightful of all. The -flowers abounded like the children, not to be checked, as healthy and as -brilliant, in the fine, peaty soil and pure air. The scent of the -mignonette, which in this late season straggled anywhere, seemed to fill -half the country round. The borders were crowned with those autumn -flowers which make up as well as they can for their want of sweetness by -lavish wealth of colour—the glowing single dahlias, which this -generation has had the good sense to re-capture from Nature after the -quilled and rosetted artificial things which the gardeners had -manufactured out of them, and the fine scarlet and blue of the salvias, -and the glory of all those golden tribes of the daisy kind that now make -our borders bright, instead of the old sturdy red geranium, which once -sufficed for all the supplies of autumn, an honest servant but a poor -lord. I prefer the sweetness of the Spring, when every flower has a soul -in it, and breathes it all about in the air, that is full of hope. But -as it cannot always be Spring, that triumph of bright hues is something -to mask the face of winter with until the time when the tortured and -fantastic chrysanthemum reigns alone.</p> - -<p>This was the sort of garden they had at Kingswarden; not shut off in a -place by itself, but bordering all the lawns, which were of the velvet -it takes centuries to perfect. The immediate grounds sloped a little to -the south, and beyond them was a very extensive, if somewhat flat, -prospect, ending on the horizon in certain mild blue shadows which were -believed to be hills. There was not much that could be called a park at -Kingswarden. The few farms which Colonel Kingsward possessed pressed his -little circle of trees rather close; but as long as the farms were let -the family felt they could bear this. It gave them a comfortable feeling -of modest natural wealth and company; the yeomen keeping the squire -warm, they in their farmsteadings, he in the hall.</p> - -<p>And the autumn went on in its natural course, gaining colour as it began -to lose its greenness and the days their warmth. The fruit got all -gathered in after the corn, the apple trees that had been such a sight, -every bough bent down with its balls of russet or gold, looked shabby -and worn, their season done, the hedges ran over with their harvest, -every kind of wild berry and feathery seedpod, wild elderberries, hips -and haws, the dangerous unwholesome fruit of the nightshade, the -triumphant wreaths of bryony of every colour, green, crimson, and -purple. The robins began to appear about Kingswarden, hopping about the -lawns, and coming very near the dining-room windows after breakfast, -when the little tribe of the nursery children had their accustomed -half-hour with mamma, and delighted in nothing so much as to crumble the -bread upon the terrace and tempt the redbreasts nearer and nearer. When, -quite satisfied and comforted about his wife’s looks, Colonel Kingsward -went off to the shooting, this little flock of children trailed after -mamma wherever she went, a little blooming troop. By this time Charlie -had gone back to Oxford, and the little ones liked to have the run of -the lawns outside and the sitting rooms within, with nothing more -alarming than Betty to keep them in order. It is to be feared that the -relaxation of discipline which occurred when papa was absent was -delightful to all those little people, and neither was Mrs. Kingsward -sorry now and then to feel herself at full ease—with no necessity -anywhere of further restraint than her own softened perceptions of -family decorum required. It was a moment in which, if that could be -said, she was self-indulgent—sometimes not getting up at her usual -hour, but taking her breakfast in her room, with clusters of little boys -and girls all over her bed, and over the carpet, sharing every morsel, -climbing over her in their play. And when she went out to drive she had -the carriage full of them; and when she took her stroll about the -grounds they were all about, shouting and racing, nobody suggesting that -it would be “too much for her,” or sending them off because they -disturbed mamma. She was disturbed to her heart’s content while the -Colonel was away. She said, “You know this is very nice for a time, but -it would not do always,” to her elder daughter: but I think that she saw -no necessity, except in the return of her husband, why it should not -do, and she enjoyed herself singing to them, dancing (a very little) -with them, playing for them as only the mother of a large family ever -can play, that simple dance music which is punctuated and kept in -perfect time by her heart as much as by her ear. For myself, I know the -very touch upon the piano of a woman who is the orchestra of the -children, who makes their little feet twinkle to the music. There is no -band equal to it for harmony, and precision, and go. They enjoyed the -freedom of having no one to say, “Hush, don’t make such a noise in the -house,” of the absence of all the disturbable people, “the gentlemen,” -as the servants plainly said, “being away” more, Mrs. Kingsward -sometimes thought, with a faint twinge of conscience, than it was right -they should enjoy anything in the absence of papa. Charlie was quite as -bad as papa, and declared that they made his head ache, and that no -fellow could work with such a row going on; it made the little carnival -all the more joyous that he was out of the way.</p> - -<p>Bee had spent the six weeks since their return in a sort of splendour of -girlish superiority and elation, of which her mother had not been -unobservant, though nothing had been said between them. I am not sure -that Bee did not enjoy the situation more than if Aubrey had been at -Kingswarden wooing her all day long, playing tennis with her, riding -with her—in every way appearing as her accepted lover. Circumstances -had saved her from this mere vulgarity of beatitude, and she felt that -in the very uncertainty of their correspondence, which was -private—almost secret, and yet not clandestine—there was a wonderful -charm, a romance and tinge of the unhappy and desperate, while yet -everything within herself was happy and triumphant. It had never been -said, neither by the Colonel nor by his wife (who had said nothing at -all), that Bee was not to write letters to Aubrey nor to receive letters -from him. I cannot imagine how Colonel Kingsward, in bidding her -understand that all was over between Aubrey and herself, did not make a -condition of this. But probably he thought her too young and simple to -maintain any such correspondence, and her lover too little determined, -too persuadeable, to begin it. When Bee had received her lover’s first -letter it had been under her father’s very eyes. It had come at -breakfast between two girl-epistles, and Colonel Kingsward would not -have been guilty of the pettiness of looking at his daughter’s -correspondence for any inducement yet before him. She had the tremendous -thrill and excitement of reading it in his very sight, which she did not -hesitate to do, for the sake of the bravado, feeling her ears tingle and -the blood coursing in her veins, never imagining that he would not -observe, and setting her young slight strength like a rock in momentary -expectation of a question on the subject. But no question came. Colonel -Kingsward was looking at the papers, and at the few letters which came -to him at his house. The greater part of his correspondence went to the -office. He took it very quietly, and he never remarked Bee at all, which -was little less than a miracle, she thought. And it was very well for -her that this was one of the mornings on which mamma did not come -downstairs.</p> - -<p>This immense excitement was a little too strong for ordinary use, and -Bee so arranged it afterwards that her letters came by a later post, -when she could read them by herself in her room. The servants knew -perfectly well of this arrangement—the butler who opened the post bag -at Kingswarden, and the maid who carried Miss Bee’s letters -upstairs—but neither father nor mother thought of it. That is, I will -not answer for Mrs. Kingsward. She perhaps had her suspicions; but, if -her husband did not forbid correspondence, she said to herself that it -was not her business to do so. It seemed to her that nothing else could -keep Bee so bright. Her disappointment, the shock of the severance, must -have affected her otherwise than appeared if she had not been buoyed up -by some such expedient. As for the Colonel, he thought nothing about it. -He thought that, as for love, properly so called, the thing was -preposterous for a girl of her years, and that the foolish business had -been all made up of imaginative novelty, and the charm of the position, -which had flattered and dazzled the girl. Now that she had returned to -all her old associations and occupations, the pretty bubble had floated -away into the air. It had not been necessary even to burst it—it had -dispersed of itself, as he said to himself he always knew it would. Thus -he deceived himself with the easiest mind and did not interfere.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward had come upon her daughter seated out on the lawn under -the great walnut tree, reading one of these letters, one morning when -she had gone out earlier than usual, on an exceptionally fine day. Bee -had thrust it away hastily into her pocket and came forward with burning -cheeks when she heard her mother’s voice—but it was not till some time -later that Mrs. Kingsward spoke. The day had kept up its morning -promise. It was one of those warm days that sometimes come in October, -breathing the very spirit of that contented season, when all things have -come to fruition and the work of the year is done, and its produce -garnered into the barns. Now we may sit and rest, is the sentiment of -the much toiling earth—all the labour being over, the harvest done, -and no immediate need yet to rise again and plough. The world hangs -softly swaying in space, the fields are fallow, the labourer rests. The -sunshine lay warm upon the velvet grass, the foliage, thinned by one -good blast a week ago, gave just shade enough, not too much; the -tea-table was set out upon the lawn—the little horde had gone off -shouting and skirmishing through the grounds, Betty at the head of them, -supposed captain and controller, virtually ringleader, which comes to -much the same thing. The air so hushed and silent in itself, half drowsy -with profound peace, was just touched and made musical by their shouts, -and Bee and her mother, with this triumphant sound of a multitude close -by, were alone.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” Mrs. Kingsward said, “I have long wanted an opportunity to speak -to you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma,” she said, looking up with a rush of blood to her heart, -feeling that the moment had come. But she would not have been Bee if she -had not put a little something of her own into the thick of the crisis. -“There were plenty of opportunities—we have been together all day.”</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean,” said Mrs. Kingsward. “Bee, I saw you reading a -letter this morning.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Who was it from?”</p> - -<p>Bee looked her mother in the face. “I have never made any secret of it,” -she said. “I have read them openly before papa—I never would pretend -they were anything different. Of course it was from Aubrey, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” said her mother. “You have never told me what your father -said to you that morning. He told me that it was all over and done -with—that he would never listen to another word on the subject.”</p> - -<p>“That was what he told me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, Bee! and yet——”</p> - -<p>“Stop a moment, mamma! He never said I was not to write; he never said -there was to be no correspondence. Had he said so, I should have, at -least, considered what it was best to do.”</p> - -<p>“Considered what was best! But you were not the judge. I hope you would -have obeyed your father, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say, mamma. You must remember that it is my case and not his. -I don’t know what I should have done. But it was not necessary, for he -said nothing about it.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, my dear child, he may have said nothing; but you know very well -that when he said it was entirely broken off he meant what he said.”</p> - -<p>“Papa is very capable of saying what he means,” said Bee. “I did not -think it was any business of mine to inquire what might be his secret -meaning. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed; but, oh, that would have been too -hard! And for Aubrey, too.”</p> - -<p>“I think much less of Aubrey that he should carry on a clandestine -correspondence with a girl like you.”</p> - -<p>“Clandestine!” cried Bee, with blazing eyes. “No more clandestine than -your letters that come by the post with your own name upon them. If -Aubrey did not scorn anything that is clandestine, I should. There is -nothing like that between him and me.”</p> - -<p>“I never supposed you would be guilty of any artifice, Bee; but you are -going completely against your father—making a fool of him, -indeed—making it all ridiculous—when you carry on a correspondence, as -if you were engaged, after he has broken everything off.”</p> - -<p>“I am engaged,” said Bee, very low.</p> - -<p>“What do you say? Bee, this is out of the question. I shall have to tell -your father when he comes back. “Oh! child, child, how you turn this -delightful time into trouble. I shall be obliged to tell your father -when he comes back.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it will be your duty, mamma,” said Bee, the colour going out of -her face; “and then I shall have to consider what is mine,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, Bee! Oh! how hard you make it for me. Oh! how I wish you had -never seen him, nor heard of him,” Mrs. Kingsward cried.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> communication made a little breach between Bee and her mother and -planted a thorn in Mrs. Kingsward’s breast. She had been getting on so -well; the quiet (which meant the riot of the seven nursery children and -all their troublesome ways) had been doing her so much good, and the -absence of every care save that Johnny should not take cold, and Lucy -eat enough dinner—that it was hard upon her thus to be brought back in -a moment to another and a more pressing kind of care. However, after an -hour or two’s estrangement from Bee, which ended in a fuller expansion -than ever of sympathy between them—and a morning or two in which Mrs. -Kingsward remembered as soon as she awoke that it would be her duty to -tell her husband and break up the pleasant peace and harmony of the -household—the sweetness of that <i>dolce far niente</i> swept over her again -and obliterated or at least blurred the outline of all such troublous -thoughts. Colonel Kingsward sent a hasty telegram to say that he was -going on somewhere else for another ten days’ shooting, and that, though -she exclaimed at first with a countenance of dismay, “Oh, children, papa -is not coming home for another week!” in reality gave a pang of relief -to her mind. Gliding into her being, she scarcely knew how, was an -inclination to take every day as it came without thinking of -to-morrow—which was perfectly natural, no doubt, and yet was an -unconscious realisation of the fact, which as yet she had never put into -words, nor had suggested to her, that those gentle days were numbered. -Her husband’s delay was in one way like a reprieve to her. She had, like -all simple natures, a vague faith in accident, in something that might -turn up—“perhaps the world may end to-night”—something at least might -happen in another ten days to make it unnecessary for her to disturb -the existing state of affairs and throw new trouble into the house. She -did not waver at first as to her duty, though nothing in the world could -be more painful; and Bee did not say a word to change her mother’s -resolution. Bee had always been aware that as soon as it was known the -matter must come to another crisis—and the scorn with which she -regarded the idea of doing anything clandestine prevented her even from -asking that her secret should be kept. It was not in her mind but in her -mother’s that those faint doubtings at last arose—those half -entertained thoughts that a letter or two could do no harm; that the -correspondence would drop of itself when it was seen between the two -that there was no hope in it; and that almost anything would be better -than a storm of domestic dispeace and the open rebellion in which Mrs. -Kingsward felt with a shudder Bee would place herself. How are you to -break the will of a girl who will not be convinced, who says it is not -your, but her affair?</p> - -<p>No doubt that was true enough. It was Bee, not Colonel Kingsward, whose -happiness was concerned. According to all the canons of poetry and -literature in general, which in such matters permeate theoretically the -general mind when there is no strong personal instinct to crush them, -Bee had right on her side—and her mother’s instinct was all on the side -of poetry and romance and Bee. She had not the courage to cut short that -correspondence, not clandestine though unrevealed, which kept the girl’s -heart alive, and was not without attractions to the mother also, into -whose ear it might be whispered now and then (with always a faint -protest on her part) that Aubrey had better hopes, that he had a -powerful friend who was going to speak for him. If they really meant to -be faithful to each other—and there was no doubt that was what they -meant—they must win the day in the end; and what harm would it do in -the meantime that they should hear of each other from time to time? -Whereas, if she betrayed the secret, there would at once be a dreadful -commotion in the house, and Bee would confront her father and tell him -with those blazing eyes, so like his, that it was her affair. Mrs. -Kingsward knew that her husband would never stoop to the manœuvre of -intercepting letters, or keeping a watch upon those that his daughter -received; and what can you do to a girl who says that? She shrank more -than any words could say from the renewal of the conflict. She had been -so thankful to believe that it had passed over and all things settled -into peace while she was ill. Now that she was better her heart sank -within her at the thought of bringing it all on again, which would also -make her ill again she was convinced. Yet, at the same time, if she -could not persuade Bee to give it up of herself (of which there was no -hope whatever), then she must, it was her duty, inform her husband. But -her heart rose a little at that ten days’ reprieve. Perhaps the world -might end to-night. Something might happen to make it unnecessary in -those ten days.</p> - -<p>And something did happen, though not in any way what Mrs. Kingsward -could have wished.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward’s return was approaching very near when on one of -those bright October afternoons a lady from the neighbourhood—nay, it -was the clergywoman of the parish, the Rector of Kingswarden’s wife, the -very nearest of all neighbours—came to call. She had just returned from -that series of visits which in the autumn is—with all who respect -themselves—the natural course of events. Mrs. Chichester was a woman of -good connection, of “private means,” and more or less “in society,” so -that she carried out this programme quite as if she had been a great -lady. She had an air of importance about her, which seemed to shadow -forth from her very entrance something that she had to say—an unusual -gravity, a look of having to make up her mind to a certain action which -was not without difficulty. There passed a glance between Mrs. Kingsward -and Bee, in which they said to each other, “What is it this time?” as -clearly as words could have said; for, to be sure, they were well -acquainted with this lady’s ways. She sat for a little, and talked of -their respective travels since they had last met; and of the pleasant -weeks she had passed at Homburg, where so many pleasant people were -always to be met after the London season; and then she lightly touched -on the fact that she had come over early in September, and since then -had been staying at a number of country places, with the dear Bishop, -and at Lady Grandmaison’s, and with old Sir Thomas down in Devonshire, -and so on.</p> - -<p>“Or,” she concluded, with a disproportionate emphasis on that apparently -unimportant word, “I should have been to see you long ago.”</p> - -<p>There was a significance in this which again made Mrs. Kingsward and Bee -exchange a look—a laughing glance—as of those who had heard the phrase -before. When, however, she had asked some questions about Mrs. -Kingsward’s health, and expressed the proper feeling—sorry to hear she -had been so poorly; delighted that she was so much better—Mrs. -Chichester departed from her established use and wont. Instead of -beginning upon the real object of her visit, after she had taken her cup -of tea, with a “Now,” (also very emphatic) “I want to interest you in -something I have very much at heart,”—which was generally a -subscription, a society, a bazaar, a missionary meeting, or something of -the sort—Mrs. Chichester bent forward and said, in a half whisper, “I -have something I want very much to talk to you about. Could I speak to -you for a moment—alone?”</p> - -<p>Bee was much surprised, but took her part with promptitude. “You want to -get rid of me,” she said. “I shall go out on to the terrace, mamma, and -you can call me from the window when you want me. I shall be sure to -hear.”</p> - -<p>There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she -stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which -repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first, -but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book, -one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one -does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is -opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how -long the dahlias would last, and that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be -cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under -which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many -minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting -rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was -already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got -up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against -the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest. -There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee -forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room -window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret, -which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which -she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor -had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee -sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of -her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student, -though she liked a novel as well as anyone; but her eyes strayed from -it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy -glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long -golden ray of the sun.</p> - -<p>Then she heard a low cry—an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror. -Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s -lips such a cry? Bee—I cannot blame her—pricked up her ears. Mrs. -Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which -she had nothing to do.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said.</p> - -<p>“But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed -so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands -with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s -story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him -at Sir Thomas’s the year before—when he was still in deep mourning for -his wife, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh! So it was something about Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s -business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any -further thought.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Mrs. Kingsward, as if taking courage, “you must be mistaken; -oh, not about seeing him shake hands with a woman—why shouldn’t he -shake hands with a woman? He is very friendly with everybody. Perhaps he -knew her, and there is nothing to find fault with in that.”</p> - -<p>“Now,” said Mrs. Chichester, solemnly, “should I have mentioned it had -it been confined to that? I only told you of that as a proof. The thing -is that he put in this woman—a common woman, like a servant—into a -sleeping carriage—you know what those sleeping carriages cost; a -perfect fortune; far too much for any comfort there is in them—in the -middle of the night, with her two children. The woman behaved quite -nicely, Miss Tatham says, and looked shocked to be put in with a lady, -and blushed all over her face, and told that ridiculous story to account -for it. Poor thing! One can only be sorry for her. Probably some poor -thing deceived, and thinking she was to be made a lady of. But I know -what you must think of the man, Mrs. Kingsward, who could do such a -thing on his way from staying with your own family, even if there had -been no more in it than that.”</p> - -<p>“But Mr. Leigh is very kind—kind to everybody—it might have been -nothing but charity.”</p> - -<p>“Charity—in an express train sleeping carriage! Well, I confess I never -heard of charity like that. Gentlemen generally know better than to -compromise themselves for nothing in that sort of way. They are more -afraid of risking themselves in railway carriages and that kind of thing -than girls are—much more afraid. And if you remember, Mrs. Kingsward, -what kind of reputation Mr. Leigh had in his poor wife’s time—keeping -that Miss Lance all the time in her very house under her eyes.”</p> - -<p>“I have always heard that it was Mrs. Leigh who insisted upon keeping -Miss Lance——”</p> - -<p>“Is it likely?” said Mrs. Chichester. “I ask you, knowing what you do of -human nature? And then a thing to happen like this on his very way -home—when he had just left you and poor little Bee. Oh, it is -shameless, shameless! I could not contain myself when I heard of it. And -then it was said that the Colonel had broken off the engagement, and I -thought it would be a comfort to you to know that other things were -occurring every day, and that it was the only thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“It is no comfort to me—and I cannot—I cannot believe it!”</p> - -<p>“Dear Mrs. Kingsward, you always take the best view; but if you had seen -him, as I did, holding the woman’s hand, bending over her with such a -look!—I was afraid he would kiss her, there, before everybody. And I, -knowing of the engagement, and that he had just left you—before Miss -Tatham said a word—I sat and stared, and couldn’t believe my eyes. It -was the tenth of September, and he had left Bee, hadn’t he, the night -before?”</p> - -<p>“I never remember dates,” said Mrs. Kingsward, querulously.</p> - -<p>“I do,” replied the visitor, “and I took the trouble to find out. At -least, I found out by accident, through someone who saw him at the -club, and who had just discovered the rights of that story about Miss -Lance. Oh, I trust you will not be beguiled by his being a good <i>parti</i>, -or that sort of thing, to trust dear Bee in such hands! Marriage is -always rather a disenchantment; but think what it would be in such a -case—a man that can’t be trusted to travel between Cologne and London -without——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” said Mrs. Kingsward; and Bee -heard that her mother had melted into tears.</p> - -<p>“That is as good as saying you don’t believe me, who saw it with my own -eyes,” said the visitor, getting up. “Indeed, I didn’t mean at all to -distress you, for I thought that, as everything was broken off—I -thought only if you had any doubts, as one has sometimes after one has -settled a thing—that to know he was a man like that, with no respect -for anything, who could leave his <i>fiancée</i>, and just plunge, -plunge—there is no other word for it——”</p> - -<p>It was evident that Mrs. Kingsward, reduced to helplessness, here made -no effort either to detain her visitor or to contradict her further, or -indeed to make any remark. There was a step or two across the room, and -then Mrs. Chichester said again—“Good-bye, dear. I am very sorry to -have distressed you—but I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of such a -thing for dear Bee’s sake; that is the one thing to be thankful for in -the whole matter, that Bee doesn’t seem to mind a bit! She looks just as -bright and just as nice as if nothing had happened. She can’t have cared -for him! Only flattered, I suppose, and pleased to have a proposal—as -those little things are, poor things. We should all thank heaven on our -knees that there’s no question of a broken heart in Bee’s case——”</p> - -<p>She might not have been so sure of that had she seen the figure which -came through the window the moment the door had closed upon her—Bee -with her blue eyes blazing wildly out of her white face, and strange -passion in every line both of features and form.</p> - -<p>“What is the meaning of it?” she said, briefly, with dry lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, you have heard it all!”</p> - -<p>“I have heard enough—what does it mean, mamma?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward roused herself, dried her eyes, and went forward to Bee -with outstretched arms; but the girl turned away. “I don’t want to be -petted. I want to know what—what it means,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it,” cried Mrs. Kingsward.</p> - -<p>“Give a reason; don’t say things to quiet me. Oh, keep your arms away, -mamma! Don’t pet me as if I wanted that! Why don’t you believe it? And -if you did believe it—what does it mean—what does it mean?”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bee’s</span> look of scared and horrified misery was something new in Mrs. -Kingsward’s experience. The girl had not known any trouble. Her father’s -rejection of her lover and the apparent break between them had been in -reality only another feature in the romance. She had almost liked it -better so. There had been no time to pine, to feel the pain of -separation. It was all the more like a poem, like what every love story -should be, that this breaking off should have come.</p> - -<p>And now, all at once, without any warning! The worst of it was that Bee -had only heard a part of the story, the recapitulation of it. Mrs. -Chichester had given the accused more or less fair play. She had given -an imperfect account of the explanation, the story the woman had -told—as was almost inevitable to a third party, but she had given it to -the best of her ability, not meaning to deceive, willing enough that he -should have the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps that the judgment upon -him should be all the more hard, because of his attempt to mingle deceit -with his sin, and throw dust in the eyes of any possible spectators. -This was the way in which it had appeared to herself, but she was not -unfair. She told the story which had been told to the astonished lady -upon whose solitude the little party had been obtruded in the middle of -the night, and who had heard it perhaps even imperfectly at first hand -mingled with the jolting and jarring of the train and the murmur of the -children. And yet Mrs. Chichester had repeated it honestly.</p> - -<p>But Bee had not heard that part of the tale. She had heard only the -facts of the case which had presented to her inexperienced young mind -the most wild and dreadful picture. Her lover, who had just left her, -whom she had promised to stand by till death, suddenly appeared to her -in the pale darkness of the midnight with a woman and children hanging -on to him—belonging to him, as appeared. Where had he met them? How had -he arranged to meet them? When her hand had been in his, when he had -been asking from her that pledge till death, had he just been arranging -all that—giving them that rendezvous—settling how they were to meet, -and where? A horror and sickness came over poor Bee. It made her head -swim and her limbs tremble. To leave her with her pledge in his ears, -and to meet, perhaps at the very outset of his journey, the woman with -the children—a common sort of woman, like a servant. As if that made -any difference! If she had been a duchess it would have been all the -same. He must have met her fresh from Bee’s presence, with his farewell -to the girl whom he had pretended to love still on his lips. She could -not think so clearly. Was this picture burnt in upon her mind? She -seemed to see the dim, half-lighted carriage, and Aubrey at the door -putting the party in. And then at Dover, in the daylight, shaking hands -with his companion, bending over her as if he meant to kiss her! These -two pictures took possession of Bee’s mind completely. And all this just -when he had left Bee—between his farewell to her and his interview with -her father! If she had heard of the story which the woman had told to -the startled Miss Tatham in the dim sleeping carriage, from which, -looking out, she had recognised Aubrey Leigh, it might have made a -difference. But that story had not been told in Bee’s hearing. And Mrs. -Kingsward did not know this, but supposed she had heard the whole from -beginning to end.</p> - -<p>Bee’s mother, to tell the truth, after the first shock, was glad of that -unconscious eaves-dropping on Bee’s part; for how could she have told -her? Indeed, the story was too gross, too flagrant to be believed by -herself. She felt sure that there must be some explanation of it other -than the vulgar one which was put upon it by these ladies; but she knew -very well that the same interpretation would be put upon it by her -husband, and many other people to whom Aubrey’s innocent interference in -such a case would have seemed much less credible than guilt. Guilt is -the thing that generally rises first as the explanation of everything, -to the mind, both of the man and woman of the world. The impossibility -of a man leaving a delicate flower of womanhood like Bee, whose first -love he had won, in order to fall back at once into the bonds of a -common intrigue, and provide for the comfort of his paramour, who had -been waiting for him on the journey, would not prove so great to most -people as the impossibility that he, as a stranger, would step out of -his way to succour a poor little mother and children whom he had never -seen before, and risk thereby a compromising situation.</p> - -<p>The latter was the thing which would have seemed unutterably ridiculous -and impossible to Colonel Kingsward. A first-class sleeping carriage -secured for a mere waif upon his way, whom he had never seen before and -never would see again! The fellow might be a fool, but he was not such a -fool as that. Had the woman even been old and ugly the Colonel would -have laughed and shrugged his shoulders at Aubrey’s bad taste; but the -woman was pretty and young. A long-standing affair, no doubt; and, of -course, it was quite possible, nay likely, that she was being sent, poor -creature, to some retreat or other, where she would be out of the way -with her children.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward knew, as if she had heard him say these words, how her -husband would speak. And who was she, with not half his experience of -the world, to maintain a different opinion? Yet she did so. She thought -it was like Aubrey to turn the poor woman’s lingering, melancholy -journey into a quick and comfortable one, out of pure kindness, without -thought of compromising himself any more than of having any recompense -for what he did. But she did not know that Bee knew nothing of this -explanation of the story. When she found that her child evidently -thought nothing of that, but received at once the darker miserable tale -into her mind, she was startled, but not perhaps astonished. Bee was -young to think the worst of anybody, but at the same time it is by far -the commonest way of thinking, and the offence was one against herself, -which gives a sharper edge to everything. And then she knew what was -going on in Bee’s mind chiefly by guesswork, for the girl said little. -The colour went out of her face, her eyes sometimes gave a gleam of -their old fire, but mostly had a strange set look, as if they were fixed -on something not visible to the ordinary spectator. She sat all the -evening through and never spoke. This was not so noticeable while the -children were still about with their perpetual flow of observations and -flood of questions; but when they went off in detachments to bed, and -the two elder girls were left alone with their mother, Bee’s silence -fell upon the others like a cloud. Betty, who knew nothing, after a few -minutes rushed away upstairs to find refuge in the nursery, and then -Mrs. Kingsward was left alone, face to face with this silent figure, so -unlike Bee, which neither moved nor spoke. She had scarcely the courage -to break the dreadful silence, but yet it had to be broken. Poor Mrs. -Kingsward’s heart began to beat violently against her breast as it had -not done since her return home.</p> - -<p>“Bee!” she said. “Bee!”</p> - -<p>Already the pumping of her heart had taken away her breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, what—what are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“To do, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t repeat my words after me, but give me some sort of an answer. -Betty may be back again in a moment. What are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“What can I do?” the girl said, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“I can’t suppose but that you have been thinking about it—what else -could you be thinking of, poor child? For my part, I don’t believe it. -Do you hear me, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I heard you say that before, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“And that is all you think of what I say! My darling, you can’t remain -like this. The first thing your father will ask will be, ‘What has -happened?’ I cannot bear that you should give up—without a word.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward had disapproved of the correspondence, had felt that it -would be incumbent upon her to tell her husband of it, but yet in this -unforeseen emergency she forgot all that.</p> - -<p>“Without a word! What words could I say? You don’t suppose I could -discuss it with him—ask if it was true? If it’s true, there isn’t a -word to say, is there? And if it isn’t true it would be an insult to ask -him. And so one way or another it is all just done with and over. And I -wish you would leave me quiet, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Done with and over! Without a word—on a mere story of something that -took place on a journey!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! leave me quiet, mamma. Do you think I need to be reminded of that -journey? As if I did not see it, and the lamps burning, and hear the -very wheels!”</p> - -<p>“Bee, dear, how can I leave you quiet? Do you mean just to let it break -off like that, without a word, without giving him the chance to -explain?”</p> - -<p>“I thought,” said Bee, with a faint satirical smile, for, indeed, her -heart was capable of all bitterness, “that it was broken off completely -by papa, and all that remained was only—what you called clandestine, -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I did not call it clandestine. I knew you would do nothing that was -dishonourable. And it is true that it was—broken off. But, Bee! Bee! -you don’t seem to feel the dreadful thing this is. After all that has -passed, to let it drop in a moment, without saying a word!”</p> - -<p>“I thought it was what I ought to have done, as soon as papa’s will was -made known.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, you will drive me mad. And I have got no breath to speak. So -you ought, perhaps—but you have not, when perhaps there was a reason. -And now, for a mere chance story, and without giving him—an -opportunity—to speak for himself.”</p> - -<p>Bee raised her face, now crimson as it had before been pale.</p> - -<p>“How could I put any questions on such a thing? How could it be -discussed between him and me? To think of it is bad enough, but to speak -of it—mamma! How do I know, even, what words to say?”</p> - -<p>“In that case, every engagement would be at the mercy of any slanderer, -if the girl never could bring herself to ask what it meant.”</p> - -<p>“I am not any girl,” cried poor Bee, with a quiver of her lip. “I am -just myself. I don’t think very much of myself any more than you do, but -I can’t change myself. Oh, let me alone, let me alone, mamma!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward was very much excited. Her nostrils grew pinched and -dilated in the struggle for breath; her lips were open and panting from -the same cause. She was caught in that dreadful contradiction of -sentiment and feeling which is worse than any unmingled catastrophe. She -had been rent asunder before this by her desire to shield her daughter, -yet the sense of her duty to her husband remained, and now it was the -correspondence which she seemed to be called upon to defend almost at -peril of her life; that actually clandestine, at least secret -correspondence, of which she could not approve, which she was bound to -cut short. And yet to cut it short like this was something which she -could not bear. She threw aside the work with which she had been -struggling and fixed her eyes on Bee, who did not look at her nor see -how agitated her expression was.</p> - -<p>“If you can do this, I can’t,” she said. “I will write to him. The -other dreadful story may be true, for anything I know. And that, of -course, is enough. But this one I don’t believe, if an angel from Heaven -told it me. He shall at least have the chance of clearing himself!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Bee, “what the other dreadful story was. I thought -it was only pretending to love—some other woman; and then—pretending -to love <i>me</i>”—she broke off into a little hoarse laugh. The offence of -it was more than Bee could bear. The insult—to suffer (she said to -herself) was one thing—but to be insulted! She laughed to think what a -fool she had been; how she had been taken in; how she had said—oh, like -the veriest credulous fool—“Till death.”</p> - -<p>“He was not pretending to love you. What went before I know not, but -with you he was true.”</p> - -<p>“One before—and one after,” said Bee, rising in an irrepressible rage -of indignation. “Oh, mamma, how can we sit quietly and discuss it, as -if—as if it were a thing that could be talked about? Am I to come in -between—two others—two—— I think it will make me mad,” the girl -cried, stamping her foot. How does a man dare to do that—to insult a -girl—who never sought him nor heard of him, wanted nothing of him—till -he came and forced himself into her life!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, my darling,” cried the mother, going up to her child with -outstretched arms.</p> - -<p>“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t pet me; I cannot bear it. Let me -stand by myself. I am not a little thing like Lucy to be caught up and -kissed till I forget. I don’t want to forget. There is nothing that can -ever be done to me, if I were to live to an hundred, to put this out of -my head.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, be patient with me for a moment. I have lived longer than you -have. What went before could be no offence to you, whatever it was. It -might be bad, but it was no offence to you. And this—I don’t believe -it——”</p> - -<p>Bee was far too much self-absorbed to see the labouring breath, the pink -spot on each cheek, the panting which made her mother’s fine nostrils -quiver and kept her lips apart, or that she caught at the back of a -chair to support herself as she stood.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why—you shouldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it; I see -it, I hear it,” cried Bee. “It’s like a story—and I thought these -things were always stories, things made up to keep up the interest in a -book—— I’m the—deceived heroine, the one that’s disappointed, don’t -you know, mamma? We’ve read all about her dozens of times. But she -generally makes a fuss over it,” the girl said, with her suffocating -laugh. “I shall make—no fuss—— Mamma! What is the matter, mamma?”</p> - -<p>Nothing more was the matter than the doctor could have told Mrs. -Kingsward’s family long ago—a spasm of the heart. She stumbled backward -to the sofa, and flung herself down before consciousness forsook her. -Did consciousness forsake her at all? Bee rushing to the bell, making -its violent sound peal through the house, then flinging herself at her -mother’s feet, and calling to her in the helplessness of utter -ignorance, “Mamma, mamma!” did not think that she was unconscious. -Broken words fell from her in the midst of her gasps for breath, then -there was a moment of dread stillness. By this time the room seemed to -be full of people—Bee did not know who was there—and then there -suddenly appeared out of the mist Moulsey with a glass and teaspoon in -her hands.</p> - -<p>“Go away, all of you,” cried Moulsey, “she’ll be better directly—open -all the windows and take a fan and fan her, Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>The blast of the cold October night air came in like a flood, Bee seemed -to come out of a horrible dream in the waft of air brought by the fan -which she was herself waving to and fro—and in a little time, as -Moulsey said, Mrs. Kingsward was better. The labouring breath which had -come back after that awful moment of stillness gradually calmed down and -became softer with an occasional long drawn sigh, and then she opened -her eyes and said, with a faint smile, “What is it? What is it?” She -looked round her for a moment puzzled—and then she said, “Ah! you are -fanning me,” with a smile to Bee, but presently, “How cold it is! I -don’t think I want to be fanned, Moulsey.”</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am, not now. And White is just a-going to shut all the windows. -The fire was a bit too hot, and you know you never can bear it when the -room gets too hot.”</p> - -<p>“No, I never can bear it,” Mrs. Kingsward said, in a docile tone. She -followed the lead of any suggestion given to her. “I must have got -faint—with the heat.”</p> - -<p>“That was just it,” said Moulsey. “When you have a fire in the -drawing-room so early it looks so cheerful you’re apt to pile it too -high without thinking—for it ain’t really cold in October, not cold -enough to have a fire like that. You want it for cheerfulness, ma’am, -more than for heat. A big bit of wood that will make a nice blaze, and -very little coal, as is too much for the season, is what your -drawing-room fire should be.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward gradually came to herself during this long speech, which -no doubt was what Moulsey intended. But she said she felt a little weak, -and that she would keep on the sofa until it was time to go to bed. The -agitation she had gone through seemed to have passed from her mind. -“Read me a little of that story,” she said, pointing to a book on the -table. “We left off last night at a most interesting part. Read me the -next chapter, Bee.”</p> - -<p>Bee sat down beside her mother’s sofa and opened the book. It was not a -book of a very exciting kind it may be supposed, when it was thus read a -chapter at a time, without any one of the party opening it from evening -to evening to see how things went on. But as it happened at this point -of the story, the heroine had found out that her lover was not so -blameless as she thought, and was making up her mind to have nothing to -do with him. Bee began to read with an indignation beyond words for both -hero and heroine, who were so pale, so colourless, beside her own story. -To waste one’s time reading stuff like this, while the tide of one’s own -passion was ten times stronger! She did not think very much of her -mother’s faint. It was, no doubt, the too large fire, as Moulsey said.</p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was perhaps a very good thing for Bee at this distracting and -distracted moment of her life, that her mother’s illness came in to fill -up every thought. Her own little fabric of happiness crumbled down about -her ears like a house of cards, only as it was far more deeply founded -and strongly built, the downfall was with a rumbling that shook the -earth and a dust that rose up to the skies. Heaven was blurred out to -her by the rising clouds, and all the earth was full of the noise, like -an earthquake, of the falling walls. She could not get that sound out of -her ears even in Mrs. Kingsward’s sick room, where the quiet was -preternatural, and everybody spoke in the lowest tone, and every step -was hushed. Even then it went on roaring, the stones and the rafters -flying, the storms of dust and ruin blackening the air, so that Bee -could not but wonder that nobody saw them, that the atmosphere was not -thick and stifling with those <i>debris</i> that were continually falling -about her own ears. For everything was coming down; not only the idol -and the shrine he abode in, but heaven and earth, in which she felt that -no truth, no faith, could dwell any longer. Who was there to believe in? -Not any man if not Aubrey; not any goodness, any truth, if not his—not -anything! For it was without object, without warning, for nothing at -all, that he had deserted her, as if it had been of no importance: with -the ink not dry on his letter, with her name still upon his lips. A -great infidelity, like a great faith, is always something. It is tragic, -one of the awful events of life in which there is, or may be, fate; an -evil destiny, a terrible chastisement prepared beforehand. In such a -case one can at least feel one’s self only a great victim, injured by -God himself and the laws of the universe, though that was not the common -fashion of thought then, as it is now-a-days. But Bee’s downfall did not -mean so much as that it was not intended by anyone—not even by the -chief worker in it. He had meant to hold Bee fast with one hand while he -amused himself with the other. Amused himself—oh, heaven! Bee’s heart -seemed to contract with a speechless spasm of anguish and rage. That she -should be of no more account than that! Played with as if she were -nobody—the slight creature of a moment. She, Bee! She, Colonel -Kingsward’s daughter!</p> - -<p>At first the poor girl went on in a mist of self-absorption, through -which everything else pierced but dully, wrapped up and hidden in it as -in the storm which would have arisen had the house actually fallen about -her ears, perceiving her mother through it, and the doctor, and all the -accessories of the scene—but dimly, not as if they were real. When, -however, there began to penetrate through this, strange words, with -strange meanings in them: “Danger”—danger to whom?—“Strength -failing”—but whose strength?—a dull wonder came in, bringing her back -to other thoughts. By-and-by, Bee began to understand a little that it -was of her mother of whom these things were being said. Her mother? But -it was not her mother’s house that had fallen; what did it mean? The -doctor talked apart with Moulsey, and Moulsey turned her back, and her -shoulders heaved, and her apron seemed to be put to her eyes. Bee, in -her dream said, half aloud, “Danger?” and both the doctor and Moulsey -turned upon her as if they would have killed her. Then she was beckoned -out of the room, and found herself standing face to face with that grave -yet kindly countenance which she had known all her life, in which she -believed as in the greatest authority. She heard his voice speaking to -her through all the rumbling and downfall.</p> - -<p>“You must be very courageous,” it said, “You are the eldest, and till -your father comes home——”</p> - -<p>What did it matter about her father coming home, or about her being the -eldest? What had all these things to do with the earthquake, with the -failure of truth, and meaning, and everything in life? She looked at him -blankly, wondering if it were possible that he did not hear the sound of -the great falling, the rending of the walls, and the tearing of the -roof, and the choking dust that filled all earth and heaven.</p> - -<p>“My dear Beatrice,” he said, for he had known her all his life, “you -don’t understand me, do you, my poor child?”</p> - -<p>Bee shook her head, looking at him wistfully. Could he know anything -more about it, she wondered—anything that had still to be said?</p> - -<p>He took her hand, and her poor little hand was very cold with emotion -and trouble. The good doctor, who knew nothing about any individual -cause little Bee could have for agitation, thought he saw that her very -being was arrested by a terror which as yet her intelligence had not -grasped; something dreadful in the air which she did not understand. He -drew her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open, and poured -out a little wine for her. “Now, Bee,” he said, “no fainting, no -weakness. You must prove what is in you now. It is a dreadful trial for -you, my dear, but you can do a great deal for your dear mother’s sake, -as she would for yours.”</p> - -<p>“I have never said it was a trial,” cried Bee, with a gasp. “Why do you -speak to me so? Has mamma told you? No one has anything to do with it -but me.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with great surprise, but the doctor was a man of too -much experience not to see that here was something into which it was -better not to inquire. He said, very quietly, “You, as the eldest, have -no doubt the chief part to play; but the little ones will all depend -upon your strength and courage. Your mother does not herself know. She -is very ill. It will require all that we can do—to pull her through.”</p> - -<p>Bee repeated the last words after him with a scared look, but scarcely -any understanding in her face—“To pull her—through?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you understand me now? Your mother—has been ill for a long time. -Your father is aware of it. I suppose he thought you were too young to -be told. But now that he is absent, and your brother, I have no -alternative. Your mother is in great danger. I have telegraphed for -Colonel Kingsward, but in the meantime, Bee—child, don’t lose your -head! Do you understand me? She may be dying, and you are the only one -to stand by her, to give her courage.”</p> - -<p>Bee did not look as if she had courage for anyone at that dreadful -moment. She fell a-trembling from head to foot and fell back against the -wall where she was standing. Her eyes grew large, staring at him yet -veiled as if they did not see—and she stammered forth at length, -“Mother, mother!” with almost no meaning, in the excess of misery and -surprise.</p> - -<p>“Yes, your mother; whatever else you may have to think of, she is the -first consideration now.”</p> - -<p>He went on speaking, but Bee did not hear him; everything floated around -her in a mist. The scenes at the Bath, the agitations, Mrs. Kingsward’s -sudden pallors and flushings, her pretence, which they all laughed at, -of not being able to walk; her laziness, lying on the sofa, the -giddiness when she made that one turn with Charlie, she who had always -been so fond of dancing; the hurry of bringing her to Kingswarden when -Bee had felt they would have been so much better in London, and her -strange, strange new fancy, mutely condemned by Bee, of finding the -children too much for her. Half of these things had been silently -remarked and disapproved of by the daughters. Mamma getting so -idle—self-indulgent almost, so unlike herself! Had they not been too -busily engaged in their own affairs, Bee and Betty would both have been -angry with mamma. All these things seem to float about Bee in a mist -while she leaned against the wall and the doctor stood opposite to her -talking. It was only perhaps about a minute after all, but she saw -waving round her, passing before her eyes, one scene melting into -another, or rather all visible at once, innumerable episodes—the whole -course of the three months past which had contained so much. She came -out of this strange whirl very miserable but very quiet.</p> - -<p>“I think it is chiefly my fault,” she said, faltering, interrupting the -doctor who was talking, always talking; “but how could I know, for -nobody told me? Doctor, tell me what to do now? You said we should—pull -her through.”</p> - -<p>She gave him a faint, eager, conciliatory smile, appealing to him to do -it. Of course he could do it! “Tell me—tell me only what to do.”</p> - -<p>He patted her kindly upon the shoulder. “That is right,” he said. “Now -you understand me, and I know I can trust you. There is not much to do. -Only to be quiet and steady—no crying or agitation. Moulsey knows -everything. But you must be ready and steady, my dear. Sit by her and -look happy and keep up her courage—that’s the chief thing. If she gives -in it is all over. She must not see that you are frightened or -miserable. Come, it’s a great thing to do for a little girl that has -never known any trouble. But you are of a good sort, and you must rise -to it for your mother’s sake.”</p> - -<p>Look happy! That was all she had to do. “Can’t I help Moulsey,” she -asked. “I could fetch her what she wants. I could—go errands for her. -Oh, doctor, something a little easier,” cried Bee, clasping her hands, -“just at first!”</p> - -<p>“All that’s arranged,” he said, hastily, “Come, we must go back to our -patient. She will be wondering what I am talking to you about. She will -perhaps take fright. No, nothing easier, my poor child—if you can do -that you may help me a great deal; if you can’t, go to bed, my dear, -that will be best.”</p> - -<p>She gave him a look of great scorn, and moved towards her mother’s room, -leading the way.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward was lying with her face towards the door, watching, in a -blaze of excitement and fever. Her eyes had never been so bright nor her -colour so brilliant. She was breathing quickly, panting, with her heart -very audible to herself, pumping in her ears, and almost audible in the -room, so evident was it that every pulse was at fever speed. “What have -you been telling Bee, doctor? What have you been telling Bee? What——” -When she had begun this phrase it did not seem as if she could stop -repeating it again and again.</p> - -<p>“I have been telling her that she may sit with you, my dear lady, on -condition of being very quiet, very quiet,” said the doctor. “It’s a -great promotion at her age. She has promised to sit very still, and talk -very little, and hush her mamma to sleep. It is you who must be the baby -to-night. If you can get a good long quiet sleep, it will do you all the -good in the world. Yes, you may hold her hand if you like, my dear, and -pat it, and smooth it—a little gentle mesmerism will do no harm. That, -my dear lady, is what I have been telling Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “don’t you know she has had great -trouble herself, poor child? Poor little Bee! At her age I was married -and happy; and here is she, poor thing, plunged into trouble. Doctor, -you know, there is a—gentleman——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward had raised herself upon her elbow, and the panting of her -breath filled all the room.</p> - -<p>“Another time—another time you shall tell me all about it. But I shall -take Miss Bee away, and consign you to a dark room, and silence, if you -say another word——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t make my room dark! I like the light. I want my child. Let me -keep her, let me keep her! Who should—comfort her—but her mother?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, so long as you keep quiet. If you talk I will take her away. Not a -word—not a word—till to-morrow.” In spite of himself there was a -change in the doctor’s voice as he said that word—or Bee thought so—as -if there might never be any to-morrow. The girl felt as if she must cry -out, shriek aloud, to relieve her bursting brain, but did not, overborne -by his presence and by the new sense of duty and self-restraint. “Come -now,” he went on, “I am very kind to let you have your little girl by -you, holding your hand—don’t you think so? Go to sleep, both of you. If -you’re quite, quite, quiet you’ll both doze, and towards the morning -I’ll look in upon you again. Now, not another word. Good-night, -good-night.”</p> - -<p>Bee, whose heart was beating almost as strongly as her mother’s, heard -his measured step withdraw on the soft carpets with a sense of wild -despair, as if the last hope was going from her. Her inexperienced -imagination had leaped from complete ignorance and calm to the last -possibilities of calamity. She had never seen death, and what if that -awful presence were to come while she was alone, incapable of any -struggle, of giving any help. She listened to the steps getting fainter -in the distance with anguish and terror unspeakable. She clasped her -mother’s hand tightly without knowing it. That only aid, the only man -who could do anything, was going away—deserting them—leaving her alone -in her ignorance to stand between her mother and death. Death! Every -pulse sprang up and fluttered in mortal terror. And she was put there to -be quiet—ready and steady, he had said—to look happy! Bee kept silent; -kept sitting upon her chair; kept down her shriek after him with a -superhuman effort. She could do no more.</p> - -<p>“Listen—he’s talking to Moulsey now,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “about me; -they’re always—whispering, about me—telling the symptoms—and how I -am. That is the worst of nurses——”</p> - -<p>“Mamma! Oh, don’t talk, don’t talk!” cried Bee; though she was more -comforted than words can tell by the sound of her mother’s voice.</p> - -<p>“Whispering: can’t you hear them? About temperature—and things. I can -bear talking—but whispering. Bee—don’t you hear -’em—whis—whispering——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma,” cried Bee, “I love to hear you speak! But don’t, don’t, -don’t, or they’ll make me go away.”</p> - -<p>“My baby,” said the mother, diverted in her wandering and weakness to a -new subject, “my little thing! He said we were to go to sleep. Put your -head there—and I’ll sing you—I’ll sing you—to sleep—little Bee, -little Bee, poor little Bee!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> night was the strangest in Bee Kingsward’s life. She had never -known what it was to remain silent and awake in the darkness and warmth -of a sick room, which of itself is a strange experience for a girl, and -shows the young spirit its own weakness, its craving for rest and -comfort, the difficulty of overcoming the instincts of nature—with such -a sense of humiliation as nothing else could give. Could you not watch -with me one hour? She believed that she had lain awake crying all night -when her dream of happiness had so suddenly been broken in upon at -Cologne; but now, while she sat by her mother’s side, and the little -soft crooning of the song, which Mrs. Kingsward supposed herself to be -singing to put her child to sleep, sank into a soft murmur, and the poor -lady succeeded in hushing herself into a doze by this characteristic -method. Bee’s head dropped too, and her eyelids closed. Then she woke, -with a little shiver, to see the large figure of Moulsey like a ghost by -the bed, and struggled dumbly back to her senses, only remembering that -she must not start nor cry to disturb Mrs. Kingsward, whose quick -breathing filled the room with a sensation of danger and dismay to which -the girl was sensible as soon as the film of sleep that had enveloped -her was broken. Mrs. Kingsward’s head was thrown back on the pillow; now -and then a faint note of the lullaby which she had been singing came -from the parted lips, through which the hot, quick breath came so -audibly. Now and then she stirred in her feverish sleep. Moulsey stood -indistinguishable with her back to the light, a mass of solid shadow by -the bedside. She shook her head. “Sleep’s best,” she said, in the -whisper which the patient hated. “Sleep’s better than the best of -physic.” Bee caught those solid skirts with a sensation of hope, to -feel them so real and substantial in her hand. She did not care to -speak, but lifted her face, pale with alarm and trouble, to the -accustomed nurse. Moulsey shook her head again. It was all the -communication that passed between them, and it crushed the hope that was -beginning to rise in Bee’s mind. She had thought when she heard the -doctor go away that death might be coming as soon as his back was -turned. She had felt when her mother fell asleep as if the danger must -be past. Now she sank into that second stage of hopelessness, when there -is no longer any immediate panic, when the unaccustomed intelligence -dimly realises that the sufferer may be better, and may live through the -night, or through many nights, and yet there may be no real change. Very -dim as yet was this consciousness in Bee’s heart, and yet the first -dawning of it bowed her down.</p> - -<p>In the middle of the night—after hours so long!—more like years, when -Bee seemed to have sat there half her life, to have become used to it, -to be uncertain about everything outside, but only that her mother lay -there more ill than words could say—Mrs. Kingsward awoke. She opened -her eyes without any change of position with the habit of a woman who -has been long ill, without acknowledging her illness. It was Moulsey who -saw a faint reflection of the faint light in the softly opening eyes, -and detected that little change in the breathing which comes with -returning consciousness. Bee, with her head leant back upon her chair -and her eyes closed, was dozing again.</p> - -<p>“You must take your cordial, ma’am, now you’re awake. You’ve had such a -nice sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Have I? I thought I was with the children and singing to baby. Who’s -this that has my hand—Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” cried the girl, with a little start, and then, “Oh! I have -waked her, Moulsey, I have waked her!”</p> - -<p>“Is this her little hand? Poor little Bee! No, you have not waked me, -love; but why, why is the child here?”</p> - -<p>“The doctor said she might stay—to send for him if you wanted -anything—and—and to satisfy her.”</p> - -<p>“To satisfy her, why so, why so? Am I so bad? Did he think I would -die—in the night?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no,” said Moulsey, standing by her, patting her shoulder, as if -she had been a fretful child. “What a thing to fancy! As if he’d have -sent the child here for that!”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the poor lady, “he wouldn’t have sent the child, would -he—not the child—for that—to frighten her! But Bee must go to bed. -I’m so much better. Go to bed. Moulsey; poor Moulsey, never tires, she’s -so good. But you must go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, let me stay. When you sleep, I sleep too; and I’m so much -happier here.”</p> - -<p>“Happier, are you? Well—but there was something wrong. Something had -happened. What was it that happened? And your father away! It never does -for anything to happen when—my husband is away. I’ve grown so silly. I -never know what to do. What was it that happened, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“There was—nothing,” said Bee, with a sudden chill of despair. She had -forgotten everything but the dim bed-chamber, the faint light, the -quick, quick breathing. And now there came a stab at her poor little -heart. She scarcely knew what it was, but a cut like a knife going to -the very centre of her being. Then there came the doctor’s words, as if -they were written in light across the darkness of the room—“Ready, and -steady.” She said in a stronger voice, “You have been dreaming. There -was nothing, mamma.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward, who had raised herself on her elbow, sank back again on -her pillow.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I must have been dreaming. I thought somebody -came—and told us. Dreams are so strange. People say they’re things -you’ve been—thinking of. But I was not thinking of that—the very last -thing! Bee, it’s a pity—it’s a great pity—when a woman with so many -children falls into this kind of silly, bad health.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma,” was all that poor Bee could say.</p> - -<p>“Oh—let me alone, Moulsey—I want to talk a little. I’ve had such a -good sleep, you said; sometimes—I want to talk, and Moulsey won’t let -me—nor your father, and I have it all here,” she said, putting her -hand to her heart, “or here,” laying it over her eyebrows, “and I never -get it out. Let me talk, Moulsey—let me talk.”</p> - -<p>Bee, leaning forward, and Moulsey standing over her by the bedside, -there was a pause. Their eyes, accustomed to the faint light, saw her -eyes shining from the pillow, and the flush of her cheeks against the -whiteness of the bed. Then, after a while, there came a little faint -laugh, and, “What was I saying?” Mrs. Kingsward asked. “You look so big, -Moulsey, like the shadows I used to throw on the wall to please the -children. You always liked the rabbit best, Bee. Look!” She put up her -hands as if to make that familiar play upon the wall. “But Moulsey,” she -added, “is so big. She shuts out all the light, and what is Bee doing -here at this hour of the night? Moulsey, send Miss Bee to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, let me stay. You were going to tell me something.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Bee, you must not make her talk.”</p> - -<p>“How like Moulsey!” said the invalid. “Make me talk! when I have wanted -so much to talk. Bee, it’s horrid to go on in this silly ill way, -when—when one has children to think of. Your father’s always good—but -a man often doesn’t understand. About you, now—if I had been a little -stronger, it might have been different. What was it we heard? I don’t -think it was true what we heard.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, don’t think of that, now.”</p> - -<p>“It is <i>so</i> silly, always being ill! And there’s nothing really the -matter. Ask the doctor. They all say there’s nothing really the matter. -Your father—but then he doesn’t know how a woman feels. I feel as if I -were sinking, sinking down through the bed and the floor and everything, -away, I don’t know where. So silly, for nothing hurts me—I’ve no -pain—except that I always want more air. If you were to open the -window, Moulsey; and Bee, give me your hand and hold me fast, that I -mayn’t sink away. It’s all quite silly, you know, to think so,” she -added, with again a faint laugh.</p> - -<p>Bee’s eyes sought those of Moulsey with a terrified question in them; -the great shadow only slightly shook its head.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember, Bee, the picture—we saw it in Italy, and I’ve got a -photograph—where there is a saint lying so sweetly in the air, with -angels holding her up? They’re flying with her through the blue sky—two -at her head, and other two—and her mantle so wrapped round her, and she -lying, oh! so easy, resting, though there’s nothing but the air and the -angels. Do you remember, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma. Oh, mamma, mamma!”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I should like,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “it’s strange, isn’t -it? The bed’s solid, and the house is solid, and Moulsey there, she’s -very solid too, and air isn’t solid at all. But there never was anybody -that lay so easy and looked so safe as that woman in the air. Their arms -must be so soft under her, and yet so strong, you know; stronger than -your father’s. He’s so kind, but he hurries me sometimes; and -soft—you’re soft, Bee, but you’re not strong. You’ve got a soft little -hand, hasn’t she, Moulsey? Poor little thing! And to think one doesn’t -know what she may have to do with it before she is like me.”</p> - -<p>“She’ll have no more to do with it, ma’am, than a lady should, no more -than you’ve had. But you must be quiet, dear lady, and try and go to -sleep.”</p> - -<p>“I might never have such a good chance of talking to her again. The -middle of the night and nobody here—her father not even in the house. -Bee, you must try never to begin being ill in any silly way, feeling not -strong and that sort of foolish thing, and say out what you think. Don’t -be frightened. It’s—it’s bad for him as well as for you. He gets to -think you haven’t any opinion. And then all at once they find out—And, -perhaps, it’s too late—.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, you’re not very ill? Oh, no; you’re looking so beautiful, and -you talk just as you always did.”</p> - -<p>“She says am I very ill, Moulsey? Poor little Bee! I feel a great deal -better. I had surely a nice sleep. But why should the doctor be here, -and you made to sit up, you poor little thing. Moulsey, why is the -doctor here?”</p> - -<p>“I never said, ma’am, as he was here. He’s coming round first thing in -the morning. He’s anxious—because the Colonel’s away.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you think I don’t know. I’m not so very bad; but he thinks—he -thinks—perhaps I might die, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, mamma!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be frightened,” said Mrs. Kingsward, drawing the girl close to -her. “That’s a secret; he doesn’t think I know. It would be a curious, -curious thing, when people think you are only ill to go and die. It -would surprise them so. And so strange altogether—instead of worries, -you know, every day, to be all by yourself, lying so easy and the angels -carrying you. No trouble at all then to think whether he would be -pleased—or anything; giving yourself to be carried like that, like a -little child.”</p> - -<p>“But mamma,” cried Bee, “you could not, would not leave us—you -wouldn’t, would you, mamma?—all the children, and me; and I with nobody -else, no one to care for me. You couldn’t, mother, leave us; you -wouldn’t! Say you wouldn’t! Oh! Moulsey! Moulsey! look how far away she -is looking, as if she didn’t see you and me!”</p> - -<p>“You forget, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “How easy it looked for that -saint in the picture. I always liked to watch the birds floating down -on the wind, never moving their wings. That’s what seems no trouble, so -easy; not too hot nor too cold, nor tiring, neither to the breath nor -anything. I shouldn’t like to leave you. No—But then:” she added, with -a smile, “I should not require to leave you. I’d—I’d—What was I -saying? Moulsey, will you please give me some—more—”</p> - -<p>She held out her hand again for the glass which Moulsey had just put -down.</p> - -<p>“It makes me strong—it makes me speak. I’m—sinking away again, Bee. -Hold me—hold me tight. If I was to slip away—down—down—down to the -cellars or somewhere.” The feeble laugh was dreadful for the listeners -to hear.</p> - -<p>“Run,” cried Moulsey, in Bee’s ear, “the doctor—the doctor! in the -library.”</p> - -<p>And then there was a strange phantasmagoria that seemed to fill the -night, one scene melting into another. The doctor rousing from his doze, -his measured step coming back; the little struggle round the bed; -Moulsey giving place to the still darker shadow; the glow of Mrs. -Kingsward’s flushed and feverish countenance between; then the quiet, -and then again sleep—sleep broken by feeble movements, by the quick -panting of the breath.</p> - -<p>“She’ll be easier now,” the doctor said. “You must go to bed, my dear -young lady. Moulsey can manage for the rest of the night.”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” said Bee, with something in her throat that stopped the words, -“doctor—will she—must she? Oh, doctor, say that is not what it means? -One of us, it would not matter, but mother—mother!”</p> - -<p>“It is not in our hands,” the doctor said. “It is not much we can do. -Don’t look at me as if I were God. It is little, little I can do.”</p> - -<p>“They say,” cried poor Bee, “that you can do anything. It is when there -is no doctor, no nurse that people—— Oh, my mother—my mother! Doctor, -don’t let it be.”</p> - -<p>“You are but a child,” said the doctor, patting her kindly on the -shoulder, “you’ve not forgotten how to say your prayers. That’s the -only thing for you to do. Those that say such things of doctors know -very little. We stand and look on. Say your prayers, little girl—if -they do her no good, they’ll do you good. And now she’ll have a little -sleep.”</p> - -<p>Bee caught him by the arm. “Sleep,” she said, looking at him -suspiciously. “Sleep?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sleep—that may give her strength for another day. Oh, ask no -more, child. Life is not mine to give.”</p> - -<p>What a night! Out of doors it was moonlight as serene as heaven—the -moon departing in the west, and another faint light that was day coming -on the other side, and the first birds beginning to stir in the -branches; but not even baby moving in the house. All fast asleep, safe -as if trouble never was, as if death could not be. Bee went upstairs to -her chill, white room, where the white bed, unoccupied, looked to her -like death itself—all cold, dreadful, full of suggestion. Bee’s heart -was more heavy than could be told. She had nothing to fall back upon, no -secret strength to uphold her. She had forgotten how wretched she had -been, but she felt it, nevertheless, behind the present anguish. -Nevertheless, she was only nineteen, and when she flung herself down to -cry upon her white pillow—only to cry, to get her passion -out—beneficent nature took hold of the girl and made her sleep. She did -not wake for hours. Was it beneficent? For when she was roused by the -opening of the door and sat up in her bed, and found herself still -dressed in her evening frock, with her little necklace round her throat, -there pressed back upon Bee such a flood of misery and trouble as she -thought did not exist in the world.</p> - -<p>“Miss Bee, Miss Bee! Master’s come home. He’s been travelling all -night—and I dare not disturb Mrs. Moulsey in Missis’s room; and he -wants to see you this minit, please. Oh, come, come, quick, and don’t -keep the Colonel waiting,” the woman said.</p> - -<p>Half awakened, but wholly miserable, Bee sprang up and rushed downstairs -to her father. He came forward to meet her at the door, frowning and -pale.</p> - -<p>“What is this I hear?” he said. “What have you been doing to upset your -mother? She was well enough when I went away. What have you been doing -to your mother? You children are the plague of our lives!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> week passed in the sombre hurry yet tedium of a house lying under -the shadow of death—that period during which when it is night we long -for morning, and when it is morning we long for night, hoping always for -the hope that never comes, trembling to mark the progress which does go -on silently towards the end.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was rough and angry with Bee that first morning, to -her consternation and dismay. She had never been the object of her -father’s anger before, and this hasty and imperious questioning seemed -to take all power of reply out of her. “What had she been doing to her -mother?” She! to her mother! Bee was too much frightened by his -threatening look, the cloud on his face, the fire in his eyes, to say -anything. Her mind ran hurriedly over all that had happened, and that -last terrible visit, which had changed the whole aspect of the earth to -herself. But it was to herself that this stroke of misfortune had come, -and not to her mother. A gleam of answering anger came into Bee’s eyes, -sombre with the unhappiness which had been pushed aside by more -immediate suffering, yet was still there like a black background, to -frame whatever other miseries might come after. As for Colonel -Kingsward, it was to him, as to so many men, a relief to blame somebody -for the trouble which was unbearable. The blow was approaching which he -had never allowed himself to believe in. He had blamed his wife -instinctively, involuntarily, at the first hearing of every -inconvenience in life; and it had helped to accustom him to the -annoyance to think that it was her fault. He had done so in what he -called this unfortunate business of Bee’s, concluding that but for Mrs. -Kingsward’s weakness, Mr. Aubrey Leigh and his affairs would never have -become of any importance to the family. He had blamed her, too, and -greatly, for that weakening of health which he had so persistently -endeavoured to convince himself did not mean half so much as the doctors -said. Women are so idiotic in these respects. They will insist on -wearing muslin and lace when they ought to wear flannel. They will put -on evening dresses when they ought to be clothed warmly to the throat, -and shoes made of paper when they ought to be solidly and stoutly shod, -quite indifferent to the trouble and anxiety they may cause to their -family. And now that Mrs. Kingsward’s state had got beyond the -possibility of reproach, he turned upon his daughter. It must be her -fault. Her mother had been better or he should not have left her. The -quiet of the country was doing her good; if she had not been agitated -all would have been well. But Bee, with all her declarations of devotion -to her mother; Bee, the eldest, who ought to have had some sense; Bee -had brought on this trumpery love business to overset the delicate -equilibrium which he himself, a man with affairs so much more important -in hand, had refrained from disturbing. It did him a little good, -unhappy and anxious as he was, to pour out his wrath upon Bee. And she -did not reply. She did not shed tears, as her mother had weakly done in -similar circumstances, or attempt excuses. Even if he had been -sufficiently at leisure to note it, an answering fire awoke in Bee’s -eyes. He had not leisure to note, but he perceived it all the same.</p> - -<p>Presently, however, every faculty, every thought, became absorbed in -that sick chamber; things had still to be thought of outside of it, but -they seemed strange, artificial things, having no connection with life. -Then Charlie was summoned from Oxford, and the younger boys from school, -which increased the strange commotion of the house, adding that restless -element of young life which had no place there, nothing to do with -itself, and which roused an almost frenzied irritation in Colonel -Kingsward when he saw any attempt on the part of the poor boys to amuse -themselves, or resume their usual occupations. “Clods!” he said; “young -brutes! They would play tennis if the world were falling to pieces.” And -again that glance of fire came into Bee’s eyes, marked unconsciously, -though he did not know he had seen it, by her father. The boys hung -about her when she stole out for a little air, one at each arm. “How is -mother, Bee? She’s no worse? Don’t you think we might go over to -Hillside for that tournament? Don’t you think Fred might play in the -parish match with Siddemore? They’re so badly off for bowlers. Don’t you -think——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think it would be much better for you to be doing something, -boys; but, then, papa might hear, and he would be angry. If we could but -keep it from papa.”</p> - -<p>“We’re doing mother no good,” said Fred.</p> - -<p>“How could we do mother good? Why did the governor send for us, Bee, -only to kick our heels here, and get into mischief? A fellow can’t help -getting into mischief when he has nothing to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” repeated Fred, “what did he send for us for? I wish mother was -better. I suppose as soon as she’s better we’ll be packed off again.”</p> - -<p>They were big boys, but they did not understand the possibility of their -mother not getting better, and, indeed, neither did Bee. When morning -followed morning and nothing happened, it seemed to her that getting -better was the only conclusion to be looked for. If it had been Death -that was coming, surely it must have come by this time. Her hopes rose -with every new day.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Kingsward had been greatly agitated by the sight of Charlie -when he was allowed to see her. “Why has Charlie come home?” she said. -“Was he sent for? Was it your father that brought him? Charlie, my dear, -what are you doing here? Why have you come back? You should have been -going on with—— Did your father send for you? Why—why did your father -send for you, my boy?”</p> - -<p>“I thought,” said Charlie, quite unmanned by the sight of her, and by -this unexpected question, and by all he had been told about her state, -“I thought—you wanted to see me, mother.”</p> - -<p>“I always like to see you—but not to take you away from—— And why -was he sent for, Moulsey? Does the doctor think?—does my husband -think?——”</p> - -<p>Her feverish colour grew brighter and brighter. Her eyes shone with a -burning eagerness. She put her hot hand upon that of her son. “Was it to -say good-bye to me?” she said, with a strange flutter of a smile.</p> - -<p>At the same time an argument on the same subject was going on between -the doctor and the Colonel.</p> - -<p>“What can the children do in a sick room? Keep them away. I should never -have sent for them if you had consulted me. It is bad enough to have let -her see Charlie, summoned express—do you want to frighten your wife to -death?”</p> - -<p>“There can be no question,” said the Colonel, “if what you tell me is -true, of frightening her to death. I think, Benson, that a patient in -such circumstances ought to know. She ought to be told——”</p> - -<p>“What?” the doctor said, sharply, with a harsh tone in his voice.</p> - -<p>“What? Do you need to ask? Of her state—of what is imminent—that she -is going to——”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward loved his wife truly, and he could not say those last -words.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the doctor, “going to——? Well, we hope it’s to One who has -called her, that knows all about it, Kingsward. Doctors are not supposed -to take that view much, but I do. I’d tell her nothing of the sort. I -would not agitate her either with the sight of the children or those -heathenish thoughts about dying. Well, I suppose you’ll take your own -way, if you think she’s in danger of damnation; but you see I don’t. I -think where she’s going she’ll find more consideration and more -understanding than ever she got here.”</p> - -<p>“You are all infidels—every one of you,” said Colonel Kingsward; “you -would let a soul rush unprepared into the presence of—”</p> - -<p>“Her Father,” said Doctor Benson. “So I would; if he’s her Father he’ll -take care of that. And if he’s only a Judge, you know, a Judge is an -extraordinarily considerate person. He leaves no means untried of coming -to a right decision. I would rather trust my case in the hands of the -Bench than make up my own little plea any day. And, anyhow you can put -it, the Supreme Judge must be better than the best Bench that ever was. -Leave her alone. She’s safer with Him than either with you or me.”</p> - -<p>“It’s an argument I never would pardon—in my own case. I shudder at the -thought of being plunged into eternity without the time to—to -think—to—to prepare——”</p> - -<p>“But if your preparations are all seen through from the beginning? If -it’s just as well known then, or better, what you are thinking, or -trying to think, to make yourself ready for that event? You knew -yourself, more or less, didn’t you, when you were in active service, the -excuses a wretched private would make when he was hauled up, and how he -would try to make the worse appear the better cause. Were you moved by -that, Colonel Kingsward? Didn’t you know the man, and judge him by what -you knew?”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me a very undignified argument; there’s no analogy between -a wretched private and my—and my—and one of us—at the Judgment Seat.”</p> - -<p>“No—it’s more like one of your boys making up the defence—when brought -before you—and the poor boy would need it too,” Dr. Benson added -within himself. But naturally he made no impression with his argument, -whether it was good or bad, upon his hearer. Colonel Kingsward was in -reality a very unhappy man. He had nobody to blame for the dreadful -misfortune which was threatening him except God, for whom he entertained -only a great terror as of an overwhelming tyrannical Power ready to -catch him at any moment when he neglected the observances or rites -necessary to appease it. He was very particular in these -observances—going to church, keeping up family prayers, contributing -his proper and carefully calculated proportion to the charities, &c. -Nobody could say of him that he was careless or negligent. And now how -badly was his devotion repaid!—by the tearing away from him of the -companion of his life. But he felt that there was still much more that -the awful Master of the Universe might inflict, perhaps upon her if she -was not prepared to meet her God. He was wretched till he had told her, -warned her, till she had fulfilled everything that was necessary, seen -a clergyman, and got herself into the state of mind becoming a dying -person. He had collected all the children that she might take leave of -them in a becoming way. He had, so far as he knew, thought of everything -to make her exit from the world a right one in all the forms—and now to -be told that he was not to agitate her, that the God whom he wished to -prepare her to meet knew more of her and understood her better than he -did! Agitate her! When the alternative might be unspeakable miseries of -punishment, instead of the acquittal which would have to be given to a -soul properly prepared. These arguments did not in the least change his -purpose, but they fretted and irritated him beyond measure. At the -bottom of all, the idea that anybody should know better than he what was -the right thing for his own wife was an intolerable thought.</p> - -<p>He went in and out of her room with that irritated, though -self-controlled look, which she knew so well. He had never shown it to -the world, and when he had demanded of her in his angry way why this was -and that, and how on earth such and such things had happened, Mrs. -Kingsward had till lately taken it so sweetly that he had not himself -suspected how heavy it was upon her. And when she had begun to show -signs of being unable to bear the responsibility of everything in earth -and heaven, the Colonel had felt himself an injured man. There were -signs that he might eventually throw that responsibility on Bee. But in -the meantime he had nobody to blame, as has been said, and the burden of -irritation and disturbance was heavy upon him.</p> - -<p>The next morning after his talk with Dr. Brown he came in with that -clouded brow to find Charlie by her bedside. The Colonel came up and -stood looking at the face on the pillow, now wan in the reaction of the -fever, and utterly weak, but still smiling at his approach.</p> - -<p>“I have been telling Charlie,” she said, in her faint voice, “that he -must go back to his college. Why should he waste his time here?”</p> - -<p>“He will not go back yet,” said Colonel Kingsward; “are you feeling a -little better this morning, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not to call ill at all,” said the sufferer. “Weak—a sort of -sinking, floating away. I take hold of somebody’s hand to keep me from -falling through. Isn’t it ridiculous?” she said, after a little pause.</p> - -<p>“Your weakness is very great,” said the husband, almost sternly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Edward. It’s more silly than anything—when I am not really -ill, you know. I’ve got Charlie’s hand here under the counterpane,” she -said again, with her faint little laugh.</p> - -<p>“You won’t always have Charlie’s hand, or anyone’s hand, Lucy.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with a little anxiety.</p> - -<p>“No, no. I’ll get stronger, perhaps, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“Do you feel as if you were at all stronger, my dear?”</p> - -<p>She loosed her son’s hand, giving him a little troubled smile. “Go away -now, Charlie dear. I don’t believe you’ve had your breakfast. I want to -speak to—papa.” Then she waited, looking wistfully in her husband’s -face till the door had closed. “You have something to say to me, Edward. -Oh, what is it? Nothing has happened to anyone?”</p> - -<p>“No, nothing has happened,” he said. He turned away and walked to the -window, then came back again, turning his head half-way from her as he -spoke. “It is only that you are, my poor darling—weaker every day.”</p> - -<p>“Does the doctor think so?” she said, with a little eagerness, with a -faint suffusion of colour in her face.</p> - -<p>He did not say anything—could not perhaps—but slightly moved his head.</p> - -<p>“Weaker every day, and that means, Edward!” She put out her thin, hot -hands. “That means——”</p> - -<p>The man could not say anything. He could do his duty grimly, but when -the moment came he could not put it into words. He sank down on the -chair Charlie had left, and put down his face on the pillow, his large -frame shaken by sobs which he could not restrain.</p> - -<p>These sobs made Mrs. Kingsward forget the meaning of this communication -altogether. She put her hands upon him trying to raise his head. -“Edward! Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry! I have never seen you cry in all my -life. Edward, for goodness’ sake! You will kill me if you go on sobbing -like that. Oh, Edward, Edward, I never saw you cry before.”</p> - -<p>Moulsey had darted forward from some shadowy corner where she was and -gripped him by the arm.</p> - -<p>“Stop, sir—stop it,” she cried, in an authoritative whisper, “or you’ll -kill her.”</p> - -<p>He flung Moulsey off and raised his head a little from the pillow.</p> - -<p>“You have never seen me with any such occasion before,” he said, taking -her hands into his and kissing them repeatedly.</p> - -<p>He was not a man of many caresses, and her heart was touched with a -feeble sense of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Dear!” she said softly, “dear!” feebly drawing a little nearer to him -to put her cheek against his.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked up as soon as he was able and saw her lying -smiling at him, her hand in his, her eyes full of that wonderful liquid -light which belongs to great weakness. The small worn face was all -illuminated with smiles; it was like the face of a child—or perhaps an -angel. He looked at first with awe, then with doubt and alarm. Had he -failed after all in the commission which he had executed at so much cost -to himself, and against the doctor’s orders? He had been afraid for the -moment of the sight of her despair—and now he was frightened by her -look of ease, the absence of all perturbations. Had she not understood -him? Would it have to be told again, more severely, more distinctly, -this dreadful news?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Kingsward</span> said nothing of the communication her husband had made to -her. Did she understand it? He went about heavily all day, pondering the -matter, going and coming to her room, trying in vain to make out what -was in her mind. But he could not divine what was in that mind, hidden -from him in those veils of individual existence which never seemed to -him to have been so baffling before. In the afternoon she had heard, -somehow, the voices of the elder boys, and had asked if they were there, -and had sent for them. The two big fellows, with the mud on their boots -and the scent of the fresh air about them, stood huddled together, -speechless with awe and grief, by the bedside, when their father came -in. They did not know what to say to their mother in such circumstances. -They had never talked to her about herself, but always about themselves; -and now they were entirely at a loss after they had said, “How are you, -mamma? Are you very bad, mamma? Oh, I’m so sorry;” and “Oh, I wish you -were better.” What could boys of twelve and fourteen say? For the moment -they felt as if their hearts were broken; but they did not want to stay -there; they had nothing to say to her. Their pang of sudden trouble was -confused with shyness and awkwardness, and their consciousness that she -was altogether in another atmosphere and another world. Mrs. Kingsward -was not a clever woman, but she understood miraculously what was in -those inarticulate young souls. She kissed them both, drawing each close -to her for a moment, and then bade them run away. “Were you having a -good game?” she said, with that ineffable, feeble smile. “Go and finish -it, my darlings.” And they stumbled out very awkwardly, startled to meet -their father’s look as they turned round, and greatly disturbed and -mystified altogether, though consoled somehow by their mother’s look.</p> - -<p>They said to each other after a while that she looked “jolly bad,” but -that she was in such good spirits it must be all right.</p> - -<p>Their father was as much mystified as they; but he was troubled in -conscience, as if he had not spoken plainly enough, had not made it -clear enough what “her state” was. She had not asked for the -clergyman—she had not asked for anything. Was it necessary that he -should speak again? There was one thing she had near her, but that so -fantastic a thing!—a photograph—one of the quantities of such rubbish -the girls and she had brought home—a woman wrapped in a mantle floating -in the air.</p> - -<p>“Take that thing away,” he said to Moulsey. It irritated him to see a -frivolous thing like that—a twopenny-halfpenny photograph—so near his -wife’s bed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t take it away,” she said, in the whisper to which her voice had -sunk; “it gives me such pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“Pleasure!” he cried; even to speak of pleasure was wrong at such a -moment. And then he added, “Would you like me to read to you? Would you -like to see—anyone?”</p> - -<p>“To see anyone? Whom should I wish to see but you, Edward, and the -children?”</p> - -<p>“We haven’t been—so religious, my dear, as perhaps we ought,” stammered -the anxious man. “If I sent for—Mr. Baldwin perhaps, to read the -prayers for the sick and—and talk to you a little?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with some wonder for a moment, and then she said, with -a smile, “Yes, yes; by all means, Edward, if you like it.”</p> - -<p>“I shall certainly like it, my dearest; and it is right—it is what we -should all wish to do at the——” He could not say at the last—he could -not say when we are dying—it was too much for him; but certainly she -must understand now. And he went away hurriedly to call the clergyman, -that no more time might be lost.</p> - -<p>“Moulsey,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “have we come then quite—to the end -now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ma’am! Oh, my dear lady!” Moulsey said.</p> - -<p>“My husband—seems to think so. It is a little hard—to leave them all. -Where is Bee?”</p> - -<p>“I am here, mamma,” said a broken voice; and the mother’s hand was -caught and held tight, as she liked it to be. “May Betty come too?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, let Betty come. It is you I want, not Mr. Baldwin.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Baldwin is a good man, ma’am. He’ll be a comfort to them and to the -Colonel.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose so; he will be a comfort to—your father. But I don’t -want anyone. I haven’t done very much harm——”</p> - -<p>“No! oh, no, ma’am, none!” said Moulsey, while Betty, thrown on her -knees by the bedside, tried to smother her sobs; and Bee, worn out and -feeling as if she felt nothing, sat and held her mother’s hand.</p> - -<p>“But, then,” she said, “I’ve never, never, done any good.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! my dear lady, my dear lady! And all the poor people, and all the -children.”</p> - -<p>“Hush! Moulsey. I never gave anything—not a bit of bread, not a -shilling—but because I liked to do it. Never! oh, never from any good -motive. I always liked to do it. It was my pleasure. It never cost me -anything. I have done no good in my life. I just liked the poor -children, that was all, and thought if they were my own—— Oh, Bee and -Betty, try to be better women—different from me.”</p> - -<p>Betty, who was so young, crept nearer and nearer on her knees, till she -came to the head of the bed. She lifted up her tear-stained face, -“Mother! oh, mother! are you frightened?” she cried.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward put forth her other arm and put it freely round the -weeping girl. “Perhaps I ought to be, perhaps I ought to be!” she said, -with a little thrill and quaver.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Betty, pushing closer and closer, almost pushing Bee -away, “if I had been wicked, ever so wicked, I shouldn’t be frightened -for you.”</p> - -<p>A heavenly smile came over the woman’s face. “I should think not, -indeed.”</p> - -<p>And then Betty, in the silence of the room, put her hands together and -said very softly, “Our Father, which art in Heaven—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, children, children,” cried Moulsey, “don’t break our hearts! She’s -too weak to bear it. Leave her alone.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, go away, children dear—go away. I have to rest—to see Mr. -Baldwin.” Then she smiled, and said in gasps, “To tell the -truth—I’m—I’m not afraid; look—” She pointed to the picture by her -bedside. “So easy—so easy! Just resting—and the Saviour will put out -his hand and take me in.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Baldwin came soon after—the good Rector, who was a good man, but -who believed he had the keys, and that what he bound on earth was bound -in Heaven—or, at least, he thought he believed so—with Colonel -Kingsward, who felt that he was thus fulfilling all righteousness, and -that this was the proper way in which to approach the everlasting doors. -He put away the little picture in which Catherine of Siena lay in the -hold of the angels, in the perfect peace of life accomplished, the rest -that was so easy and so sweet—hastily with displeasure and contempt. He -did not wish the Rector to see the childish thing in which his wife had -taken pleasure, nor even that she had been taking pleasure at all at -such a solemn moment; even that she should smile the same smile of -welcome with which she would have greeted her kind neighbour had she -been in her usual place in the drawing-room disturbed her husband. So -near death and yet able to think of that! He watched her face as the -Rector read the usual prayers. Did she enter into them—did she -understand them? He could scarcely join in them himself in his anxiety -to make sure that she felt and knew what was her “state,” and was -preparing—preparing to meet her God. That God was awaiting severely the -appearance of that soul before him, the Colonel could not but feel. He -would not have said so in words, but the instinctive conviction in his -heart was so. When she looked round for the little picture it hurt him -like a sting. Oh, if she would but think of the things that concerned -her peace—not of follies, childish distractions, amusements for the -fancy. On her side, the poor lady was conscious more or less of all that -was going on, understood here and there the prayers that were going over -her head, prayers of others for her, rather than anything to be said by -herself. In the midst of them, she felt herself already like St. -Catherine, floating away into ineffable peace, then coming back again to -hear the sacred words, to see the little circle round her on their -knees, and to smile upon them in an utter calm of weakness without pain, -feeling only that they were good to her, thinking of her, which was -sweet, but knowing little more.</p> - -<p>It was the most serene and cloudless night after that terrible day. A -little after Colonel Kingsward had left the room finally and shut -himself up in his study, Moulsey took the two girls out into the garden, -through a window which opened upon it. “Children, go and breathe the -sweet air. I’ll not have you in a room to break your hearts. Look up -yonder—yonder where she’s gone,” said the kind nurse who had done -everything for their mother. And they stole out—the two little ghosts, -overborne with the dreadful burden of humanity, the burden which none of -us can shake off, and crept across the grass to the seat where she had -been used to sit among the children. The night was peace itself—not a -breath stirring, a young moon with something wistful in her light -looking down, making the garden bright as with a softened ethereal day. -A line of white cloud dimly detached from the softness of the blue lay -far off towards the west amid the radiance, a long faint line as of -something in the far distance. Bee and Betty stood and gazed at it with -eyes and hearts over-charged, each leaning upon the other. Their young -souls were touched with awe and an awful quiet. They were too near the -departure to have fallen down as yet into the vacancy and emptiness of -re-awakening life. “Oh,” they said, “if that should be her!” And why -should it not be? Unless perhaps there was a quicker way. They watched -it with that sob in the throat which is of all sounds and sensations the -most overwhelming. It seemed to them as if they were watching her a -little further on her way, to the very horizon, till the soft distance -closed over, and that speck like a sail upon the sea could be seen no -more. And when it was gone they sank down together upon her seat, under -the trees she loved, where the children had played and tumbled on the -grass about her, and talked of her in broken words, a little phrase now -and then, sometimes only “Mother,” or “Oh, mamma, mamma,” now from one, -now from another—in that first extraordinary exaltation and anguish -which is not yet grief.</p> - -<p>They did not know how long they had been there when something stirred in -the bushes, and the two big boys, Arthur and Fred, came heavily into -sight, holding each other by the arm. The boys were bewildered, heavy -and miserable, not knowing what to do with themselves nor where to go. -But they came up with a purpose, which was a little ease in the trouble. -It cost them a little convulsion of reluctant crying before they could -get out what they had to say. Then it came out in broken words from both -together. “Bee, there’s someone wants to speak to you at the gate.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! who could want to speak to me—to-night? I cannot speak to anyone; -you might have known.”</p> - -<p>“Bee,” said Arthur, the eldest, “it isn’t just—anyone; it’s—we thought -you would perhaps—”</p> - -<p>“He told us,” said Fred, “who he was; and begged so hard—”</p> - -<p>Then there came back upon poor Bee all the other trouble that she had -pushed away from her. Her heart seemed to grow hard and cold after all -the softening and tenderness of this dreadful yet heavenly hour. “I will -see no one—no one,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” said the boys, “we shut the gate upon him; but he took hold of -our hands, and—and cried, too.” They had to stop and swallow the sob -before either could say any more. “He said she was his best friend. He -said he couldn’t bear it no more than us. And if you would only speak to -him.”</p> - -<p>Bee got up from her mother’s seat; her poor little heart swelled in her -bosom as if it would burst. Oh! how was she to bear all this—to bear it -all—to have no one to help her! “No, no, I will not. I will not!” she -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee,” cried Betty, “if it is Aubrey—poor Aubrey! She was fond of -him. She would not like him to be left out. Oh, Bee, come; come and -speak to him. Suppose one of us were alone, with nobody to say mother’s -name to!”</p> - -<p>“No, I will not,” said Bee. “Oh! Betty, mother knows why; she knows.”</p> - -<p>“What does she know?” cried Betty, pleading. “She was fond of him. I am -fond of him, without thinking of you, for mother’s sake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me go! I am going in; I am going to her. I wish, I wish she had -taken me with her! No, no, no! I will never see him more.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Betty to the boys, pushing them away, “that she is not -quite herself. Tell him she’s not herself. Say she’s not able to speak -to anyone, and we can’t move her. And—and give poor Aubrey—oh, poor -Aubrey!—my love.”</p> - -<p>The boys turned away on their mission, crossing the gravel path with a -commotion of their heavy feet which seemed to fill the air with echoes.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward heard it from his study, though that was closed up -from any influence outside. He opened his window and came out, standing -a black figure surrounded by the moonlight. “Who is there?” he said. -“Are there any of you so lost to all feeling as to be out in the -garden, of all nights in the world on this night?”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Aubrey Leigh</span> had been living a troubled life during the time which had -elapsed since the swallowing up in the country of the family in which he -had become so suddenly interested, of which, for a short time, he had felt -himself a member, and from which, as he felt, he could never be -separated, whatever arbitrary laws might be made by its head. When they -disappeared from London, which was done so suddenly, he was much cast -down for the moment, but, as he had the fullest faith in Bee, and was -sustained by her independence of character and determined to stand by -him whatever happened, he was, though anxious and full of agitation, -neither despairing nor even in very low spirits. To be sure there were -moments in which his heart sank, recalling the blank countenance of the -father, and the too gentle and yielding disposition of the mother, and -Bee’s extreme youth and habits of obedience to both. He felt how much -there was to be said against himself—a man who had been forced into -circumstances of danger which nobody but himself could fully understand, -and against which his whole being had revolted, though he could say but -little on the subject. And, indeed, who was to understand that a man -might yield to a sudden temptation which he despised and hated, and that -he could not even explain that this was so, laying the blackest blame -upon another—to a man, and still less to a woman; which last was -impossible, and not even to be thought of. He might tell it, perhaps, to -his mother, and there was a possibility of help there; though even there -a hundred difficulties existed. But he was not wound up to that last -appeal, and he felt, at first, but little fear of the eventual result He -was assured of Bee’s faithfulness, and how could any parent stand out -against Bee? Not even, he tried to persuade himself, the stern Colonel, -who had so crushed himself. And she had received his first letters, and -had answered them, professing her determination never to be coerced in -this respect.</p> - -<p>He was agitated, his life was full of excitement, and speculation, and -trouble. But this is nothing dreadful in a young man’s life. It was -perhaps better, more enlivening, more vivid, than the delights of an -undisturbed love-making, followed by a triumphant marriage. It is well -sometimes that the course of true love should not run smooth. He thought -himself unhappy in being separated from Bee; but the keen delight of her -determination to stand by him for good or evil, her faith in him, her -championship, and the conviction that this being so all must come right -in the end, was like a stream of bright fresh water flowing through the -somewhat sombre flat of his existence. It had been very sombre in the -early days of what people thought his youthful happiness—very flat, -monotonous, yet with ignoble contentions in it. Bee’s sunshiny nature, -full of lights and shadows, had changed the whole landscape, and now -the excitement of this struggle for her, changed it still more. It might -be a hard battle, but they would win in the end. Whether he, a somewhat -unlucky fellow, would have done so was very doubtful—but for her the -stars would fight in their courses. Everything would be overturned in -the world, rather than that Bee should be made miserable, and since she -had set her dear heart on him, on his behalf too the very elements would -fight, for how otherwise could Bee be made happy? The argument was -without a flaw.</p> - -<p>This was his reasoning, never put, I need not say, into any formula of -words, yet vaguely believed in, and forming a source of the brightest -exhilaration in his life, rousing all combative influences by the power -of that hope of success which was a certainty in such a case. This -exhilaration was crossed by the blackest of disappointments, and -threatened to become despair when for days he had no sign of existence -from Bee: but that after all was only a keener excitement—the sting of -anxiety which makes after satisfaction more sweet. And then he was -consoled to hear of Mrs. Kingsward’s illness, which explained -everything. Not that Aubrey was selfish enough to rejoice in that poor -lady’s suffering. He would have been shocked and horrified by the -thought. But then it was no unusual thing for Mrs. Kingsward to be ill; -it is not unusual, a young man so easily thinks, for any middle-aged -person to be ill—and in so many cases it does not seem to do them much -harm; whereas it did him much good—for it explained the silence of Bee!</p> - -<p>And then it came to Aubrey’s ears that Mrs. Kingsward was very -ill—worse than she had ever been before; and then that all the family -had been summoned that she was dying. Such rumours spread like -wildfire—they get into the air—nobody knows how they come. He went -down to the village nearest Kingswarden, and found a lodging there, when -this news reached him, and endeavoured to send a note to Bee, to let her -know he was at hand. But in the trouble of the house this note, sent by -a private hand—always in these days an unsafe method—was somehow lost -and never reached her. He hung about the house in the evenings, -avoiding on various occasions an encounter with Charlie, who was not -friendly, and with the Colonel, who was his enemy. These two were the -only members of the family visible outside the gates of -Kingswarden—until he managed to identify the two boys, whose -disconsolate wanderings about pointed them out to him, and who did not -know, therefore had no hostility or suspicion of the stranger who -inquired after their mother so anxiously. Everybody inquired after their -mother. It was nothing strange to them to be stopped on the road with -this question. It was thus at last, hearing the final blow had fallen, -Aubrey had ventured to send a message, to ask for a word from Bee. The -thought of what the girl must be suffering in her first grief, and to -feel himself so near her—almost within hearing—yet altogether shut -out, was more than he could bear. He pushed in within the gate, into the -shelter of the shrubbery, and there he stopped short, bound by invisible -restraints. It was the home of his love, and yet it was the house of his -enemy. He could not take advantage of the darkness of the night and of -the misery of the moment to violate the sanctuary of a man soul-stricken -by such trouble. But from where he stood he could see the little group -of shadows under the tree. And how could he go away and not say a word -to her—not take her in his arms, tell her his heart was with her, and -that he was a mourner too? “Ask Bee to speak to me. Ask her to speak to -me—only for a moment. I am Aubrey Leigh,” he said to the two brothers, -taking an arm of each, imploring them. The boys did not know much about -Aubrey Leigh, but still they had heard the name. And they were overawed -by his earnestness; the sound of his voice which, full of passion and -feeling as it was, was strange to their undeveloped consciousness. They -took his message, as we have seen, and then there came a mysterious -moment which Aubrey could not understand. He could not hear what was -said, but he was conscious of a resistance, of denial, and that Bee did -not make a step towards him; that she recoiled rather than advanced. -Though he could scarcely see anything distinctly, he could see -that—that there was no impulse towards him, but rather the reverse; -that Bee did not wish to come. And then the harsh voice of the Colonel -broke the spell of the quiet, of the mournful, tranquil night, which it -was so easy for a roused imagination to think was penetrated, too, by -the sentiment of sorrow and of peace. The Colonel’s voice put every -gentler vision to flight. “Is it possible that any of you are out here -in the garden—of all nights in the world on this night?” Oh! the very -night of all nights to be there—in the first awe and silence, watching -her pass, as it were, to the very gates of Heaven! Perhaps, it was -unawares from Bee’s mind that this idea came to his—“to watch her -ascending, trailing clouds of glory,” as the poet said; but that was the -spirit coming and not going. These thoughts flew through his mind in the -shock and irritation of the Colonel’s voice. And then the shadows under -the tree seemed to fly away and disperse, and silence fell upon all -around, the great ghostly trees standing up immovable like muffled -giants in the moonlight, their shadows making lines and heavy clumps of -blackness on the turf, the late roses showing pale in the distance, the -garden paths white and desolate. A moment more, and the harsh sound, -almost angry, of the Colonel’s window shutting, of bolts and bars, and a -final closing up of everything came unkindly upon the hushed air. And -then the moonlight reached the shut up house, all unresponsive, with -death in it, with one faint light burning in the large window upstairs, -showing where the gentle inmate lay who needed light no more. Strange -prejudice of humanity that put out all the lights for sleep, but -surrounds death with them, that no careless spirit may mistake for a -common chamber the place where that last majesty lies.</p> - -<p>Aubrey stood alone in this hushed and silent world. His heart was as -heavy as a stone, heavy with grief for the friend who had passed for -ever out of his life. He had not known perhaps till now what he too had -lost—a friend, who would not have forsaken him not a very strong -champion to fight for him; but a friend that never, whatever might be -said, would have refused to hear him, refused to give him her sympathy. -Had Bee, his own Bee, refused? The young man was bewildered beyond the -power of thought. Was it his fault to have come too soon? Was it an -outrage to be there on the night of the mother’s death? But there was no -outrage in his thoughts, not even any selfishness. It was her he had -been thinking of, not himself; that she might feel there was someone -whose thoughts were all hers, who was herself, not another, feeling with -her, mourning with her, her very own to take the half of her burden. He -had felt that he could not be far away while Bee was in trouble—that -even to stand outside would be something, would somehow lighten her -load, would make her feel in the very air a consciousness of the mighty -love that would</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">cleave in twain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The lading of a single pain<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And part it giving half to him.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>His heart, which had so gone out to her, seemed to come back confused, -with all the life out of it, full of wonder and dismay. Had she rejected -him and his sympathy? Was it the fault of the others, the boys who did -not know what to say? Was she angry that he should come so soon? But it -was now, immediately on the very stroke of the distress, that love -should come. He stood for a long time silent, bewildered, not knowing -what to think. Was it possible that she could have misunderstood him, -have thought that he had come here only to beguile her into his arms, to -take advantage of an opportunity? It pained poor Aubrey to the heart to -think that she might have thought so. Ah! Mrs. Kingsward would not have -done it, would not have let Bee do it. But she lay there, where the -light was, never to say anything more: and Bee—Bee!</p> - -<p>He got out of the little park that surrounded Kingswarden by the stile -near the village, some time after, he did not know how long. He thought -it was in the middle of the night. The moon had set, everything was -dark, and all the cottagers asleep. But time is long to watchers -unaccustomed to long vigils, and the lights were not out at the small -inn in the village where he was lodging. He found the master of the -house and his wife talking at the door in subdued tones, over the event -of the evening. “She was always a weakly body, but she’ll be sore -missed,” the woman said. “She kept everything going. The Colonel, he’ll -not have a servant left as will put up with him in three months. You -take my word. She kept all straight. Lord, that’s how women mostly -is—no account as long as they’re living—and then you finds the want o’ -them when they’re gone.”</p> - -<p>“Here you are, mister,” said the landlord; “we thought as you was lost. -It was a fine night, tempting for a walk. But it’s clouding over now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, sir, nought of the sort,” said the woman. “My master here, he -never goes to bed afore the middle of the night, he don’t, and it’s an -excuse for not getting up in the mornin’. But you’ll have to be early -to-morrow, Gregg, you take my word, for there’ll be undertakers’ men and -that sort down from London, and I’ll not be bothered with them, mind you -that.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you’re right this time,” said the man. “They drinks a deal to -keep up their spirits, being as it is a kind of depressing trade.”</p> - -<p>“If I hear you laugh again like that!—and the missis lying in her -coffin! Don’t you think, sir, as he’s got no feeling. He puts it off -like with a laugh not to cry. I was kitchen-maid up there, and he was -groom in the old days, and many and many’s the kindness she done to me -and mine. Oh, and such a pretty lady and sweet—and a young family left -just at the ages that most need a mother’s care.”</p> - -<p>“They’re all ages, Molly, if you come to that.”</p> - -<p>“Well, and don’t they want a mother’s care at all ages? What would you -do with my children if I was took, John Gregg? And the Colonel, he’s -just a helpless man like you are. The only hope is as Miss Bee will turn -out like her mother. I always thought she favoured Missis, though some -said it was the Colonel she was like. It’s a dreadful charge for her, -poor thing, at her age; but if she takes after the Missis there will be -some hope for them,” the woman said.</p> - -<p>“I thought as Miss Bee was going to be married?” said the landlord.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all broken off,” she said, “and a good thing too, seeing -what’s happened, for what could ever little Miss Betty do?”</p> - -<p>Aubrey, who had lingered listening, went slowly up the narrow wooden -stair to his shabby little room as the pair locked the door and put out -their lights. He heard them carrying on the conversation in the kitchen -underneath for a few minutes before they, too, in their turn clambered -upstairs to bed. “Oh, that’s all broken off, and a good thing too.” He -kept saying these words over and over miserably, as if they had been the -chorus of some dreadful song of fate.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Aubrey</span> stayed at the village public-house day after day, hoping for some -sign or message. He wrote to Bee, this time by the post; but he had no -better success. Was it only because of her grief that she took no -notice? Terrible as that grief must be, and rigorous as evidently were -the rules of the closed-up house, from which no one came forth, even for -a mouthful of air, it did not seem to him that this was reason enough -for putting him from her—he who was to share her life, and whose -sympathy was so full and overflowing. Surely it was the moment when all -who loved her should gather round her, when she most wanted solace and -support. It could not be that her heart was so wrapped up in sorrow -that she should push from her the man who had the best right to share -her tears—whom her mother approved and liked, whose acceptance she had -ratified and confirmed. It could not be that. He felt that, had he been -in the same circumstances, his cry would have been for Bee to stand by -him, to comfort him. Was she so different, or was she overwhelmed by -what was before her—the charge of her father’s house, the dreadful -suggestion that it was to him and the children she should dedicate -herself henceforward, giving up her own happiness? It seemed to Aubrey, -after long thinking, that this must be the cause of her silence; the -burden which surely was not for her young shoulders, which never could -be intended for her, must have come down upon her, crushing her. She was -the eldest girl. She must have, like so many girls, an exaggerated sense -of what was her duty. Her duty! Could anything be more fantastic, more -impossible? To take her mother’s place—and her mother had been killed -by it!—to humour the stern father—to take care of the tribe of -children, to be their nurse, their ruler—everything that a creature of -nineteen could not, should not be! And for this she would throw aside -her own life—and him, whose life it was also. He would never, never -consent to such a sacrifice, he said to himself. Bee was not soft and -yielding, like their mother. She was a determined little thing. She -would stand to it, and sacrifice him as she sacrificed herself, unless -he made a bold stand from the first. No, no, no! Whatever was to be -done, that must not be done. He would not have it—he must let her know -from the very first—if it were not that she knew already, and that this -was the reason why she was silent, feeling that if ever they met she -could not hold out against him. Poor little Bee! Poor, poor little Bee! -Her mother dead, and her father so stern; and thinking it her duty—her -duty, God bless her!—to take all that household upon her little -shoulders. The tears came into his eyes with a sudden softening. She -thought it better to keep him at arm’s length, the darling, knowing that -she never could stand against him, that he would never, never consent; -the little, sublime, unreasonable girl! The things they took into their -heads, these inexperienced, generous creatures! But, thank heaven, he -was here; even though she held him at bay—here, to make all right.</p> - -<p>The reader knows that poor Bee was not actuated by such lofty feelings, -but then Aubrey had no knowledge in his mind of that strange story which -had destroyed her faith in him. When a man is guilty he knows all that -can be brought against him, in which, in its way, there is a certain -advantage. He cannot be taken by surprise. He knows that this or that is -lying ready like a secret weapon apt to be picked up by any man who may -wish to do him harm. But the innocent man has not that safeguard. It is -not likely to occur to him that harmless circumstances may be so twisted -as to look like guilt. For his own part he had forgotten all about that -little episode on the railway—or if he remembered it, it was with a -smile and a glow of momentary pleasure, to think how, with a little -money—so small a matter—he had been able to make comfort take the -place of misery to the poor little family, whom perhaps he would never -have noticed at all had not his thoughts been full of Bee. He had done -that for her with the feeling with which he might have given her an -ornament or a basket of flowers; the only drawback to the pleasure of it -being that he could not tell her off-hand, and get the smile of thanks -she would give him for it—far more than he deserved, for he liked doing -it—kindness coming natural to this young man. It was hard on Aubrey in -the complications of fate that this innocent, nay praiseworthy, incident -should be made the occasion of his trouble. But he had no suspicion of -it—forgot the fact, indeed, altogether—and would have laughed at the -idea that such an accidental occurrence could in any way influence his -fate.</p> - -<p>He went to the funeral, unnoticed in the crowd of people who were -there—some for love and some for conventional necessity, but almost all -with a pang of natural sympathy to see the train of children who -followed their mother to her last rest. The Colonel, rigid in all -things, had insisted at last, that all, except the very youngest, should -be there—having wavered for a moment whether it would not be more in -order that the girls should remain at home, and only the boys be present -at the melancholy ceremony. To see the little wondering faces -two-and-two that followed the elder children up the aisle, and were -installed in the mourners’ places, some of them scarcely tall enough to -see over the edge of the pew, brought many a gush of tears to -sympathetic eyes. Bee and Betty, the two inseparable “eldest,”—slim, -black figures—drooping under the heavy veils that covered them from the -daylight, almost touched Aubrey with their clinging black garments as -they passed. Did they see him? He saw, wherever he was, at whatever -distance, any movement they made. He saw that Bee never raised her head; -but Betty was younger, and less self-restrained—that she had seen him -at least he felt sure. And he felt the Colonel’s eyes upon him, -penetrating the thickest of the crowd. Colonel Kingsward had a glance -that saw everything. He was a man bereaved, the light of his eyes taken -from him, and the comfort of his life—and yet he saw everything at his -wife’s funeral, saw and noted the faces that were dull and tired of the -tension, and those that were alive with sympathy—making notes for or -against them in his memory, and, above all, he saw Aubrey Leigh. Charlie -saw him more accidentally, without any conscious observation, and the -boys who had cried all they were capable of, and now could not help -their eyes straying a little, conscious of the spectacle, and of the -important part they played in it, everybody looking at them. All of them -saw him, but Bee. Was it only Bee who was so little in sympathy with him -that she did not know he must be there?</p> - -<p>He went back to his lodging a little angry through his emotion. It was -too much. Even in the interval between her mother’s death and funeral he -felt that a girl who loved him should not be so obdurate as that, and he -listened with a very sombre face to all the landlady’s discussion of the -proceedings. “It was a shame,” she said, “to bring those little children -there, not much more than babies—what could they know? I’d have kept -them safe in the nursery with some quiet game to play, the poor little -innocents! And so would Missis. Missis would have thought what was best -for them, not for making a display. But God knows what will become of -them children now.”</p> - -<p>“What should become of them?” said the husband. “They’ll get the best of -everything and servants to wait on them hand and foot. The Colonel, he -ain’t like a poor man who could do nothing for them. When the mother’s -gone the children had better go too—in a poor man’s house.”</p> - -<p>“It’s little you know about it,” said the woman with contempt. “Rich -house or poor house, it don’t make no such great difference. Nurses is a -long way different from mothers. Not as I’m saying a word against Sarah -Langridge, as is a good honest woman, that would wrong her master not by -a candle end or a boot lace, not she. But that’s not like being a -mother. The Lord grant that if I die and there’s a baby it may go too, -as you say. You’re more than a nurse, you’re their father, and you’re -part of them; but Lord forbid that I should leave a poor little baby on -your hands.”</p> - -<p>The man turned on his heel with a tremulous laugh. “Well, I ain’t -wishing it, am I?” he said.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Aubrey, “there are the—elder sisters—the young ladies.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Bee! Lord bless us, sir, do ye know the age that child is? -Nineteen, and no more. Is that an age to take the charge of a nursery -full of children? Why, her mother was but forty as has been laid in her -grave to-day. I wish to goodness as that marriage hadn’t been broke off. -He was a widower—and I don’t much hold with widowers—but I wish that I -could give him a sign to come back, if he has any spirit in him, and try -and get that poor young lady away.”</p> - -<p>“If he has been sent about his business,” said Aubrey, forcing a smile, -“he could have no right to come back.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whose fault it was,” said the landlady. “None o’ missis’s, -you take my word; but, Lord, if a gentleman loves a young lady, what’s -to hinder him putting his pride in his pocket? A man does when he’s real -fond of a woman in our rank of life.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that,” said her husband. “If I had been sent away -with a cuff on the side of my head, blessed if I’d ever have come back.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a poor lot, all of you,” the woman said.</p> - -<p>Aubrey could not but smile at the end of the argument, but he asked -himself when he was alone—Was he a poor lot? Was he unwilling to put -his pride in his pocket? Walking about his little room, turning over and -over the circumstances, remembering the glare from Colonel Kingsward’s -eye, which had recognised him, he at last evolved out of his own -troubled feelings and imagination the idea that it was his part to offer -sympathy, to hold out an olive branch. Perhaps, after all, the stern -man’s heart was really touched; perhaps it would soothe him in his grief -to hear that “when the eye saw her, then it blessed her,” which was -Aubrey’s sincere feeling at this moment in respect to Bee’s mother. It -seemed to him that it was best to act upon this impulse before other -arguments came in; before the sense of wounding and pain in Bee’s -silence got the upper hand. He spent most of the afternoon in writing a -letter, so carefully put together, copied over and over again, that -there might be nothing in it to wound the most sensitive feelings; -offering to Colonel Kingsward his profound sympathy, telling him with -emotion of her kindness to himself, her sweetness, her beauty, with that -heightening of enthusiastic admiration, which, if it is permissible -anywhere, is so over a new-made grave. And at the end he asked, with all -the delicacy he could, whether in these new circumstances he might not -ask a hearing, a renewed consideration, for her dear sake who had been -so good to him, and who was gone.</p> - -<p>I am not sure that his judgment went fully with this renewed effort, and -his landlady’s remarks were but a poor reason for any such step. But his -heart was longing after Bee, angry with her, impatient beyond words, -disturbed, miserable, not knowing how to support the silence and -separation while yet so near. And to do something is always a relief, -even though it may be the worst and not the best thing to do. In the -evening after dark, when there was no one about, he went up to -Kingswarden, and himself put his letter into the hands of the butler, -who did not know him, and therefore knew no reason why the letter should -either be carried in haste to his master or delayed. Aubrey heard that -the young ladies were quite as well as could be expected, and the -Colonel very composed, considering—and then he returned to the village. -How silent the house was! Not a creature about, and how disturbing and -painful to the anxious spirit even the simple noises and commotion of -the village street.</p> - -<p>Next morning a letter came, delivered by the postman, from Kingswarden. -It contained only a few words.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Colonel Kingsward is obliged to Mr. Aubrey Leigh for his message -of sympathy, but, on consideration of the whole circumstances, -thinks it better that no pretence at intercourse should be resumed. -It could be nothing but painful to both parties, and Colonel -Kingsward, with his compliments, takes the liberty to suggest that -Mr. Aubrey Leigh would do well to remain in the neighbourhood as -short a time as suits his convenience.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Kingswarden, October 15.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Inside were the two or three notes which Aubrey on different -occasions—twice by post and once by a private messenger—had sent to -Bee. They had not been opened. The young man’s colour rose with a fiery -indignation—his heart thumped in his ears. This was an explanation of -which he had not thought. To keep back anyone’s letters had not occurred -to him as a thing that in the end of the eighteenth century any man -would dare to do. It seemed to bring him back face to face with -old-fashioned, forgotten methods, of all sorts of antiquated kinds. He -put down the papers on the table with a sort of awe. How was he to -struggle against such ways of warfare? Bee might think he had not -written at all—had shown no sympathy with her in her trouble. How -likely that it was this that had made her angry, that kept her from -saying a word, from vouchsafing a look! She might think it was he who -was deficient, who showed no feeling. What was he to do? The landlady -coming up with his breakfast broke in upon this distracting course of -thought.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know, sir, as you were acquainted with the Colonel’s family,” -the woman said.</p> - -<p>“A little,” said poor Aubrey. The letters were all lying on the table, -giving to a sharp observer a very good clue to the position. Mrs. Gregg -had noted the unopened letters returned to him in the Colonel’s -enclosure at the first glance.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t ought to have let us talk. Why, we might have been saying, -without thinking, some ill of the Colonel or of Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>He smiled, though with little heart. “You were once in their service,” -he said, “do you ever go there now?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, now and again,” said Mrs. Gregg. “Sarah Langridge, as is in -the nursery, is a cousin of mine, and I do go just to see them all now -and again.”</p> - -<p>“Would you venture to take a letter from me to—Miss Kingsward?”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Mrs. Gregg, “is it about the marriage as was broke off? Is -it?” she added quickly, as he answered her by nodding his head, “likely -to come on again? That’s what I want to know.”</p> - -<p>“If it does not,” said Aubrey, “it will not be my fault.”</p> - -<p>“Then I will and welcome,” the landlady said. “It’s natural I should -want to go the day after the funeral, to see about everything. Give me -your letter, sir, and I’ll get it put safe into Miss Bee’s own hands.”</p> - -<p>All that he sent was half-a-dozen words of appeal.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Bee, these have been sent back to me. Was it by your will? I have -been here since ever I heard of her illness, longing to be with -you, to tell you what I felt for her and you. And you would not -speak to me! Bee, dearest, say you did not mean it. Tell me what I -am to do.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“A.L.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>How long the woman was in getting ready—how long in going! Before she -came back it was almost night again of the lingering, endless day. She -brought him a little note, not returning the enclosures—that was always -something—with a reproach. “Oh, sir, and you very near got me into -terrible trouble! I’ll never, never carry anything from you again.” The -note was still shorter than his own:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“It was not by my will. I have never seen them till now. But -please—please let this be the last. We can’t meet again. There can -never more be anything between us—not from my father’s will, but -my own. And this for ever—and your own heart will tell you why.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Bee.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“My own heart will tell me why! My heart tells me nothing—nothing!” -poor Aubrey said to himself in the silence of his little room. But there -was little use in repeating it to himself, and there was no other ear to -hear.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was with a sort of stupified bewilderment that Aubrey read over and -over the little letter of Bee’s. Letter! To call it a letter. Those -straggling lines without any beginning, no name of him to whom they were -addressed, nothing even of the most superficial courtesy, nothing that -marked the link that had been—unless it were, perhaps, the abruptness, -the harshness, which she would have used to no other. This was a kind of -painful comfort in its way, when he came to think of it. To nobody but -him would she have written so—this was the little gleam of light. And -she had retained his letters, though she had forbidden him from sending -more. These lights of consolation leaped into his mind with the first -reading, but the more he repeated that reading, the darker grew the -prospect, and the less comfort they gave him. “Not by my father’s will, -but my own; and your own heart will tell you why.” What did she mean by -his own heart? She had begun to write conscience, and then drew her pen -through it. Conscience! What had he done? What had he done? The real -trouble of his life Bee had forgiven. Her father had stood upon it, and -nothing had changed his standing ground so far as the Colonel was -concerned; but Bee, who did not understand—how should any girl -understand?—had forgiven him, had flung his reproach away and accepted -him as he was. How was it that she should thus go back on her decision -now? “Not my father’s will, but mine. And your conscience will tell you -why.” Aubrey’s conscience reproached him with nothing, with no thought -of unfaithfulness to the young and spotless love which had re-created -his being. He had never denied the old reproach. But what was it, what -was it which she bid him to remember, which would explain the change in -her? “Your heart will tell you why”—why his heart? and what was there -that could be told him, which could explain this? He walked about his -little room all night, shaking the little rickety little house with his -tread, asking himself, “What was it, what was it?” and finding no answer -anywhere.</p> - -<p>When he got up from a troubled morning sleep, these disturbed and -unrefreshing slumbers, full of visions which turn the appearance of rest -into the most fatiguing of labour, Aubrey formed a resolution, which he -said to himself he should perhaps have carried out from the first. He -had an advocate who could take charge of his cause without any fear of -betrayal, his mother, and to her he would go without delay. Of all -things in the world to do, after the reception of Bee’s note, giving in -was the last thing he could think of. To accept that strange and -agitated decision, to allow that there was something in his own heart -that would explain it to him, was what he would not and could not do. -There was nothing in his own consciousness, in his heart or conscience, -as she had said, that could explain it. Nothing! It was not to his -credit to accept such a dismissal, even if he had been unaffected by it. -He could not let a mystery fall over this, leaving it as one of those -things unexplained which tear life in pieces. That would be mere -weakness, not the mode of action of a man of sense who had no exposure -to face. But if his letters were intercepted—miserable folly!—by the -father, a man of the world who ought to have known that such proceedings -were an anachronism—and rejected by herself, it was little use that he -should continue writing. Against two such methods of silencing him no -man could contend. But there was still one other great card to play. He -went out and took a last view of the sheltered and flowery dwelling of -Kingswarden, as it could be seen among the trees at one part of the -road. The windows were open and all the blinds drawn up. The house had -come back out of the shadow of death into the every-day composure of -living. White curtains fluttered in the wind at the upper windows. The -late climbing roses and pretty bunches of clematis seemed again to look -in. It was still like summer, though the year was waning, and the sun -still shone, notwithstanding all sorrow. Aubrey saw no one, however, but -a housemaid, who paused as she passed to put up a window, and looked out -for a moment. That was all. He had not the chance of seeing any face -that he wished to see. In the village he met the two boys, who -recognised him sheepishly with their eyes, and a look from one to -another, but were about to shuffle past, Reginald on the heels of -Arthur, to escape his notice—when he stopped them, which was a fact -they were unprepared for, and had not calculated how to meet. He told -them that he was going away, a definite fact upon which they seized -eagerly. “Oh, so are we,” they said, both together, one of them adding -the explanation that there was always something going on at school. “And -there’s nothing to do here,” the other added. “I hope we’ll, sometime or -other, know each other better,” said Aubrey, at which the boys hung -their heads. “There is a good deal of shooting down at my little -place,” he added. He was not above such a mean act; whereupon the two -heads raised themselves by one impulse, as if they had been upon wires, -and two pairs of eyes shone. “Try if you can do anything for me, and -I’ll do everything I can for you,” this insidious plotter said. The boys -shook hands with him with a warmth which they never expected to have -felt for any such “spoon,” and said to each other that he didn’t seem -such a bad fellow at bottom—as if they had searched his being through -and through. Mr. Leigh met Charlie when on his way to the railway -station, but he had no encouragement to say anything to Charlie. They -passed each other with a nod, very surly on Charlie’s part, whose anger -at the sight of him—as if that man had anything to do with <i>our</i> -trouble—was perhaps not so unnatural. Charlie, too, was going back to -Oxford next day, and thankful to be doing so, out of this dreary place, -where there was nothing to do.</p> - -<p>It was the afternoon of the next day when Aubrey arrived at his mother’s -house. It was at some distance from his own house, much too far to -drive, and only to be got at by cross-country railways, with an interval -of an hour or two of waiting at several junctions, facts which he could -not help remembering his poor little wife and her companion had -congratulated themselves upon in those old, strange days, which had -disappeared so entirely, like a tale that is told. He wondered whether -she would equally think it an advantage—if she ever was the partner of -his home. There seemed to him now something wrong in the thought, a mean -sort of petty feeling, unworthy of a fine nature. He wondered if -Bee—Bee! How unlikely it was that she would ever consider that -question, or know anything further about his house or his ways of -living—she who had thrust him away from her at the very moment when her -heart ought to have been most soft—when love was most wanted to -strengthen and uphold. Not her father’s will, but her own. And your own -heart will explain it. His own heart! in which there was nothing but -truth and devotion to her.</p> - -<p>He arrived thus at his mother’s house very depressed in spirits. Mrs. -Leigh was not the ordinary kind of mother for a young man like Aubrey -Leigh. She was not one of those mothers wholly wrapped up in their -children, who are so general. She had all along made an attempt at an -independent life of her own. When Aubrey married she was still a -comparatively young woman, by no means disposed to sink her identity in -him or his household. Mrs. Aubrey Leigh might possess the first place in -the family as the queen regnant, but Mrs. Leigh, in her personality a -much more important person, had no idea of being swamped, and giving up -her natural consequence. She was still a considerable person, though she -was not rich, and inhabited only a sort of jointure-house, a “small -place” capable of holding very few visitors. Aubrey was her only son, -and she was, of course, very fond of him—<i>of course</i>, she was very fond -of him—but she had no intention of sinking into insignificance or -living only in the reflection of Aubrey, still less of his wife.</p> - -<p>Hurstleigh, where Mrs. Leigh lived, was near the sea, and near also to -the county town, which was a brisk and thriving seaport. It was an old -house that had known many fluctuations, an ancient manor house, -inhabited once by the Leighs when they were of humbler pretentions than -now; then it became a farm-house, then was let to a hunting man, who -greatly enlarged the stables; and now it was a jointure-house, the -stables veiled by a new wing, the place in that trim order which denotes -a careful master, and more particularly mistress; with large lattice -windows, heavy mullions, and a terrace with stone balustrades running -all the length of the house. Mrs. Leigh generally sat in a room opening -upon this terrace, with the windows always open, except in the coldest -weather, and there it was that Aubrey made his way, without passing -through the house. His mother was sitting at one of her favourite -occupations—writing letters. She was one of those women who maintain a -large correspondence, chiefly for the reason that it amuses them to -receive letters and to feel themselves a centre of lively and varied -life; besides that, she was considered a very clever letter writer, -which is a temptation to everyone who possesses, or is supposed to -possess, that qualification. She rose quickly, with a cry of “Aubrey!” -in great surprise.</p> - -<p>“You are the last person I expected to see,” she said, when she had -given him a warm welcome. “I saw the death in the papers, and I -supposed, of course, you would be there.”</p> - -<p>“I have just come from Kingswarden,” he said, with a little nod of his -head in assent; “and yet I was not there.”</p> - -<p>“Riddle me no riddles, Aubrey, for I never was good at guessing. You -were there and yet you were not there?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid—I am no longer a welcome visitor, mother,” he said, with a -faint smile.</p> - -<p>“What!” Mrs. Leigh’s astonishment was so great that it seemed to disturb -the afternoon quiet which reigned over the whole domain. “What! Why, -Aubrey! It was only the other day I heard of your engagement.”</p> - -<p>“It is quite true, and yet it has become ancient history, and nobody -remembers it any more.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” she cried. “My dear Aubrey, I do not understand you. -I thought you were dangling about after your young lady, and that this -was the reason why I heard so little of you; and then I was much -startled to see that announcement in the papers. But you said she was -always delicate. Well, but what on earth is the meaning of this other -change?”</p> - -<p>“I told you, mother. For some time I was but half accepted, pending -Colonel Kingsward’s decision.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; one knows what that sort of thing means! And then Colonel -Kingsward generously consented—to one of the best matches in -England—in your condition of life.”</p> - -<p>“I am not a young duke, mother.”</p> - -<p>“No, you are not a young duke. I said in your condition of life, and the -Kingswards are nothing superior to that, I believe. Well—and then? That -was where your last letter left me.”</p> - -<p>“I am ashamed not to have written, mother; but it wasn’t pleasant -news—and I always hoped to change their mind.”</p> - -<p>“Well? I suppose there was some cause for it?” she said, after waiting a -long minute or two for his next words.</p> - -<p>He got up and walked to the window, which, as has been intimated, was -also a door opening and leading out on to the terrace. “May I shut this -window?” he said, turning his back on her; and then he added, still -keeping that attitude, “it was of course because of that old affair.”</p> - -<p>“What old affair?”</p> - -<p>“You generally understand at half a word, mother; must I go into the -whole nauseous business?”</p> - -<p>She came up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Miss Lance,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“What else? I haven’t had so many scandals in my life that you should -stand in any doubt.”</p> - -<p>“Scandals!” she exclaimed; and again was silent for a moment. “Aubrey, -explain it to me a little. How did that business come to their ears?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, in the easiest way, the simplest way!” he cried, “The injured woman -called on the father of the girl who was going to be given to such a -reprobate as me.” He laughed loudly and harshly, preserving the most -tragic face all the time.</p> - -<p>“The injured woman! Good heavens! And was the man such an ass—such an -ass——?”</p> - -<p>“He is not an ass, mother; he is a model of every virtue. My engagement, -if you like to call it so, lasted about a week, and then I was suddenly -turned adrift.”</p> - -<p>“Aubrey, when did all this happen?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose about three weeks ago. Pardon me, mother, for not having -written, but I had no heart to write. I left them at Cologne, and -travelled home by myself, and the first thing I did, of course, was to -go and see Colonel Kingsward.”</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“No, it wasn’t well at all. He refused to listen to me. Of course, I got -it out from my side as well as I could, but it made no difference. He -would not hear me. He would understand no excuse.”</p> - -<p>“And the ladies?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Kingsward was too gentle and yielding. She never opposed him, -and—”</p> - -<p>“Aubrey, the girl whom you loved, and had such faith in—Bee, don’t you -call her?—”</p> - -<p>“Bee—stood by me, mother; never hesitated, gave me her hand, and stood -by me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Leigh, with a little sigh of relief, “then that’s -all right. The father will soon come round—”</p> - -<p>“So I should have said yesterday. I left them in that full faith. But -since they came back to Kingswarden something has happened. I wrote to -her, but I got no answer—I supposed it was her mother’s illness—now I -have found that he stops my letters; but something far worse—wait a -moment—she, Bee herself, wrote to me yesterday, dismissing me without a -word of explanation—declaring she did it by her own will, not her -father’s—and adding, my conscience would tell me why.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh looked her son straight in the face for a full minute. -“Aubrey—and does your conscience tell you why?”</p> - -<p>“No, mother. I am too bewildered even to be able to think—I have not an -idea what she means. She knew all there was to know—without -understanding it in the least, it needn’t be said—and held fast to her -word; and now I know no more what she means than you do. Mother, -there’s only one thing to be done—you must take it in hand.”</p> - -<p>“I—— take your love affairs in hand!” she said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">But</span> though Mrs. Leigh said this it is by no means certain that she meant -it even at the first moment. It is only a very prudent woman who objects -to being asked to interfere in a young man’s love affairs. Generally the -request itself is a compliment, and not less, but perhaps more so, when -made to a mother by her son. And Mrs. Leigh, though a sensible and -prudent person enough in ordinary affairs, did not attain to the height -of virtue above indicated. When she went upstairs to change her gown for -dinner, after talking it over and over with Aubrey in every possible -point of view, her mind, though she had not yet consented in words, had -begun to turn over the best methods of opening the question with the -Kingswards, and what it would be wisest in the circumstances to do. That -Aubrey should be beaten, that he should have to give up the girl whom he -loved, and of whom he gave so exalted a description, seemed the one -thing that must not be permitted to be. Mrs. Leigh was very anxious that -her son should marry, if it were only to wipe out the episode of that -little, silly Amy, who was fonder of her friend than of her husband; and -the half ludicrous, half tragic chapter of <i>that</i> woman, staying on, -resisting all efforts to dislodge her for so long, until she had as she -thought acquired rights over the poor young man, who was not -strong-minded enough to turn her out of his house. To obliterate these -circumstances from the mind of the county altogether, as could only be -done by a happy and suitable marriage, Mrs. Leigh would have done much, -and, to be sure, her son’s happiness was also dear to her. Poor Aubrey! -His first adventure into life had not been a happy one, and his -descriptions of Bee and all her belongings had been full of a young -lover’s enthusiasm, not tame and tepid as she had always felt his -sentiments towards Amy to be. What would it be best to do if I really -undertake this business, she said to herself. Herself replied that it -was not a business for her to meddle with, that she would do no good, -and many other dissuasions of the conventional kind; but, when her -imagination and feelings were once lit up, Mrs. Leigh was not a woman to -be smothered in that way. After dinner, without still formally -undertaking the mission, she talked with Aubrey of the best ways of -carrying it out. If she did interfere, how should she set about it? -“Mind, I don’t promise anything, but supposing——” Should she write? -Should she go? Which thing would it be best to do? If she made up her -mind to go, should she write beforehand to warn them? What, on the -whole, would it be most appropriate to do?</p> - -<p>The method finally decided upon between them—“if I go—but I don’t say -that I will go—” was that Mrs. Leigh should first, without warning or -preparation, endeavour to see Bee, and ascertain whether any new -representations had been made to her to change her mind; and then, -according to her success or non-success with Bee, decide whether she -should ask an interview with her father. Aubrey slept under his mother’s -roof with greater tranquility and refreshment than he had known for some -time, and with something of the vague hope of his childhood that she -could set everything right, do away with punishment or procure pleasure, -when she took it in hand. It had always been so in the childish days, -which seemed to come near him in the sight of the old furniture, the -well-known pictures and ornaments and curiosities which Mrs. Leigh had -brought with her when she settled in this diminished house. How well he -remembered them all!—the old print of the little Samuel on his knees, -the attitude of which he used half-consciously to copy when he said his -prayers; the little old-fashioned books in blue and brown morocco on the -shelves, the china ornaments on the mantel-piece. He smiled at their -antiquity now-a-days, but he had thought them very grand and imposing -once upon a time.</p> - -<p>In the morning Mrs. Leigh coquetted a little, or else saw the whole -subject in a colder light. “Don’t you think it is possible that I might -do more harm than good,” she said; “things might settle of themselves if -you only give them a little time. Colonel Kingsward would come to his -senses, and Miss Bee—”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” cried Aubrey, pale with alarm, “on the contrary. Do you forget -the circumstances? Mrs. Kingsward is dead, there is a large family of -little children, and Bee is of the race of the Quixotes. Don’t you see -what will happen? She will get it into her mind, and everybody will -persuade her, that as the eldest daughter she is wanted at home. It will -be impressed upon her on all sides, and unless there is a strong -influence to counteract it, and at once, Bee is lost to me for ever.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, don’t be so tragical. These dreadful things don’t happen in -our days.”</p> - -<p>“You may laugh, mother, but it is no laughing matter to me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t laugh,” she said. “I see the strength of your argument; but, my -dear boy, nothing will be so effectual in showing your Bee the happiness -that is awaiting her as a little trial of the troubles of a large -family on her shoulders. I know what it is.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey sprang from his seat though it was in the middle of his -breakfast. “Mother,” he said, “there is one thing that I believe you -will never know—and that is, Bee. The burden is exactly what will hold -her fast beyond any argument—the sense of duty—the feeling that she is -bound to take her mother’s place.”</p> - -<p>What was in Mrs. Leigh’s mind was the thought: Ah, that’s all very well -at first, till she has tried it. But what she said was: “I beg your -pardon, Aubrey. Of course, that is a much more elevated feeling. Sit -down, my dear, and take your breakfast. It is not my fault that I don’t -know Bee.”</p> - -<p>Upon which Aubrey had to beg her pardon and sit down, commiserating her -for that deficiency, which was indeed her misfortune and not her fault.</p> - -<p>At the end Mrs. Leigh was wound up to take the strongest step possible. -She joined her son in London after about a week had elapsed. He chafed -at the delay, but allowed that to leave Bee in quiet for a few days -after all the storms that had gone over her head was necessary. Mrs. -Leigh went down early on a bright October morning to Kingswarden with -much more excitement than she had expected to feel. She was herself -inclined to take a lighter view, to laugh at the idea of interrupted -letters or parental cruelty, and to believe that poor Bee was worn out, -her nerves all wrong, and possibly her temper affected by the -irritability which is so apt to accompany unaccustomed grief, and that -in a little time she would of herself come round. Seeing, however, that -these suggestions only made Aubrey angry, she had given them up, and was -in fact more influenced than she cared to show by his emotion and -anxiety when she thus sallied forth into the unknown to plead her son’s -cause. They had ascertained that Colonel Kingsward had returned to his -office, so the coast was clear. Only the two girls and the little -children were at home. Mrs. Leigh said to herself as she walked to the -gate that it was a shame to take the little girl, poor little thing, -thus unprotected, with nobody to stand by her. If it were not that it -was entirely for her good—nobody that knew Aubrey would deny that he -would make the best husband in the world, and surely to have a good -house of her own, and a good husband, and distinct place in the world -was better than to grow to maturity a harassed woman at the head of her -father’s house, acting mother to a troop of children who would not obey -her, nor even be grateful for her kindness to them. Surely there could -not be two opinions as to what it would be best for the girl to do. Yet -she felt a little like a wolf going down into the midst of the lambkins -when she opened the unguarded gate.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh was a clever woman, and a woman of the world. She had a great -deal of natural understanding, and a considerable knowledge of life, but -she was not unlike in appearance the ordinary British matron, who is not -much credited with these qualities. That is to say, she was stout—which -is a calamity common with the kind. She had white hair, considerably -frizzed on the top of the forehead, as it is becoming to white hair to -be, and dark eyes and good complexion. These things were in her favour; -still, it is impossible to deny that when Bee and Betty saw coming -towards them, following the footman across the lawn, a stout figure, not -very tall, nor distinguishable from various ladies in both country and -town whom they knew, and with the natural impertinence of youth set down -as bores, they had both a strong revolt in their minds against their -visitor. “Oh, who is it—who is it?” they said to each other. “Why did -James let her in? Why did he let anyone in?”</p> - -<p>It was a warm morning, though the season was far advanced, and they were -seated again on that bench under the tree where they had watched the -white cloud floating away on the night of their mother’s death. They -went there instinctively whenever they went out. “Mother’s tree,” they -began to call it, and sat as she had been used to do, with the children -playing near, and nurse walking up and down with the baby in her arms. -They had been talking more that morning than ever before. It was little -more than a week since Mrs. Kingsward’s funeral, but they were so young -that their hearts now and then for a moment burst the bondage of their -sorrow, and escaped the length of a smile or two. It was not much; and, -to be sure, for the children’s sake it was indispensable that they -should not be crying and miserable always, as at first they had felt as -if they must continually be. But it was another thing to receive -visitors and have perhaps to answer questions about the circumstances of -their loss.</p> - -<p>“Mrs.—? what did James say?” Neither of them were sure, though a thrill -ran through Bee’s veins. It was a stranger. Who could it be?</p> - -<p>“I have to apologise for coming—without knowing you—and at such a -time,” said Mrs. Leigh, making a little pause till the nurse had got to -the end of the gravel walk with the baby, and James was out of hearing. -“It is you who are Bee, is it not?” she said, suddenly taking the girl’s -hands. “I am the mother of Aubrey Leigh.”</p> - -<p>All the colour went out of Bee’s face; she drew away her hands -hurriedly, and dropped upon her mother’s seat. She felt that she had no -power to say a word.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I thought it was Mrs. Leigh he said,” cried Betty, “but I could not -suppose—oh, Mrs. Leigh, whatever Bee may say, I am so glad, so glad to -see you—perhaps you will be able to make things right.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I shall,” said Mrs. Leigh, “and I shall always be obliged to -you, my dear, for giving me your countenance. But your sister does not -look as if she meant to let me put things right.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry if I seem rude,” said Bee, gathering herself together, -“but—I don’t think that papa would like us to receive visitors.”</p> - -<p>“I am not a common visitor,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I hope you will do me the -credit to think that it is with a very different feeling I come. I am -very, very sorry for you, so young as you are—more sorry than I can -say. And, Bee, if indeed I am to hope to be one day your mother—”</p> - -<p>Bee did not speak; but she fixed her blue eyes upon her visitor with a -sort of entreaty to be left alone, and mournfully shook her head.</p> - -<p>“We can’t think just now of that name,” said little Betty, with the -tears standing in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“My dear children, I came to try to comfort you, not to open your -wounds. Dear,” she said, putting her hand on Bee’s shoulder, “you would -not see Aubrey, nor let him have a word from you. But he said you had -heard everything an evil woman could say, and did not give him up for -that—and he is heart-broken. He thought perhaps you would tell me if he -had done anything to displease you—or if it was only the effect of your -grief, to which he would be submissive at once. All he wanted was to -share your trouble, my dear child.”</p> - -<p>This was not at all what Mrs. Leigh intended to say. She had meant to -represent her visit as one of sympathy solely, without at first -referring to the hard case of Aubrey; but Bee’s looks had confused even -this experienced woman. The girl’s pale face put on an expression of -determined decision, or rather of that blank of resistance to entering -upon the question, which is a kind of defence which it is almost -impossible to break down.</p> - -<p>“I would rather, if you please, not say anything of Mr. Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“Dear child! Do not take that tone. If he has done anything that does -not please you, how is he ever to clear himself if you will not tell him -what it is.”</p> - -<p>“She is like this all the time,” cried Betty; “she will not say what is -wrong—and yet she is just as miserable herself as anyone could be.”</p> - -<p>Bee gave her sister a look in which Mrs. Leigh, closely watching, saw -the lightening of the glance, the brilliancy and splendour of the blue -eyes of which Aubrey had raved. Poor little Betty was illuminated as if -with a great flame. It was all that she could do to restrain a very -inappropriate smile. “You know nothing, and how do you dare to say -anything?” Bee said.</p> - -<p>“I am sure that Bee is just,” said the older lady. “She would not -condemn anyone unheard. Aubrey Leigh is my son, but we have been -separated for many years, and I think I judge him impartially. He does -not always please me, and I am sure that at some time or other he has -much displeased you. Your eyes tell me, though you have not said a -word. But, my dear, I have never, since he was a child, found him out in -anything except the one thing you know, in which he was so sorely, -sorely tried. He has always been kind. He gets into trouble by his -kindness as other men do by ill-behaviour. I don’t know what you have -against him, but I feel sure that he will clear himself if you will let -him speak. Bee——”</p> - -<p>“I do not want,” cried Bee, “to seem rude. Oh, I don’t want to be rude! -I am sure, quite sure, that you are kind; but I have nothing to say, oh! -nothing to say to anyone. I am not able to discuss any subject, or enter -into things. I have a great deal to think of, for I am the eldest and it -will not do for me to—to break down, or to have any more to bear. I am -very, very sorry—and you are so kind. But I must go in now—I must go -in now.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, Bee——”</p> - -<p>“You can stay, Betty, and talk to the lady. You can stay, but—oh, -forgive me—I cannot—cannot help it! I must go in now.”</p> - -<p>This was the end of Mrs. Leigh’s embassy. She had a long talk with -Betty, who was but too glad to pour into this kind woman’s bosom all her -troubles. Betty could not tell what had happened to Bee. She was not the -Bee of old, and she did not know what it was that had happened about -Aubrey, or if Bee had heard anything against him. She was as much in the -dark as Mrs. Leigh herself. But she made it very evident that Bee had a -grievance, a real or supposed ground of complaint which made her very -angry, and which she resented bitterly. What was it? But this Betty did -not know.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Leigh</span> went back to her son with a sense of humiliation which was -rare in her consciousness. She had been completely unsuccessful, which -was a thing which had very rarely happened to her. She had expected if -she got admission at all that anything which so young a girl might have -on her mind must have burst forth and all have been made clear. She had -expected at once to overawe and to soothe a young creature who loved -Aubrey, and who had some untold grievance against Aubrey. But she was -not prepared for the dual personality, so to speak, of Bee, or the power -she had of retreating, herself, and leaving her little sister as her -representative to fulfil all necessary civilities without the power of -betraying anything that the visitor wanted to know. She went back to -town very angry with Bee; turned against her; very little disposed to -sympathise with Aubrey, which she had so freely done before. “My dear -boy,” she said, “you have made a mistake, that’s all. The elder sister -has a temper like her father. Everybody will tell you that Colonel -Kingsward is a sharp-tempered man. But Betty is a little darling. It is -she that should have been the mistress of Forest-leigh.”</p> - -<p>In answer to this, Aubrey simply turned his back upon his mother. He was -deeply disappointed, but this speech turned his disappointment into a -kind of rage. She had mismanaged the whole matter. That was as clear as -daylight, and such a suggestion was an added insult. Betty! a child—a -little girl—a nobody. His Bee seemed to tower over her in his -imagination, so different, so high above her, another species. It was -some minutes before he could trust himself to speak.</p> - -<p>“Of course, you think me a fool,” said Mrs. Leigh, “and so I am, to -tell a young man that there is another in the world equal to the object -of his fancy.”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Aubrey, in a choked voice, “you mistake the matter -altogether. That is not what is in question. What I want to know is, -what has been said against me, what new thing she has heard, or in what -new light she has been taught to see me. You might as well suggest,” he -cried, angrily, “that another person might have been better in your -place—as in hers.”</p> - -<p>“If that is all I don’t mind allowing it,” said Mrs. Leigh, with an -aggravation peculiar to mothers. “You might have had some one who would -have been, all round, of more use to you as a mother—only it’s a little -late to think of that. However, without any persiflage, here is one -thing evident, that she has some grievance against you, something new, -something definite, which she believes you to be conscious of, which she -is too proud to discuss—I suppose?” said Mrs. Leigh, looking at him -with the look of the too-profoundly experienced, never sure how far -human weakness may go.</p> - -<p>“Mother!” Aubrey cried. He was as indignant as she was unassured.</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, don’t be angry. I am not imagining anything. I only ask -whether you are quite sure that there is nothing which might be twisted -into a new accusation against you? There might be many incidents, in -which you were quite blameless, which an enemy might twist—”</p> - -<p>“You need not be melo-dramatic, mother. I have nothing in the world that -could be an enemy—so far as I know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as for that, there are people who make up stories out of pure -devilry. And I had no intention of being melo-dramatic,” said Mrs. Leigh -with displeasure. She added, after a moment, “Examine—I don’t say your -conscience, which probably has nothing to do with it—but what has -occurred for the last six months? See if there is anything which admits -of a wrong interpretation, which could be, as I say, twisted.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey paused a moment to attempt to do as she said, but the little -episode of the railway station, the poor woman and her babies, he did -not think of. If truth must be told, he thought that incident was one -of the most creditable things in his life. He felt a little pleased with -himself when he thought of it. It was one of those things which to -mention might seem like a brag of his own generosity. He felt that it -was really one of the few incidents in his life which modesty kept him -from telling, one of the things in which the right hand should not know -what the left hand did. Had he thought of it that would have been his -feeling; but when he was asked suddenly to endeavour to recollect -something which might be twisted to his disadvantage, naturally this -good deed—a deed of charity if ever one was—did not come into his mind -at all. He shook his head. “You know whether I am that kind of man, -mother.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t refer it to me, Aubrey—a young man’s mother probably is the very -last person to know. I know you, my dear, <i>au fond</i>. I know a great deal -about you; but I know, too, that you have done many things which I never -could have supposed you would have done: consult your own recollection. -Probably it is something so insignificant that you will have difficulty -in recalling it. One can never calculate what trifle may move a young -girl’s imagination. A grain of sand is enough to put a watch all wrong.”</p> - -<p>Thus it will be seen that Mrs. Leigh’s long experience was after all -good for something. She divined the character of the dreadful obstacle -which had come in her son’s way and shattered all his hopes. If he had -recounted to her that incident which it would have seemed ostentation to -him to refer to, probably she would have pierced the <i>imbroglio</i> at -once—or could she have seen into his life and his memory, she would, no -doubt, have put her finger at once on that place. But there they stood, -two human creatures in the closest relation to each other that nature -can make, anxious to find out between them the key to a puzzle which -neither of them could divine, but the secret of which lay certainly -between them, could they but find it—and could make out nothing. A word -from the son might have set the keen-witted mother, better acquainted -than he with the manner in which scandals arise, on the scent. But it -never occurred to him to say that word. They looked into each other’s -faces and made out nothing. Strange veil of individuality which is -between two human creatures, as the sea is between two worlds, and more -confusing, more impenetrable still than any distance! Aubrey made the -most conscientious efforts to lay bare his heart, to discover something -that might be twisted, as she said; but he found nothing. His thoughts -since he met the Kingswards first had been full of nothing but Bee—his -very dreams had been full of her. He wandered vaguely through his own -recollections, not knowing what to look for—what was there? There was -nothing. His mother sat by, and, notwithstanding her anxiety, could -scarcely refrain from smiling at his puzzled, troubled endeavour to find -out something against himself. But there was nothing to find out. He -shook his head at last, with a sort of appeal to her out of his troubled -eyes. He was distressed not to find what he sought. “I know nothing,” he -said, shaking his head. “One never does anything very good indeed—but -not very bad either. I have just been as I always am—not much to brag -of—but nothing to be ashamed of, between one man and another.”</p> - -<p>“The question is between one man and one woman, Aubrey, which is -different.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” he cried, with a short laugh, “I defy discovery. There has been -nothing in all my thoughts that need have been hidden. You do me -grievous wrong, mother, if you can think—even if I had been inclined -that way.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think. I have the most complete faith in you, Aubrey. I -say—anything that could be twisted by a malign interpretation?”</p> - -<p>He shook his head again. “And who would take the trouble to make a -malign interpretation? I assure you, I have no enemy.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward is enemy enough.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Colonel Kingsward. I have no reason, however, to think that he -would do a dishonourable action.”</p> - -<p>“What do you call intercepting letters, Aubrey?”</p> - -<p>“It is very antiquated and out of date, but I don’t know that it need be -called dishonourable; and he has a high idea of his authority; but to -make a false representation of another man——”</p> - -<p>“Aubrey, these distinctions are too fine for me. There is only one thing -that I can do. I will now go and interview Colonel Kingsward. If he -knows of anything new, he will soon reveal it to me. If he goes only -over the old ground, then we may be sure that your <i>fiancée</i> has been -told something in her own ear—something apart from her father—which -she has betrayed to no one. Unless, perhaps, it was got from the -mother——”</p> - -<p>“Not a word about the mother. She is dead, and she is sacred; and -besides she was the last, the very last——”</p> - -<p>“You have yourself said she was very weak, Aubrey.”</p> - -<p>“Weak so far as resisting her husband was concerned, but incapable of an -unkind word; incapable of any treachery or falsehood; a creature, both -in body and soul, whom you could almost see through.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh shook her head a little.</p> - -<p>“I know those transparent people,” she said. “They are not always -so—— But never mind; I am going to interview Colonel Kingsward now.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was very courteous to his visitor. He received her -visit of sympathy with polite gratitude, accepting her excuse that so -nearly connected as the families had been about to be, she could not be -in town without coming to express her great regret and feeling for his -family left motherless. Colonel Kingsward was very <i>digne</i>. He had the -fullest sense of what was expected in his position, and he did not allow -any other feeling to come in the way of that. He thanked Mrs. Leigh for -her sympathy, and exaggerated his sense of her goodness in coming to -express it. It was more, much more, than he had any right to expect. If -there was any alleviation to his grief it was in the sense of the great -kindness of friends—“and even of strangers,” he said, with a grave bow, -which seemed to throw Mrs. Leigh indefinitely back into the regions of -the unknown. This put her on her mettle at once.</p> - -<p>“I do not feel like a stranger,” she said. “I have heard so much of your -family—every member of it—through my son, Aubrey. I regret greatly -that the connection which seemed to be so suitable should hang at all in -doubt——”</p> - -<p>“It does not hang in doubt,” said Colonel Kingsward, “I am sorry if you -have got that impression. It is quite broken off—once for all.”</p> - -<p>“That is a hard thing to say to Aubrey Leigh’s mother,” she said; “such -a stigma should not be put upon a young man lightly.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to discuss such matters with a lady. But I don’t know what -you call lightly, Mrs. Leigh. I do not believe for a moment that you -would give a daughter of your own—I do not know whether you have -daughters of your own——”</p> - -<p>“Two—happily married, thank heaven, and off my hands.”</p> - -<p>“You will understand me so much the better. (Colonel Kingsward knew -perfectly well all about Mrs. Leigh’s two daughters). I do not believe -that you would have given one of them to a man—to whom another lady put -forth a prior claim.”</p> - -<p>“I am not at all sure of that. I should have ascertained first what -kind of person put forth the claim——”</p> - -<p>“We need not go into these details,” said Colonel Kingsward, waving his -hand.</p> - -<p>“It is most important to go into these details. I can give you every -particular about this lady, Colonel Kingsward; and so can a dozen -people, at least, who have no interest in the matter except to tell the -truth.”</p> - -<p>“The question is closed in my mind, Mrs. Leigh. I have no intention of -opening it again.”</p> - -<p>“And this is the sole ground upon which my son is rejected?” she said, -fixing her keen eyes upon his face.</p> - -<p>“It is the sole ground; it is quite enough, I believe. Supposing even -that the lady was everything you allege, an intimacy between a woman of -that character and your son is quite enough to make him unsuitable for -my daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Who is not of your opinion, however,” Mrs. Leigh said.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was confused by this speech. He got up and stood -before the fire. He avoided meeting her eye. “My daughter is very young -and very inexperienced,” he said. “She is at present more moved by her -feelings than her reason. I believe that with an increase of maturer -judgment she will fully adopt my view.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward believed that he had altogether crushed his visitor, -but he was not so right as he thought. Mrs. Leigh went back to her son -with triumph in her eyes. “He knows nothing more,” she said. “He does -not know that she has turned against you. Whatever is her reason, it is -something different from his, and she has not confided it to him. I -thought as much when you told me of the letters stopped. A man does not -intercept a girl’s letters when he knows she has come round to his way -of thinking. Now you have got to find out what she has heard, and to set -her right about it whatever it may be.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">To</span> set oneself to find out without any clue or guidance what it is which -has affected the thoughts of a girl for or against her lover—without -any knowledge of her surroundings, or from what quarter an adverse -influence, an ill report, could have come—who could have spoken to her -on the subject of Aubrey, or what kind of story to his disadvantage (for -this was what Mrs. Leigh convinced herself must have happened) she had -heard—to discover everything and counteract it, was a mission that -might well have frightened anyone who undertook it. And I don’t doubt -that Mrs. Leigh, to encourage her son, spoke a great deal more -confidently than she felt, and that she really intended to give herself -up to this discovery, and to take no rest until she had made it, and -cleared up the matter which threatened to separate these two young -people for ever, and make havoc in both their lives.</p> - -<p>Aubrey himself shook his head and declared himself to have little hope; -but he was not really more hopeless than his mother was the reverse. -While he shook his head there was a warm sensation of comfort at his -heart. That she should have undertaken to find it out seemed like half -the battle. When a man retains any confidence in his mother at all, -which is by no means always the case, he is apt to be influenced more -than he is aware by the old prejudice of childhood that she can do -anything that is wanted. She by no means felt herself to be so powerful -as he did, though she professed her certainty of success, and he was -much more held up and supported by her supposed convictions than he -himself allowed to appear. Thus they separated, Aubrey remaining in -town, ready to take advantage of any occasion that might present itself, -while she returned to her home, to make every exertion to discover the -cause of Bee’s estrangement. Very easy words to say—but how to do it? -She had not a notion even what kind of story had been told to Bee. She -did not know any special point of weakness on the part of Aubrey which -could have been exaggerated or made to appear worse than it was. There -was no inclination towards dissipation about him; he did not gamble; he -was not addicted to bad company. What was there to say about him? The -episode of Miss Lance—and that was all. And it was not the episode of -Miss Lance which had revolted Bee. Had Mrs. Leigh ever heard of Aubrey’s -adventure at the railway station, it is possible that her mind, excited -in that direction, would have been keen enough to have divined that the -mystery was somehow connected with that; for it was certainly Quixotic -of a young man to put a poor woman and her children into a -sleeping-carriage—the most expensive mode of travelling, and wholly -beyond her condition—by a mere charitable and kindly impulse. And the -world, which believes that nothing is given without an equivalent, might -easily have made a story out of it. But then, Mrs. Leigh was quite -ignorant on this point, which, as has been said, had never occurred -again to Aubrey himself, except as one of the few actions in his life -which he could look back upon with entire satisfaction and even a little -complacence. And thus the only way of setting things right was -hermetically closed.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh went back to her jointure-house. It was near the sea, as has -been said, and near a lively seaside town, where, in the summer, there -were many visitors and a great deal going on, strangers appearing and -disappearing from all parts of the country. But in winter there was -nothing of the kind; the world closed up without, leaving only the -residents, the people who were indigenous, the contracted society of -neighbours who knew all about each other, and were acquainted with the -same pieces of news, and, excepting by long intervals, heard but little -of the outside gossip, or the doings of other circles. Mrs. Leigh -returned to her natural surroundings, which knew no more of Colonel -Kingsward and his family than people in what is called “a certain -position” know of each other—something of his name, something of his -connections, but nothing of his immediate circumstances. There were -indeed many questions about Aubrey’s marriage which she had to answer as -she could. The news of his engagement had been received with many -congratulations. Everybody felt that poor Aubrey’s first essay at -matrimony had been a very unfortunate one. The sooner he brings a nice -wife to Forest-leigh the better, everybody had said. And when Mrs. Leigh -returned after her brief absence, the many callers whom she received -daily were full of inquiries about the marriage. It was generally -supposed that his mother’s hasty expedition had been in some way -connected with it. She had gone about the refurnishing, about the -household linen, which perhaps wanted renewing, and which was not in a -man’s sphere—about something in the settlements; at all events, -whatever it was, her object must have been connected with the -approaching marriage. They came down upon her full of the most eager -questions. “I suppose the day is fixed? I suppose all the arrangements -are made? How nice it will be to see the house opened, and a new, -lively, young married couple to put a little life in -everything”—matrons and little maids all concurred in this speech.</p> - -<p>“You have not heard then?” said Mrs. Leigh, with a very grave -countenance—“everything, alas, is postponed for the moment. Mrs. -Kingsward, a most charming woman, adored by her family, died last week.”</p> - -<p>“I told you it was those Kingswards!” one of the ladies said to another.</p> - -<p>“There are no other Kingswards that I know of,” said Mrs. Leigh, who -always held her head so high. “I went up with Aubrey to pay them a visit -of sympathy. There is a very large young family. I found them quite -broken down with grief. Of course we had not the heart, either Aubrey or -I, to press an arrangement in these dreadful circumstances. I confess I -am rather down about it altogether. Poor little Bee, my future -daughter-in-law, is the eldest. I am quite terrified to hear that she -has taken some tragic resolution, such as girls are so apt to do -now-a-days, and think it her duty to dedicate herself to her little -brothers and sisters.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but surely she would not be permitted to do that—when everything -was settled!”</p> - -<p>“I hope not. I most sincerely hope not,” said Mrs. Leigh. “Naturally, I -have not said a word to Aubrey. But girls now-a-days are so full of -their ideas, their missions, and their duty, and all that!”</p> - -<p>“Not when they are engaged to be married,” said a scoffing lady.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could be sure of that. Miss Kingsward is only nineteen, just -the self-sacrificing age. I wish I could be sure——. There was -something in her eye. But, however, not a word, not a word about this. I -still hope that as soon as a reasonable time has passed——”</p> - -<p>“It is such a pity,” said another, “where unnecessary delays are made. I -am sure no mother would wish her daughter’s marriage to be put -off—things are so apt to happen. I think it’s tempting Providence when -there is unnecessary delay.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward is a very particular man. He will allow nothing to -be done that the most punctilious could object to. He will not have -anything spoken of even. All the arrangements are in abeyance. It is -most trying. Of course, I am very sorry for the family, and for him, who -has lost so excellent a wife. But, at the same time, I can’t help -thinking of my own son kept hanging in suspense, and all his plans -broken up.”</p> - -<p>There was a chorus of regrets from all the visitors, one party after -another; but from more than one group of ladies as they drove away there -arose the most gloomy auguries, spoken amid much shaking of heads. “I -don’t believe it will ever come to a marriage after all,” some said, “if -Colonel Kingsward is so very particular a man, and if he hears of all -that took place at Forest-leigh in the first wife’s time.” “Whatever -took place,” said another, “it was her fault, as everybody knows.” “Ah, -yes,” said the first speaker, who represented more or less the common -voice, “I know the first wife was a little fool, and whatever happened, -brought it all on herself. But there is never any business of that sort -without blame on both sides.” Thus the world generally judges, having -half forgotten what the facts of the case were, though most of the -individuals who constitute the world could have recalled them very -easily with an effort of memory. Still, the blurred general view is the -one that prevails after a time, and works out great injustices without -any evil intention at all.</p> - -<p>It was thus that Mrs. Leigh thought it prudent to forestall all remarks -as to the postponement of her son’s marriage. She succeeded well enough, -perhaps too well. Mrs. Kingsward’s death accounted for everything. -Still, the impression got abroad that Aubrey Leigh, that unlucky fellow, -had somehow broken down again. And as the days went on and silence -closed around, further and further did Aubrey’s mother find herself from -making any discovery. Indeed, she did not try, strong as her resolves to -do so had been. For, indeed, she did not know what to do. How was she to -clear up such a mystery? Had she known the neighbours about Kingswarden, -and heard their talk among themselves, she might have been able to form -some plan of action. But her own neighbours, who did not even know of -Mrs. Kingsward’s death—how could she find out anything from them? She -thought it over a great deal, and when any friend of her son’s drifted -near her expended a great deal of ingenuity in endeavouring to ascertain -whether there was anything in Aubrey’s life which could have injured him -in Bee’s estimation. But Mrs. Leigh was perfectly aware, even while -cautiously making these inquiries, that whatever his friends might know -against him, his mother was the last person who was likely to be told. -As a matter of fact, however, there was nothing to tell, and gradually -this very fruitless quest died from her mind, and she did not even dream -of pursuing it any more.</p> - -<p>And Aubrey remained in town disconsolately getting through the winter as -best he could, neglecting all his duties of hospitality, keeping his -house shut up, and leaving his game to be shot by the -gamekeepers—indifferent to everything. He could not bear the place with -which he had so many painful associations, sharpened now by the loss of -all the hopes that had fallen so quickly of taking Bee to it, and -beginning a real life of happiness and usefulness. What he wanted most -in life was to fulfil all his duties—in the happiest way in which such -duties can be fulfilled, after the methods of an English country -gentleman with sufficient, but not too great position, money, and all -that accompanies them. He was not an <i>enragé</i> foxhunter, or sportsman, -but he was quite disposed to follow all the occupations and recreations -of country life, to maintain a hospitable house, to take his part of -everything that was going on in the county, and above all, to efface the -recollection of that first chapter of his life which had not been happy. -But all these hopes and intentions seemed to have been killed in him by -the cutting off of his new hopes. He kept up his confidence in his -mother until he went to her at Christmas to spend with her those days of -enforced family life which, when they are not more, are so much less -happy than the ordinary course of life. He went down still full of hope, -and though Mrs. Leigh received him with professions of unimpaired -confidence, he was quick to see that she had in reality done -nothing—for that best of all reasons, that there was nothing to do. -“You don’t seem to have made progress, however,” he said, on the first -night.</p> - -<p>“No, perhaps I have not made much progress. I don’t know that I expected -to make much progress—at this time of the year. You know in winter one -only sees one’s neighbours, who know nothing. Later on, when the weather -improves, when there is more coming and going, when I have more -opportunities——”</p> - -<p>This did not sound very cheerful, but it was still less cheerful when he -saw how little even his mother’s mind was occupied with his affairs. It -was not her fault; all the thinking in the world could not make Bee’s -motives more clear to a woman living at a distance of three or four -broad counties from Bee. And one of Aubrey’s married sisters was in some -family difficulty which occupied all her mother’s thoughts. Aubrey did -not refuse to be interested in his sister. He was willing to give -anything he could, either of sympathy or help, to the solving of her -problem; but, conscious of so much in his own fate that was harder than -could fall to the lot of any comfortable, middle-aged person, it must be -allowed that he got very tired of hearing of Mary’s troubles. He -answered rather curtly on one or two occasions, and chilled his mother, -whose heart was full of Mary, and who was already disposed to blame -herself in respect to Aubrey, yet to be irritated by any suspicion of -blame from him. On the last morning of his stay he had begged her, if -she could abstract her thoughts for a moment from Mary, to think of him. -“I don’t want to trouble you further, mother. I only want you to tell me -if you think my whole business so hopeless that I had better give every -expectation up?”</p> - -<p>“Think your business hopeless, Aubrey? Oh, no; I don’t think that.”</p> - -<p>“But we know just as much now as we did in October. I do not think we -have advanced a step——”</p> - -<p>“If you mean to reproach me with my want of success, Aubrey!”</p> - -<p>“No—I don’t mean to reproach you with anything, mother. But I think it -seems just as hopeless as ever—and not a step nearer.”</p> - -<p>“Things cannot be done in a moment,” she said, hurriedly. “I never -expected—When the summer comes round, when one sees more people, when -one can really pursue one’s inquiries——.” Mrs. Leigh was very -conscious that she had pursued few inquiries, and the thought made her -angry. “Rome,” she added, “was not built in a day.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey Leigh said no more—but he went back to London feeling that he -was a beaten man, and the battle once more lost.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing more curious in life than the way in which it closes -over those great incidents that shape its course. Like a stone -disappearing in a pool, the slow circles of commotion widen and melt -away, the missile sinks into the depths of the water, and tranquility -comes back to its surface. Every ripple is gone, and yet the stone is -always there.</p> - -<p>This curious calm came into the life of Bee Kingsward after the -incidents related above. The man with whom she had expected to share -everything disappeared from her existence as if he had never entered -into it, and a dead peace fell over her, and all things around her. It -was at once better for Bee and worse that the mourning for her mother -swept her away out of all the coming and going of ordinary life for a -time—better because she was saved the torment of a perpetual struggle -with her trouble, and worse because it shut her up to a perpetual -recollection of that trouble. The Kingsward family remained at -Kingswarden for the whole of that winter and spring. When the season -began there was some question of removing to town, which Bee opposed -strongly. “I have no wish to go out,” she said. “I could not, papa, so -soon—— And we have no one to take us.”</p> - -<p>“You will find plenty of people ready to take you,” he said.</p> - -<p>And then Bee took refuge in tears. “Nobody—that we could endure to go -with—so soon, so soon!—not yet a year,” she said. Betty followed her -sister dubiously. It was natural that she should always echo what Bee -said, but this time she was not quite so sure as usual. Not to balls? -Oh, not to balls! was Betty’s secret comment, but—Betty felt that to -speak occasionally to some one who was not of her own family—not the -Rector or the Rector’s wife, the Curate or the Doctor—would be an -advantage; but she did not utter that sentiment. After all, what was one -season to the measureless horizon of eighteen? Bee renounced her season -eagerly, and uttered exclamations of content when Colonel Kingsward -announced that, in those circumstances, he had let their house in town. -But I am not sure that she was so completely satisfied as she professed -to be. She had dismissed Aubrey “for ever”—and yet, when the deed was -done, a longing seized her sometimes to hear his name, that someone -should speak of him in her presence, that she should hear accidentally -where he was, and what he was doing. She had imagined little scenes to -herself in which she had heard strangers saying to each other that -Aubrey Leigh had soon got over his disappointment, that he was going to -be married to So-and-So; or that he was going to make the tour of the -world, or to shoot big game in Africa; or, anything in short, so long as -it was about him. Even when she had been so determined against going -out, there had been a hope in her mind that somehow, she did not know -how, some news of him and what he was doing might be wafted her way -accidentally. She did not want, she said to herself passionately, ever -to hear his name again! Yet she had calculated on hearing as much as -that, hearing quite accidentally, at the Royal Academy, perhaps, or -somewhere where she might happen to be calling, that he was going to the -ends of the earth, or that he was going to be married—things which the -speakers might suppose were not of the slightest interest to her. She -said all the same that she was delighted when Colonel Kingsward informed -them that he had let the house in town—very glad! before it had time to -get shabby, the poor old house; yet, when she retired to her room for -the night, Bee cried, shedding many salt tears.</p> - -<p>But nothing of this was apparent in her life. The circles had all melted -away from the still bosom of the pool. The household resumed its former -regularity, quickened a little, perhaps, by the energetic sweeping of -the new broom. Mrs. Kingsward had been an easy mistress about many -trifles, which Bee, new to authority, and more enterprising than her -mother, exacted a rigid account of. At the beginning she set all the -servants by the ears, each of them being anxious to show that their own -conscientiousness was perfect, and their desire to consider their -master’s interests; but, by degrees, matters settled down with an -increased strictness of order. “As mamma would have wished it,” Bee -said; and she herself changed in a way that would be almost miraculous -were it not a transformation commonly visible from time to time, from a -light-hearted girl, full of little amusing misdemeanours and mistakes, -into that sweet serious figure of the eldest daughter, the -mother-sister, so often visible in England when the mistress of the -household has been removed in early life. There is no more beautiful or -more tender vision; it is fine at all ages, but in the first bloom of -youth it has a pathetic grace which goes to the heart. Bee underwent -this change quite suddenly, after a period of trouble and agitation and -over activity. It might not perhaps have come but for the letting for -the season of the town house, which seemed to make so complete a -severance between her and the ordinary current of life.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps this that opened what might almost be called a new -relationship between Bee and her brother Charlie, who was the nearest to -her in the family, though there had not been hitherto an unusual -sympathy between them. For one thing, Betty feeling herself a little -forlorn in the country with all the echoes of London, which occasionally -came to her ears, had been permitted to accept an invitation to Portman -Square to visit a quiet elderly family, not likely to lead her into any -dissipation out of keeping with her black frock, and Bee was virtually -alone with the children, to whom she gave herself up with a devotion -which was the very quintessence of motherhood. Colonel Kingsward also -was in town—a man cannot shut himself up (this was what he said) -whatever his private griefs may be. He must keep a calm face before the -world, he must not allow himself to be hustled out of the way. For this -reason, he remained in London, living in chambers, to which he had an -official right, in the dingy official grandeur of Pall Mall, and coming -to Kingswarden only now and then from Saturday to Monday. This sundered -Bee still more completely from the world. And when Charlie came back -from Oxford she was more eager to meet him, more pleased with his -company than ever before. This was not perhaps entirely the young man’s -mind. That he should choose to shut himself up in the country in June -was perhaps scarcely to be expected. According to the curious rule which -prevails in England he “did not mind” the country in January. But in -June! However, it was soon apparent that there were other things than -the season in Charlie’s mind. He began a series of lamentations to Bee -upon the situation of the family and things in general, by the usual -complaint of a young man in the country of having “nothing to do.”</p> - -<p>“A man cannot sit at home and dot up the accounts like you,” he said, -“though I don’t say but that it’s hard upon you, too. Still, women like -to tie up children’s sashes and that sort of thing, and calculate how -much their boots cost in a year. I say, mother can’t have had half such -an easy life as we all thought.”</p> - -<p>“I never thought she had an easy life,” said Bee, which was perhaps not -exactly true, but the things that Bee had thought a year ago were so -unlike the things she thought now that she did not believe life had ever -appeared to her in a different light.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Charlie, “she had a way of making it appear so. Do you -remember that last time at the Baths? What a little thing you seemed -then, Bee, and now here I am talking to you quite seriously, as if you -were mother. Look here, I want you to speak to the governor for me. I am -doing no good here. In fact, there’s nothing to do—unless I am to drop -into drinking and that sort of thing in the village.”</p> - -<p>“Charlie!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “I can’t sit and sew strings on pinafores like you. A -man must do something at my age.”</p> - -<p>“And what should you do at Oxford? And why do you want to go there when -everybody is away?”</p> - -<p>“Everybody away! That is all you know. The dons are away, if that is -what you mean. There are no lectures going on. But lectures are a mere -loss of time. There are lots of fellows up there reading. If you want to -read hard, now is the best time.”</p> - -<p>“How curious,” said Bee, in genuine surprise, “when all the people who -teach are away! And I never knew that you wanted to read hard.”</p> - -<p>“No. I never was made to think that I ought to,” said Charlie, with -rising colour. “In this house nobody thinks of anything more than just -getting through.”</p> - -<p>Bee was a little angry as well as surprised by this censure upon the -family. She said, “The rest of us may not be clever—but everybody says -there are few men that know as much as papa.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, in his special subjects, I suppose, but I am not going in for the -army, Bee,” said Charlie, the colour rising higher on his young face, -which was still an ingenuous face, though not of a very high order. “It -is such a wonderful thing to have your duty set before you, and how you -ought to make the best of your life. I, for one, never thought of it -before. I was always quite satisfied to get through and to have plenty -of time to amuse myself; but if you come to think of it that’s a very -poor sort of ideal for a life.”</p> - -<p>Bee looked up at Charlie with more and more surprise. He was pulling his -young moustache nervously, and there was a great deal of emotion in his -face. It seemed amazing to his sister that Charlie—Charlie who had -always been on the unemotional side, should take this heroic tone, or do -anything but laugh at the suggestion of an ideal in life. She gazed at -him in some bewilderment. “What are you going to read?” she asked, with -doubt and wonder in her voice.</p> - -<p>“It is just like a girl to ask a man what he is going to read! Why, -everything. I just pushed through my mods., you know—a pass—which it -covers me with shame to think of now. I must do something better than -that. I don’t know that I’m very good at anything, but work, after all, -steady work, is the great thing; and if work can do it——!” cried -Charley, breaking off, a little breathless, with a strange light in his -eyes.</p> - -<p>“You almost frighten me, Charlie. You were never meant for honours or a -high degree, were you? Papa said you need not go in for honours, it -would lose time; and you thought so, too.”</p> - -<p>“I have changed my mind,” said Charlie, nervously. “I thought, like -other asses, that in diplomacy you don’t want much; but now I think -differently. How are you to understand how to conduct national affairs -and all that, and reconcile conflicting claims, and so forth, and settle -the real business of the world——”</p> - -<p>“But Charlie, I thought it was languages, and great politeness, and—and -even dancing, and that sort of thing, that was wanted in an attaché——”</p> - -<p>“Attachés,” said the young man, with a gravity which, serious as she -also was, almost made Bee laugh, “are the material out of which -ambassadors are made. Of course, it takes time——”</p> - -<p>Here Bee burst, without meaning it, into a nervous laugh.</p> - -<p>“You are so dreadfully serious about it,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“And what should a man be serious about, if not that?” the young man -replied.</p> - -<p>Here for the moment, in great impatience on his part, and in the call -of some little household necessity on hers, the conversation closed; but -it was resumed as soon as the brother and sister were together again. -The big boys were still at school, the little ones engaged with their -lessons, and baby walking up and down in his nurse’s arms, did not -interrupt the talk which went on between the elders of the family. And -there is nothing with which it is so easy to indoctrinate a girl than -enthusiasm about an ideal, whatever that may be, or sympathy in a lofty -view of duty such as this, which had dawned, it seemed, upon her -brother. Bee took fire, as was so natural. She said to herself, that in -the utter downfall of her own life, it would be a fine thing to be able -to further his, and kept to the idea of Charlie as ambassador, settling -all sorts of difficulties and deciding the fortunes of the world for war -or for peace, as easily as if the question had been one of leading a -cotillion. How splendid it would be! She thought of herself as an old -lady, white-haired, in a cap and shawl—for, in an imagination of -twenty, there are few gradations between youth and that pathetic, yet -satisfactory ultimate period—seated in a particular corner of a -magnificent room at the Embassy, looking on at her brother’s triumph. -These sort of reflected successes were the only ones she thought that -would ever come to Bee.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Charlie</span> wishes to go up to Oxford to read. Why does he wish to go up to -Oxford to read? And what reading is it necessary to do there?”</p> - -<p>“He says, papa, that it is easier to get on when you have all your books -about you—and when you can arrange all your way of living for that, -instead of the interruptions at home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there are too many interruptions at home? I should have thought you -were quiet enough here. I hope you have not thrown yourself into lawn -tennis parties, and tea parties, and that sort of thing—so soon, Bee.”</p> - -<p>Her father looked at her with a seriously reproachful air. He had begun -to dine out pretty freely, though only in serious houses, and where, he -explained, it would be prejudicial to him in his profession not to -appear.</p> - -<p>The undeserved reproach brought quick tears to Bee’s eyes. “I have -thrown myself into no parties,” she said, hastily. “Nobody has been -here. What Charlie means is the meal times, and hours for everything, -and all the children about. I have often heard you say that you couldn’t -work when the children were playing about.”</p> - -<p>“My work and Charlie’s are rather different,” Colonel Kingsward said, -with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Well, papa! but to read for a good degree, so that you may distinguish -yourself, must want a great deal of application——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he wants a good degree, does he? He should have thought of it a -little earlier. And what use will that be to him in the Foreign Office? -Let him learn French and German—that’s what he has got to do.”</p> - -<p>“But even for French and German,” said Bee. “German is dreadfully -difficult, and Charlie does not pick up a language easily; and, -besides,” she added, “he has nobody to teach him at home——”</p> - -<p>“And who would he have at Oxford? Why, in the Long, even the shopkeepers -go away!”</p> - -<p>“But that is just the time for good, hard reading,” said Bee, acting on -her instructions, “when there are no lectures or anything formal to -interrupt you.”</p> - -<p>“He means, I suppose, when he can do whatever he likes, and there are no -proctors nor gate bills to keep him right.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Bee, earnestly, “I don’t think that is at all what Charlie -means. I am sure that he has a real desire to get on. He says that he -feels he has been wasting his time, and—and not—not responding -properly to all you have done for him. He wants to make himself fit for -anything that may happen. If you will think, papa,” she added, with the -deepest gravity, “what a great deal of study and reading an ambassador -must require——”</p> - -<p>“An ambassador!” Colonel Kingsward was not given to laughter, but he -laughed now. “He may think himself fortunate if he is anything but an -unpaid attaché for the next ten years—which is an office which does not -require a great deal of study.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa——”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Bee. He wants, I suppose, complete freedom, and to amuse -himself as he pleases, with no control. I know what it means to stay up -at Oxford to read during the Long. Oh, yes. I don’t doubt men who know -how to grind, grind, but Charlie is not one of them. Let him stay at -home. You are a great deal sharper than he is at languages; you can help -him with his German as well as anyone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Bee, from the bottom of her heart, “not with German, not -with German, papa!”</p> - -<p>And there came over her a sudden vision of the gardens at the Baths, the -murmur of talk in the air, the German officers with their spurs, and one -Englishman coming forward among them, an Englishman without spurs, -without uniform, so much more distinguished, it had been Bee’s pride to -think, in his simplicity, than all these bedizened warriors—and now! A -gush of hot tears came to her eyes. There was reason enough for them -without Aubrey Leigh, and Colonel Kingsward, whose heart was still -tender to every recollection of his wife, did not think of the other -memory that thrilled poor Bee’s heart. He walked up and down through the -room for a moment saying nothing, and then he paused by her side and put -his hand with an unusual caress upon his daughter’s bowed head.</p> - -<p>“You are right, you are right,” he said. “I could not ask that of you, -Bee.”</p> - -<p>Oh! if I had but known! Bee felt not only miserable, but guilty, when -her father’s touch came upon her hair. To think how little the dear -mother’s presence told in that picture, and how much, how much! that of -the man—who had been vulgarly untrue to her, a man without sense of -purity or honour! One whose name she never desired to hear again. She -could hardly accept the imputation of so much higher and nobler feeling -which her father’s touch conveyed. The dear mother! who never condemned, -who was always kind. She was moved to cry out in self-abasement, “It -was not mamma I was thinking of, it was him! him!” But she did not do -this. She raised her head and took up her work again with a trembling -hand.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Colonel Kingsward, as anxious as his daughter was to -get away from a subject which was too moving for discussion, “that -Charlie finds Kingswarden dull. It is not unnatural at his age, and I -shall not object if he wishes to come to town for a week or so. His own -good feeling, I hope, would keep him from anything unbecoming in the -circumstances. But I must hear no more of this going to Oxford. It is -quite out of the question. If he had shown any desire to go in for -honours at the right time——. But now it is worse than folly. He must -get through as quickly as he can, and take advantage of his nomination -at once. Who can tell how soon it may be of no value? The Foreign Office -may be thrown open, like all the rest, to every costermonger in the -country, in a year or two, for anything one knows.”</p> - -<p>Charlie received this conclusion with disappointment, rapidly turning -into rage and rebellion. “I should have thought the most old-fashioned -old fogey in the world would have known better,” he cried. “What, -prevent a man from reading when he is at the University! Did you ever -hear of such a thing, Bee? Why, even a military man, though they are the -most obstinate in the world, must know that to be really educated is -everything in these days. A week in town! What do I care for a week in -town? It is exactly like the man in the Bible who, being asked for -bread, gave a stone.”</p> - -<p>Bee was greatly impressed by her brother’s anxiety to continue his -studies. It filled her with a respect and admiration which up to this -time she had never entertained for Charlie, and occupied her mind much -with the question how, if her father were obdurate, he might be aided at -home in those studies. She remembered suddenly that Mr. Burton’s curate -had been spoken of as a great scholar when he came first to the parish. -He had taken tremendous honours she had heard. And why might not he be -secured as an aid to Charlie in his most laudable ambition? She thought -this over a great deal as she moved about her household duties. Bee as a -housekeeper was much more anxious than her mother had been for many -years. She thought that everything that was done required her personal -attention. She had prolonged interviews every morning with the cook, who -had been more or less the housekeeper for a long time, and who (with a -secret sense of humour) perplexed Bee with technicalities which she -would not allow that she did not understand. The girl ordered everything -minutely for dinner and lunch and breakfast, and decided what was to be -for the nursery as if she knew all about it, and reproved cook gravely -when she found that certain alterations had been made in the menu when -those meals were served. “I assure you as that is what you ordered, -miss,” cook said, with a twinkle in her eye. All this Bee did, not only -because of her strong determination to do her duty, but also because -preoccupation with all these details was her great salvation from -thoughts which, do what she would, claimed her attention more than -nursery puddings and the entrées that pleased papa. But while she -pursued these labours there was still time for other thoughts, and she -occupied herself very much with this question about Charlie. Why could -not Mr. Delaine come to read with him? Mr. Delaine had shown an -inclination to flirt with Betty, but Betty was now absent, so that no -harm could be done in that direction. She thought it all out during the -somewhat gloomy days which Colonel Kingsward spent with his family in -the country. It rained all the Sunday, which is a doleful addition to -the usual heaviness of a day in which all usual occupations are put -away. Colonel Kingsward himself wrote letters, and was very fully -occupied on Sunday afternoon, after the Church parade on Sunday morning, -which was as vigorously maintained as if the lessening rows of little -ones all marshalled for morning service had been a regiment—but he did -not like to see Bee doing anything but “reading a book” on Sunday. And -it had always been a rule in that well-ordered house that the toys -should be put away on Saturday evening, so that the day hung rather -heavily, especially when it rained, on the young ones’ heads. Colonel -Kingsward did not mean to be a gloomy visitor. He was always kind to his -children, and willing to be interested in what they did and said; but, -as a matter of fact, those three days were the longest and the most -severe of any that passed over the widowed and motherless house. When -Bee came downstairs from the Sunday lesson, which she gave in the -nursery, she found her brother at the writing-table in the drawing-room, -composing what seemed a very long letter. His pen was hurrying over the -page; he was at the fourth side of a sheet of large paper—and opened -out on the table before him were several sheets of a very long, -closely-written letter, to which he was evidently replying. When Bee -appeared, Charlie snatched up this letter, and hastily folding it, -thrust it into its envelope, which he placed in his breast pocket. He -put the blotting paper hastily over the letter which he was himself -writing, and the colour mounted to his very forehead as he turned half -round. It was not any colour of guilt, but a glow of mingled enthusiasm -and shamefacedness, beautiful upon the face of a youth. Bee was too -young herself to admire and appreciate this flush of early feeling, but -she was so far sympathetic in her own experience, that she divined -something at least of what it meant.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” she said, “you are writing to someone——”</p> - -<p>“Most assuredly, I am writing to someone,” he said, with the half pride, -half shame of a young lover.</p> - -<p>“Who is she?” cried Bee. “Oh, Charlie, tell me! Oh, tell me! Do I know -who it is?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” he said, “what you are making such a fuss about. I am -writing to—a friend.” He paused a moment, and then said with -fervour—“the best friend that ever man had.”</p> - -<p>“A friend,” cried Bee, a little disappointed. “But isn’t it a lady?” she -asked.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” he said, with a haughty air, “that you are not one of those -limited people that think there can be no friendship between a man and a -woman, for if that’s so I’ve got nothing to say.”</p> - -<p>Bee was scarcely philosophical enough to take up this challenge. She -looked at him, bewildered, for a moment, and then said, “Oh, tell me -about her, Charlie! It would do me good—it would, indeed, to hear about -somebody whom there could not be any objection to, who would be, -perhaps, happier than me,” cried poor little Bee, the tears coming to -her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Happier than you? And why shouldn’t you be happy?” said the elder -brother. He made an effort to turn away in dignified silence, but the -effort was too much for the young man, longing to talk of the new thing -in his life. “There is no comparison at all between a little thing like -you and—and the lady I was writing to,” he said, holding his head high. -“If you think it is any sort of nonsense you are very much mistaken. -Why, she—she is as much above me as heaven is from earth. That she -should take the trouble to show any interest in me at all, just proves -what an angel she is. I, an idle, ordinary sort of fellow, and she!—the -sort of woman that one dreams of. Bee, you can’t think what she has done -for me already,” Charlie cried, forgetting his first defiance. “I’m -another fellow ever since she began to take notice of me.”</p> - -<p>Bee stole to her brother’s side and gave him a sympathetic stroke upon -his shoulder. “Oh! Charlie! what is her name?”</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t know her name if I were to tell you,” he said. And then, -after a moment’s hesitation: “Her name,” he went on, “her real name as I -call it, is Laura, like Petrarch’s Laura, don’t you know, Bee? But I -don’t suppose you do know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, I do,” said Bee, eagerly. She added in her turn, “I -shouldn’t have thought you would know anything like that.”</p> - -<p>“No; I’m not up to it,” said Charlie, with unexpected humility; “but I -read it all up as soon as she said it. Don’t you think it’s a beautiful -name?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Bee, yet not with enthusiasm. “But, oh!” she added, “I hope -she is not married, Charlie; for that would not be nice at all.”</p> - -<p>“Married!” cried Charlie. “I wish you were not such a horrid -little—Philistine. But she is not married, if that is any satisfaction -to you.”</p> - -<p>“And is she—beautiful, Charlie? and are you very, very fond of her? Oh, -Charlie!” Bee clasped his arm in both her hands and sobbed. It made her -feel wretched, yet filled her with a delicious tender sense of -fellow-feeling. If he would only tell her all! It would be hard upon -her, and yet it would be a sort of heavenly pang to hear another, and, -oh! surely, this time, a happy love tale. Bee sat down close by him, and -clasped his arm, and sometimes leaned her head upon it in the warmth of -her tenderness and sympathy. And Charlie was persuaded, by degrees, to -speak. But his tale was not like Bee’s. It was a tale of a lady who had -stooped as from her throne to the young fellow of no account—the -ordinary young man, who could not understand how she had come to think -of him at all. It was she who had inspired him with his new ambition, -who had made him so anxious to distinguish himself, to make something of -his life. She had taken the trouble to write to him, to keep him up to -it since he had come “down.” She had promised to let him come to see her -when he came “up” again, to inspire him and encourage him. “One look at -her is better than a dozen coaches,” Charlie cried, in the fervour of -his heart.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you are going to see her—in town?” asked Bee, -doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“In town? No. She detests town. It’s all so vain and so hollow, and such -a rush. She came to live in Oxford at the beginning of last term,” -Charlie said.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Bee, and she found no more to say. She did not herself -understand how it was that a little chill came upon her great sympathy -with Charlie and this unknown lady of his—friendship, if not love.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Colonel Kingsward</span>, however, could not be moved either by Bee’s -representations or by anything said by his son to grant to Charlie the -permission, and the funds necessary, to pursue his studies in Oxford by -going “up” to read “in the Long.” It was indeed very little that Charlie -said to his father on the subject. He responded somewhat sullenly to the -Colonel’s questions.</p> - -<p>“So I hear you want to go back to Oxford to read?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the young man.</p> - -<p>“You have generally found before this that by the end of the term you -had had too much reading.”</p> - -<p>No reply.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you want to be free of supervision and do exactly what you -please. And you find it dull at home?”</p> - -<p>“I have never said so,” said Charlie.</p> - -<p>“You ought to feel that in the circumstances it was appropriate that it -should be dull. Good heavens! Were you contemplating amusing yourself, -rioting with your comrades, when your poor mother—”</p> - -<p>“I have never thought of rioting with comrades,” said Charlie, with -averted head.</p> - -<p>“One knows what that means—going up to read in the Long: boats and -billiards and hotels, bands of young men in flannels lounging about, and -every decorum thrown to the winds.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel looked severely at his son, who stood before him turning -over the pages of a book in his hand, with lowering brows and closed -mouth.</p> - -<p>“You think I don’t know,” he said, sharply; “but you are mistaken. What -would have been best for you would have been the discipline of a -regiment. I always thought so, but at least I’m not going to permit -every decent bond to be broken through.”</p> - -<p>“I think, sir,” said Charlie, “that it’s enough to say ‘No,’ without -accusing me of things I never thought of.”</p> - -<p>“I am the best judge of what is enough,” said the angry father. “If you -want a week or so in town, I don’t object; but Oxford in the Long—No. I -only hope,” he added severely, “that there’s no woman in the case.”</p> - -<p>Charlie’s countenance flushed crimson. He gave his father a furious -glance. “If that’s all,” he said, “I may now go, perhaps?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, go,” said the Colonel, angrily. He was himself sorry for that last -insinuation as soon as his son had left the room. His angry -suspiciousness had carried him too far. Not that he blamed himself for -the suspicion, but he was aware that to speak of it was a false step and -could do no good. If there was a woman in the case, that flying dart -would not move the young man to penitence or turn him from any dangerous -way. Colonel Kingsward, however, quickly forgave himself for this -inadvertence, and reflected with satisfaction that, at least, he had -prevented the young fool from making an ass of himself for this summer. -And in such cases absence is the best remedy and hinders much mischief. -Charlie rejected with indignation the week in town which his father -offered. “A week in town!” he said to Bee, contemptuously, “to waste my -time and debase all my ideas! What does he think I want with a week in -town? That’s the way a fellow’s father encourages him to do the best he -can. Cuts off all inspiration, and throws one on the dregs of life! It’s -enough to make a man kick over the traces altogether.”</p> - -<p>“But, Charlie,” said Bee, with timidity, “don’t you think it’s very, -very quiet here. We have nothing to disturb us. If you were to try to do -your work at home?—you would have the library to sit in all the week -while papa is in town.”</p> - -<p>“Out of reach of books, out of reach of any coach—it’s like telling a -mason to build a wall without any stone.”</p> - -<p>“The library is full of books,” said Bee, with a little indignation.</p> - -<p>“What kind of books? Military books, and travels, and things for -reference—old peerages, and so forth—and some of the heavy old -reviews, and a few novels. Much good a man who is going in for real -reading would get out of those!”</p> - -<p>“But you have your own books—all those that you carry about with you, -Charlie.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” he said, with impatience, “What are they? Horrible cribs and -things, that I promised not to use any more.”</p> - -<p>“Does Laura,” said Bee, with a little awe, “say you are not to use -cribs?”</p> - -<p>“And as for the quiet,” said Charlie, continuing his strain of -complaint, “if you call that quiet! When you never know that next moment -there may not be a rush down the nursery stairs like wild horses let -loose, and shrieks all over the house for Bee or for nurse, sending -every idea out of a man’s head; or else baby screaming fit to bring down -the house. You know nothing about it, to be sure; it is like talking to -the wind to talk to a little thing like you. A man can’t work unless -he’s in the right place for working. If any difficulty arises in a -passage, for instance, what do you think I am to do here?”</p> - -<p>“Do you go to—— Laura, when there is a difficulty about a passage, -Charlie?”</p> - -<p>“No, you little fool!” With a flush of anger and shame he begged her -pardon next minute. “But it is so hard to explain things to you, Bee. -You are so ignorant—naturally, for, of course, you never were taught -anything. Don’t you know that Oxford is full of coaches?” he said.</p> - -<p>“That was just what I was thinking of, Charlie—if you will not be -angry, but let me speak.”</p> - -<p>“Speak away,” he said. This was on Monday, after Colonel Kingsward had -left. The days which he spent at Kingswarden were the heaviest, as has -been said, to the young party; nevertheless when he went away the blank -of that long world of a week, without any communication to speak of from -without, closed down alarmingly upon the elders of the family. Even when -papa was cross, when he was dissatisfied with his dinner or found fault -with the noise of the children, it was more or less an event. But when -he departed there was a sense of being cut off from all events, -separated from the world altogether, shut out from the news and the hum -of society, which was very blank and deadening. Bee and Charlie dined -alone, and it was dreary; they spent the evening together, or else—one -in the library, one in the garden, where the beauty of the summer -evening was terrible to the one poor little girl with her recollections, -incapable of shutting them out in that utter stillness, and trying very -ineffectually not to be unhappy. When Charlie threw open the window of -the library and strolled forth to join her, as he generally did, it was -a little better. Bee had just done very conscientiously all her duties -in the nursery—had heard the children say their prayers, in which they -still, with a little pause of awe, prayed God to bless dear mother—and -had made all the valorous little efforts she could to keep down the -climbing sorrow. When she heard the sound of the library window she -quickly dried her eyes and contrived to smile. And she was a very good -listener. She suffered Charlie to talk about himself as much as he -pleased, and was interested in all he said. She made those little -allusions to Laura which pleased him, though he generally answered with -a scornful word, as who should say that “a little thing like you” was -incapable of comprehending that lady. But this was the sole diversion of -these young people in the evening. People called in the afternoon, and -there was occasionally a game of tennis. But in the evening they were -almost invariably alone.</p> - -<p>They were strolling about the garden on this occasion when the young man -bewailed himself. Bee, though she made those allusions to Laura, had -never got over that little chill in respect to her which had arisen in -the most capricious, causeless way when she knew that Laura lived in -Oxford. Nothing could be more unreasonable, but yet it was so. It -suggested something fictitious in her brother’s eagerness to get back, -and in his supposed devotion to his work. Had his Egeria been anywhere -else Bee would not have felt this; but she did feel it, though she could -not tell why. She was very anxious to please him, to content him, if -possible, with his present life, to make her sympathy sweet to him, -seeing that he had nobody but herself to console him, and must be -separated from Laura until October. Poor Charlie! It was hard indeed -that this should be the case, that he should have so dull a home and no -companion but his sister. But it could not be helped; his sister, at -least, must do what she could.</p> - -<p>“You must not be angry,” said Bee, very humbly. “It is only an idea that -has come into my head—there may be nothing at all in it—but don’t -please shut me up as you do sometimes—hear me out. Charlie! there is -Mr. Delaine.”</p> - -<p>“Mister—what?” said Charlie, which indeed did not show a very -complaisant frame of mind—but a curate in the country is of less -importance in the horizon of the son of a house who is at Oxford than he -is in that of the daughter at home.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Delaine,” repeated Bee. “You don’t remember him, perhaps, at all. -He is the curate. When he came first he was said to be a great scholar. -He took a first class. You need not say, pooh! Everybody said so, and it -is quite true.”</p> - -<p>“A first in theology, I suppose,” said Charlie, disdainfully.</p> - -<p>“No, not that—that’s not what people call a first. Mr. Burton, I have -always heard, is a good scholar himself, and he said a first; of course -you know better than I do what that means.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Charlie, “and supposing for the sake of argument that he -took a first—what then?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Charlie dear! He is an Oxford man too; he must know all the things -you want to know—difficult passages and all that. Don’t you think, -perhaps——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, a coach!” cried Charlie. Then he paused, and with withering satire, -added “No doubt, for little boys—your curate might do very well, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“He is not my curate,” said Bee, with indignation; “but I have always -heard he was a great scholar. I thought that was what you wanted.”</p> - -<p>“It is not to be expected,” said her brother, loftily, “that you should -know what I want. It is not a coach that is everything. If that were -all, there need be no such things as universities. What a man needs is -the whole machinery, the ways of thinking, the arrangements, the very -atmosphere.”</p> - -<p>He strolled along the walk with his hands in his pockets and his -shoulders up to his ears.</p> - -<p>“I do not think it is possible,” he added, turning to her with a -softened tone, “that I could make you understand; for it is so different -from anything you have ever known.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I am not so dreadfully stupid!” said Bee, incensed. “If Laura -understands, why should it be so impossible for me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for goodness’ sake talk of things you can know something about; as -if there was any comparison between her and you.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are very uncivil,” said Bee, ready to weep. “I may not be -clever, but yet I am your sister, and it is only because I wanted to -help you that I took the trouble to speak at all.”</p> - -<p>“You are very well meaning, Bee, I am sure,” said Charlie, with -condescension; “I do full justice to your good intentions. Another -fellow might think you wanted to have Delaine here for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Me!” cried Bee, with a wild pang of injured feeling and a sense of the -injustice, and inappropriateness, the cruel wrong of such a suggestion. -And that Charlie could speak like that—who knew everything! It was -almost more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t say that,” he went on in his lofty tones. “I know you mean -well. It is only that you don’t—that you can’t understand.” How should -she? he said to himself with amusing superiority, and a nod of his head -as if agreeing to the impossibility. Bee resented the tone, the -assumption, the comparison that was implied in every word.</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” she cried, “if you ever tell Laura that she doesn’t and -can’t understand?”</p> - -<p>He stopped short opposite to her, and grasped her arm. “Bee,” he said -almost solemnly, “Don’t! If you knew her you would know what folly it is -and presumption to compare yourself for one moment!—and do me the -favour not to profane that name, as if it were only a girl’s name like -your own.”</p> - -<p>“Is she a princess, then?” cried Bee, “or an angel? Or what is she?”</p> - -<p>“She is both, I think,” said Charlie, in a voice full of awe, “at least -to me. I wish you wouldn’t talk of her in that way. I am sorry I ever -told you her name. And please just let my affairs alone. You haven’t -been able to do anything for me with my father, which is the only thing -you might have done—and I don’t want to discuss other things with you. -So please just let my concerns alone from this day.”</p> - -<p>“It was not I that ever wished to interfere!” cried Bee, with great -mortification and resentment, and after a few minutes’ silent walk -together in much gloom and stateliness the brother and sister bade each -other an offended and angry good-night.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> made, however, but a very temporary breach between Bee and her -brother. They were a little stiff next morning at breakfast, and -elaborately refrained from talking on any but the most trivial things, -but by noon this reserve had broken down, and in the evening, though Bee -proudly refrained from any reference to Laura, they were as confidential -as ever. Bee’s mind had passed through various vicissitudes in respect -to the object of Charlie’s adoration. Her first overwhelming interest -had given way to a little doubt, and this was naturally strengthened by -the overweaning estimate of the unknown which Charlie thrust upon her. A -girl is very willing to admire at second-hand her brother’s love, but -when she is told that it is presumption to compare herself with that -divinity, her sympathy is strained too far. Bee began to have an uneasy -feeling about this unknown Laura. It was one thing to stimulate Charlie -to work, to stir up all that was best in him, to urge him to distinguish -himself, for Charlie’s sake or for their joint sakes, if they married -and became one—which was the only thing that could happen in Bee’s -idea—but it was quite another thing to pretend an enthusiasm for this -in order that Charlie should be kept within her reach and at her feet -during that quiet time of the long vacation. Bee knew enough to know -that severe work is not compatible with much love-making. She imagined -her brother strolling away from his books to take Laura out on the -river, or lie at her feet in the garden, which had become the habit of -his life, as he betrayed to her accidentally. Bee thought, with a little -indignation, that the lofty intentions which would probably end in these -proceedings were of the nature of false pretences, and that the girl -whom Charlie endowed with the most superlative qualities should not -attempt to take him from his home for such reason; or, at least, if she -did should do it frankly for love’s sake—which was always a thing to be -forgiven—and not on any fictitious pretence.</p> - -<p>For Charlie, being refused that heroic way of working, “going up to -read,” did not read at all, as was apparent to his sister’s keen eyes. -He did not attempt to do the best he could, being prevented from doing -what he desired. He settled himself, it is true, in the library after -breakfast, with his books, as if with the intention of working, but -before Bee got through the little lesson which she gave every morning to -the little ones, Charlie was out strolling about the garden, or lying on -the grass in the shade with a book, which was usually a novel, or one -which lay closed by his side while he abandoned himself to thought—to -thought, not about his books it was to be feared, for Bee, with tremors -of sympathy in her heart, recognised too well the dreamy look, the -drooped eyelids, the air astray from anything going on around. From -questions of study, as far as Bee had perceived in her short experience, -the merest footstep on a path, the dropping of a leaf, was enough to -rouse the student. Charlie’s thoughts were of a far more absorbing kind.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward suggested once more the week in town, when he came on -another Saturday evening to Kingswarden. He was a man not very open to a -perception of the wants of others, but as time went on, and he himself -became more and more sensible of the ameliorating influences of society -and occupation, the stagnant atmosphere at home, where his two elder -children were vegetating, so much against all their previous habits, -struck him with a sensation which he could not wholly get the better of. -It was only right that Bee, at least, should remain in the country and -in retirement the first summer after her mother’s death. It would have -been most unbecoming had she been in town seeing people, and -necessarily, more or less, been seen by the world. But yet he felt the -stillness close round him like a sensible chill, and was aware of the -great quiet—aggravated by his own presence, though of this he was -scarcely aware—as if it had been a blight in the air. It made him angry -for the moment. In other times his house in the country had always been -refreshing and delightful to him. Now, the air, notwithstanding that it -was full summer, chilled him to the bone.</p> - -<p>When you are escaping from the atmosphere of grief, anything that draws -you back to it feels like an injury. He was very cross, very impatient -with the silence at table, the subdued looks of the young people, and -that they had nothing to say. Was it not worse for him than for them? He -was the one who had lost the most, and to whom all ministrations were -due, to soften the smart of sorrow. But afterwards his thoughts towards -his children softened. It was very dull for them. On the Sunday evening -he took the trouble to press that week in town upon Charlie. “There’s a -spare closet you can have at my rooms at the office,” he said. “It’s -very central if not much else, and I daresay your friends will ask you -out quietly as they do me. I think even you might bring up Bee for the -day to see the pictures. She could stay the night with the Hammonds and -see Betty.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t think of me, papa,” cried Bee. “I would rather, far rather, -stay at home. I don’t care for the pictures—this year.”</p> - -<p>“That is foolish, my dear,” said the Colonel. “There is nothing in the -least unbecoming to your mourning in going there. Indeed, I wish you to -go. You ought not to miss the pictures, and it will be a little change. -Of course, I cannot go with you myself, but Charlie will take you, and -you can go to Portman Square to sleep. You will see Betty, who must be -thinking of coming home about now; indeed, it is quite necessary you -should settle that with her. She can’t stay there all the season, and it -is rather heartless leaving you like this alone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, papa. It is I that wish her to stay. She would have come back -long ago but for me.”</p> - -<p>Bee’s generous assumption of the blame, if there was any blame, excited -her father’s suspicion rather than admiration. He looked at her somewhat -severely. “I cannot conceive what object you can have in preferring to -be alone,” he said. “It is either morbid, or—In either case it makes it -more desirable that Betty should come back. You can arrange that. We -will say Wednesday. I suppose you will not be nervous about returning -home alone?”</p> - -<p>“But, papa—”</p> - -<p>“I consider the question settled, Bee,” said Colonel Kingsward, and -after that there was nothing more to be said.</p> - -<p>Poor Bee wept many tears over this compulsory first step back into the -world—without her mother, without—— She did not mean (as she said in -her inmost thoughts) <i>anyone else</i>; but it made the whole world vacant -around her to think that neither on one side nor the other was there -anyone to walk by her side, to take her hand, to make her feel that she -was not alone. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that, in the morning, -this was the first thought that came into her mind, with a faint -expansion of her young being. The change, though it was not joyful, was -still something; and when she set out with Charlie on Wednesday morning -her heart, in spite of herself, rose a little. To see the pictures! The -pictures are not generally very exciting, and there was not, as it -happened, a sensation in any one of them in this particular year, even -had Bee been capable of it, which she was not. But yet she had a -sensation, and one of the most startling description. As she was going -languidly along, looking at one picture after another, mechanically -referring to the catalogue, which conveyed very little idea to her mind, -her attention was suddenly attracted by a lady standing in front of one -of the chief pictures of the year. She was talking with great animation -to some friends who surrounded her, pointing out the qualities and -excellencies (or non-excellencies, for Bee was not near enough to hear) -of the picture. She was picturesquely dressed in black, a tall and -commanding figure, with a great deal of lace about her, and a fine -profile, clearly cut and impressive. Bee’s whole attention was called to -her as by a charm. Where had she seen her before? She seemed acquainted -with every detail of her figure, and penetrated by a vague reminiscence -as of someone who had been of personal importance to herself, though she -could not tell when or how. “Who is she? Oh, who is she?” Bee asked -herself. She was very handsome—indeed Bee thought her a beautiful -woman; not young, which is a thing always noted with a certain pain and -compassion by a young girl—but full of grace and interest. While Bee -gazed, open-eyed, forgetful of herself—a young figure, very -interesting, too, to behold, in her deep mourning, and with the complete -forgetfulness of herself involved in that wistful, inquiring, and -admiring gaze—the lady turned round, presenting her full face to the -girl’s troubled vision. Bee felt her breath come short, her heart beat. -She fell back hurriedly upon a vacant place on one of the benches which -someone had charitably left empty. Bee did not know who the woman was, -nor what possible connections she could have with her own fate, and yet -there was a conviction in the girl’s heart that she had to do with it, -that somehow or other her life was in this woman’s hands. It was the -lady whom she had met that autumn morning last year in the firwoods -round the Baths, where Bee had gone to finish her sketch—the lady who -had appeared suddenly from among the trees, who had sat down by her, and -pointed out the errors in the little picture, and advised her how to -put them right. The black lace which was so conspicuous in the -stranger’s dress, seemed to sweep over Bee as she passed, with the same -faint, penetrating odour, the same thrill of unaccountable sensation. -Bee could not take her eyes from this figure as it moved slowly along, -pausing here and there with the air of a connoisseur. Who was she? Who -was she? Bee turned as she turned, following her with her eyes.</p> - -<p>And then there occurred the most wonderful incident, so strange, so -unsuspected, so unaccountable, that Bee could scarcely suppress a cry of -astonishment. Charlie had been “doing” the pictures in his way, going -faster than his sister, and had been roaming down the whole side of the -long gallery while Bee occupied herself with one or two favourites. He -appeared now at a little distance, having made the round of the room, -and Bee was the involuntary, much surprised witness of the effect -produced upon Charlie by the sudden appearance which had so much excited -herself. He stopped short, with it seemed a sudden exclamation, let the -book in his hands drop in his amazement, then, cleaving the crowd, -precipitated himself upon the group in which the lady stood. Bee watched -with consternation the hurried, eager greeting, the illumination of his -boyish face, even the gesture—both hands put forth, and the quiver of -his whole eager figure. She even heard a little cry of surprise from the -lady, who presently separated herself from her friends and went on with -Charlie in the closest conversation. It seemed to Bee as she watched, -following them as well as she could through the crowd which got between -her and these two figures, that there were no two heads so close -together in all the throng. They seemed to drift into a corner where the -pictures were of no importance, where they were comparatively -undisturbed as if for the most confidential talk. It was not mere -acquaintanceship, a chance meeting with some one he knew, it was utter -forgetfulness of everything else, complete absorption in this new -interest that seemed to move her brother. For a time Bee formed no -conclusion, thought of no explanation, but watched them only with all -her faculties. The catalogue which Charlie had dropped was shuffled and -kicked to her feet by the passers by, a visible sign that something -unusual had happened. What was it? Who was she?</p> - -<p>And then there darted into Bee’s mind a suggestion, an idea which she -could not, would not entertain. Laura! Was it possible that this could -be Laura? The thought sent a thrill through and through her. But no! no! -no! she cried within herself; impossible! This lady was years older than -Charlie—of another generation altogether—not a girl at all. She gazed -through the crowd at the two heads in the corner of the room, standing -as if they were looking at the pictures. They had their backs to Bee, -and she could see nothing but occasionally a side glimpse of Charlie’s -cheek and the lace bonnet, with the unusual accompaniment of a floating -veil, which covered his companion’s head. She had remembered the veil at -once—not primly fastened over her face, as most ladies wore them, but -thrown back and falling behind, a head-dress such as nobody else wore. -It distinguished from every other head that of the woman who, Bee now -felt sure, was like somebody in a tragedy of Fate—somebody who had to -do, she could not tell how, with the shipwreck of her own life—for had -she not appeared mysteriously, from she knew not where, on the very eve -of misery and ruin?—and now was overshadowing Charlie’s, bringing him -some calamity. Bee shivered and trembled among all the crowding people -on the seat which so many people envied her, and felt that she was -retaining far longer than her share. She was too much frightened to do -as she could have wished to do, to rush after them, to draw her brother -away, to break the spell. Such a dark lady had been known in story long -before Bee was born. Could it be true that hateful beings were permitted -to stray about even in the brightest scenes, bringing evil augury and -all kinds of trouble with them? Many a time had Bee thought of this -lady—of her sudden appearance, and of her questions about the Leighs; -of something in her look, an air of meaning which even at the moment had -confused the unsuspicious, unalarmed girl. And now, What was she? Who -was she? Laura? Oh, no, no; a hundred times no. If Bee could have -supposed that her respectable father or any member of her innocent -family could have wronged anyone, she would have thought it was a -ghost-lady ominous of trouble. Oh, what a silly thought in broad -daylight, in the Academy of all places in the world! There was very -little that was visionary or superstitious in such a place.</p> - -<p>Charlie came back to join his sister after a considerable time with a -glowing face. “Oh, you are there!” he cried. “I’ve been looking -everywhere for you. I couldn’t think where you could have gone——”</p> - -<p>“I should have seen you had you been looking for me,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Well, never mind, now that I have found you. Have you seen as much as -you wish? It’s time to be moving off if you mean to get to Portman -Square in time for tea.”</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” said Bee, very gravely, getting up and moving with him -towards the door, “who is that lady you were talking to with the black -lace about her head?”</p> - -<p>“What lady?” said Charlie, with a very fictitious look of surprise, and -the colour mounting all over his face. “Oh, the lady I met—that lady? -Well, she is a lady—whom I have met elsewhere——”</p> - -<p>“I have met her, too,” cried Bee, breathless, “down at the Baths just -before—— Oh, who is she—who is she, Charlie? I think she is one of -the Fates.”</p> - -<p>“You little goose,” cried her brother, and then he laughed in an -unsteady way. “Perhaps she is—if there was a good one,” he cried. “She -is,” he added, in a different tone, and then paused again; “but I -couldn’t tell you half what she is if I were to talk till next week—and -never in such a noisy, vulgar place as this.”</p> - -<p>Then Bee’s mind, driven from one thought to another, came suddenly back -with a jar and strain of her nerves to the question about Laura; was it -possible that this should be she?—for it was the tone sacred to Laura -in which her brother now spoke. “Oh! tell me about her, tell me about -her!” she cried, involuntarily clasping her hands—“she isn’t—is she? -Oh, Charlie, you will have time to tell me when we get into the park. -Didn’t she want to speak to me? Why didn’t you introduce me to her if -she is such a great friend of yours?”</p> - -<p>“Hush! for goodness’ sake, now; you are making people stare,” said -Charlie. He hurried down the stairs and across the road outside, making -her almost run to keep up with him. “I say, Bee,” he cried hurriedly, -when he had signalled to a hansom, “should you mind going by yourself? I -hate driving when I can walk. Why, you’ve been in a hansom by yourself -before! You’re not going to be such a little goose as to make a fuss -about it now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but Charlie—I’d rather walk too, and then you can tell me—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nonsense,” he cried, “you’re tired already. It would be too much -for you. Portman Square, No.—. Good-bye, Bee. I’ll look up later,” he -cried, as, to Bee’s consternation, the wheels of the hansom jarred upon -the curb and she felt herself carried rapidly away.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Portman Square</span> had seemed to Bee the first step into the world, after -all that had happened, but when she was there this gentle illusion -faded. It was not the world, but only another dry and faded corner out -of the world, more silent and recluse than even Kingswarden had become, -for there were no voices of children within, and no rustle of trees and -singing of birds without. The meeting with Betty was sweet, but the air -of the little old-fashioned tea-table, the long, solemn dinner, with the -butler and the footman stealing like ghosts about the table, which was -laid out with heavy silver and cut glass, with only one small bunch of -flowers as a sacrifice to modern ideas in the middle, and the silence -of the great drawing-room afterwards, half lighted and dreary, came with -a chill upon the girl who had been afraid of being dazzled by too much -brightness. There were only the old lady and the old gentleman, Betty -and herself, around the big table, and only the same party without the -old gentleman afterwards. Mrs. Lyon asked Bee questions about her -excellent father, and she examined Bee closely about her dear mother, -wishing to know all the particulars of Mrs. Kingsward’s illness.</p> - -<p>“I can’t get a nice serious answer from Betty. She is such a little -thing; and she tells me she was not at home through the worst,” Mrs. -Lyon said.</p> - -<p>It was not a subject to inspire Bee, or enable her to rise above the -level of her home thoughts. Betty did not seem to feel it in the same -way. She was in a white frock with black ribbons, for Mrs. Lyon did not -like to see her in black, “such a little thing, you know.” Bee wondered -vaguely whether she herself, only a year-and-a-half the elder, was -supposed to be quite middle-aged and beyond all the happier surroundings -of life. Mrs. Lyon gave her a great deal of advice as to what she ought -to do, and talked much of the responsibilities of the elder sister. “You -must teach them to obey you, my dear. You must not let down the habit of -obedience, you must be very strict with them; a sister has more need -even than a mother to be very strict, to keep them in a good way.” Bee -sat very still, while the old lady prosed. It was so silent but for that -voice, that the ticking of the clock became quite an important sound in -the large dim room. And Bee strained her ears for the sound of a hansom -drawing up, for Charlie’s step on the pavement. Many hansoms stopped at -neighbouring houses, and footsteps sounded, but Charlie did not make his -appearance. “My brother said he would look in later,” she had told Mrs. -Lyon when she arrived. “Well, my dear, we shall hope he will,” the old -lady had said, “but a young man in London finds a hundred engagements.” -And Betty, who had been so serious, who had been so sweet, a perfect -companion at the time of their mother’s death, more deeply penetrated by -all the influences of the time than Bee herself, now flitted about in -her white frock, with all her old brightness, and sang her little song -without faltering, to show Bee what progress she had made since she had -been taking lessons. Bee could scarcely yet sing the hymns in church -without breaking down, though to be sure a girl who was having the best -lessons would be obliged to get over that. After the long evening when -they were at last alone together, Betty did not respond warmly to Bee’s -suggestion that she should now be thinking of returning home. “You seem -to think of nothing but the children,” she said; “you can’t want me,” to -which Bee could only reply that there were more things than the children -to think of, and that she was very lonely and had no one to talk to——</p> - -<p>“But you have Charlie,” said Betty.</p> - -<p>“Charlie is very full of his own concerns. He has not much sympathy with -me. All that he wants is to get back to Oxford.”</p> - -<p>“To Oxford in the vacation? What would he do there?”</p> - -<p>“He says he would work,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, how nice of Charlie! I know they do sometimes, Gerald Lyon -tells me; but I never thought that Charlie——”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Bee, “and I don’t feel very sure now, there is someone—— to -whom he writes such long letters——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee! This is far, far more interesting than reading! Do you know -who she is? Does he tell you about her?”</p> - -<p>“Her name is Laura,” said Bee, “that is all I know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Betty, “Charlie too!” And then a flush came over the girl’s -uplifted face. Bee, poor Bee, absorbed in the many things which had -dawned upon her which were beyond Betty, did not observe the colour nor -even that significant “too” which had come to Betty’s lips in spite of -herself.</p> - -<p>“I think he met her or someone belonging to her—at the Academy to-day; -and that’s why he hasn’t come—— Oh, Betty, I am not happy about it—I -am not happy at all!”</p> - -<p>Betty put her arms round Bee and kissed her. She thought it was the -remembrance of her own disappointment and disaster which made her sister -cry out in this heart-broken way. Betty looked very wistfully in Bee’s -eyes. She was more sorry than words could say. If she could have done -anything in the world “to make it all come right” she would have done -so, and in the bottom of her heart she still had a conviction that all -would “come right.” “Oh, Bee, Bee!” she cried, “cannot anything be done? -If only—only you would have listened to his mother!—Bee——”</p> - -<p>Bee held up a warning finger. “Do you think it is myself I am thinking -of?” she said, and then, wringing her hands, she added, “I don’t know -what harm we have done to bring it on, but, oh! I think we are in the -hands of fate.”</p> - -<p>What did this mean? Betty thought her sister had gone out of her mind, -and Bee would make no explanation. But I think this strange conversation -made Betty rather less willing to return home. She was the darling of -the house in Portman Square; though they did not go into society, they -had all manner of indulgences for Betty, and took her to the Park, and -encouraged the visits of their nephew, Gerald, who was a very merry -companion for the girl. He was permitted to take her to see various -sights, and the old people, as usual, did not perceive what was -beginning to dawn under their very eyes. Betty was such a little thing. -The consequence was that, though Bee thought Portman Square still duller -than Kingswarden, her little sister was not of that opinion. Bee -accordingly went back alone next day, Betty accompanying her to the -railway station. Neither at Portman Square nor at the railway station -did Charlie appear, and it was with a heavy heart that Bee went home. It -seemed to her as she travelled alone, for, I think, the first time in -her life—she was not yet quite twenty—that everyone was following his -or her own way, and that only she was bearing the whole burden of the -family. Her father had returned to his own world, his club, his dinners, -official and otherwise. It was indispensable that he should do so. Bee -had understood, it being impossible for a man in his position to -withdraw from the world on account of any private feeling of his own. -And Betty had flashed back again into her music, and her white frock, -and was seeing everything as of old. And Charlie—oh, what was Charlie -doing, drifting off into some tragic enchantment? The poor girl’s heart -was very heavy. There seemed only herself to think of them all in their -separate paths, one here and another there, going further and further -off in so many different directions from the event which had broken the -unity of the family, yet surely should have held them together in their -common trouble. That event had gone into the regions of the past. The -time of the mother was over, like a tale that is told. There were still -the children in the nursery, and Bee, their guardian, watching over -them—but the others all going off, each at their separate angle. It is -hard enough to realise this, even when age has gained a certain -insensibility, but to the girl, this breaking up of the family was -terrible. “I—even I alone remain,” she was inclined to say with the -prophet, and what could she do to stop the closing of these toils of -Fate? Her mind gradually concentrated on that last and most alarming -theme of all—the woman, the lady, without a name or history, or any -evident link with the family, who had thus, for the second time, -appeared in the path. Bee tried to fall back upon her reason, to -represent to herself that she had no real cause for assuming that the -stranger of whom she knew nothing, who might simply have been walking -through that German wood, and have stopped by chance to speak to the -little English girl with her stupid sketch, had anything to do with the -disaster which so soon overtook that poor little English girl in the -midst of her happy love. She had no reason, none, for thinking so. She -tried to represent to herself how foolish she had been to entertain such -a notion, how natural and without meaning the incident had been. And now -again, for the second time, what reason had she to believe that anything -fatal or even dangerous to Charlie was in this lady’s appearance now? -She was a distinguished-looking woman, much older than Charlie. What was -more likely than that such a woman, probably by her looks a married -lady, a person of importance, should have a great deal of influence over -a youth like Charlie if she took notice of him at all? All this was -very reasonable. There was far more sense in it than in that foolish -terror and alarm which had taken possession of her mind. She had almost -persuaded herself that these apprehensions were foolish before she -reached home, and yet the moment after she had succeeded in reasoning it -all out, and convincing herself how foolish they had been, they had -risen up in a crowd and seized her anxious mind again.</p> - -<p>It was some days beyond the week which Charlie had been allowed in town -when he came back. He was in agitated spirits, with a look of mingled -excitement and exhaustion, which gave Bee many alarms, but which she was -not sufficiently skilled or experienced to interpret. Colonel Kingsward -had not come home in the interval, having gone somewhere else to spend -his weekly holiday, and when he did come there were various colloquies -between him and his son, which were evidently of a disturbing kind. Some -of these were about money, as was to be made out by various allusions. -Charlie had either been spending too much, or had set up a claim to -more in the future, a claim which his father was reluctant to allow. But -it seemed that he had come out triumphant in the end, to judge by their -respective looks, when they issued from the library together, just -before Colonel Kingsward left for town.</p> - -<p>“I hope, at least, you’ll make good use of it,” were the father’s last -words—and “you may trust me, sir,” said Charlie, with all the elation -of victory.</p> - -<p>He was in great spirits all day, teasing the children, and giving Bee -half confidences as to the great things he meant to do.</p> - -<p>“They shan’t put me off with any of their beastly Governorships at the -end of the world,” said Charlie. “I shall play for high stakes, Bee, I -can’t afford to be a mere attaché long, but they shan’t shelve me at -some horrible African station, I can tell you. That’s not a kind of -promotion that will suit me.”</p> - -<p>“But you will have to go where you are sent,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Oh, shall I?” cried Charlie, “that is all you know about it. Besides, -when a man has a particularly charming wi——” He stopped and coughed -over the words, and laughed and grew red.</p> - -<p>“Do you think your manners are so particularly charming?” said Bee, with -familiar scorn, upon which Charlie laughed louder than ever and walked -away.</p> - -<p>Next day he left home hurriedly, saying he was going to make a run for a -day or two to “see a man,” and came back in the same excited, exhausted -state on Saturday morning, before his father returned—a process which -was repeated almost every week, to the great consternation and trouble -of Bee. For Charlie never mentioned these absences to his father, and -Bee felt herself spell-bound, as if she were incapable of doing so. How -could she betray her brother? And the letters to Laura ceased. He had no -time now to write these long letters. Neither did he receive them as -used to be the case. Had the correspondence ceased, or was there any -other explanation? But Charlie talked but little to his sister now, and -not at all on this subject, and thus the web of mystery seemed to be -woven more and more about his feet—Bee alone suspecting or fearing -anything, Bee alone entirely unable to make it clear.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> year went on in its usual routine, the boys came back from school, -there was the usual move to the seaside, all mechanically performed -under the impulse of use, and when the anniversary came round of the -mother’s death, it passed, and the black dresses were gradually laid -aside. And everything came back, and everybody referred to Bee as if -there had always been a slim elder sister at the head of affairs. Betty -came home at the end of the season with a sentiment in respect to Gerald -Lyon, and with the prospect of many returns to Portman Square, but -nothing final in her little case, nothing that prevented her from being -one of the ringleaders in all the mischief which inevitably occurred -when the family were gathered together. Bee had become so prematurely -serious, so over-wrought with the cares of the family, that Betty, who -was too energetic to be suppressed, gradually came to belong rather to -the faction of the boys than to share the responsibilities of the elder -sister, which might have been her natural place. The second Christmas, -instead of being forlorn, like the first, was almost the gayest that had -been known in Kingswarden for many years. For the boys were growing, and -demanded invitations for their friends, and great skating while the -frost lasted, which, as the pond at Kingswarden was the best for a great -number of miles round, brought many cheerful youthful visitors about the -house. Colonel Kingsward was nothing if not correct; he did not neglect -the interests of any of his children. He perceived at once that to have -Bee alone at the head of affairs, without any support, especially when -his own time at home was so much broken by visits, would be bad at once -for her “prospects,” and for the discipline of the family. He procured -a harmless, necessary aunt accordingly, a permanent member of the -household, yet only a visitor, who could be displaced at any time, to -provide for all necessary proprieties, an arrangement which left him -very free to go and come as he pleased. And thus life resumed its usual -lightness, and youth triumphed, and things at Kingswarden went on as of -old, with a little more instead of less commotion and company and -entertainment as the young people developed and advanced.</p> - -<p>It was perhaps natural enough, too, in the circumstances that Charlie, -though the oldest son, should be so little at home. He came for -Christmas, but he did not throw himself into the festivities with the -spirit he ought to have shown. He was in a fitful state of mind, -sometimes in high spirits, sometimes overclouded and impatient, -contemptuous of the boys, as having himself reached so different a line -of development, and indifferent to all the family re-unions and -pleasures. Sometimes it seemed to Bee, who was the only one in the -family who concerned herself about Charlie’s moods, that he was anxious -and unhappy, and that the air of being bored which he put on so readily, -and the hurried way in which he rushed out and in, impatient of the -family calls upon him, concealed a secret trouble. He complained to her -of want of money, of his father’s niggardliness, of the unhappy lot of -young men who never had any “margin,” who dared not spend an extra -shilling without thinking where it was to come from. But whether this -was the only trouble, or how it came about that he had discovered -himself to be so poor, Bee, poor child, who knew so little, could not -divine. How miserable it was that it was she who was in the mother’s -place! Mamma would have divined, she would have understood, she would -have helped him through that difficult passage, but what could Bee do, -who knew nothing about life, who thought it very likely that she was -making mountains out of molehills, and that all young men were bored and -uneasy at home—oh, if people would only be all good, all happy with -each other, all ready to do what pleased the whole, instead of merely -what pleased themselves!</p> - -<p>To Bee, so prematurely introduced into the midst of those jars and -individual strivings of will and fancy, it seemed as if everything might -be made so easy in life by this simple method. If only everybody would -be good! The reader may think it was a nursery view of human life, and -yet what a solution it would give to every problem! Colonel Kingsward -then would have been more at home, would have been the real father who -commanded his children’s confidence, instead of papa, whose -peculiarities had to be studied, and in whose presence the children had -to be hushed and every occasion of disturbance avoided, and of whom they -were all more or less afraid. And Charlie would have been more or less a -second to him, thoughtful of all, chivalrous to the girls, fond of home, -instead of, as he was, pausing as it were on one foot while he was with -his family, anxious only to get away. And Bee—well, Bee perhaps would -have been different too had that new, yet old, golden rule come into -full efficacy. Oh, if everybody, including always one’s own self, would -only be good!</p> - -<p>It makes the head go round to think what a wonderful revolution in the -world generally the adoption of that simplest method would produce. But -in poor Bee’s experience it was the last rule likely to be adopted in -Kingswarden, where, more and more to the puzzled consciousness of the -girl not able to cope with so many warring individualities, everyone was -going his own way.</p> - -<p>It was in the early spring that Colonel Kingsward came down from town to -Kingswarden, looking less like the adoption of this method than ever -before. The children were in the hall when he came, busy with some great -game in which various skins which were generally laid out there were in -use as properties, making, it must be allowed, a scene of confusion in -that place. The Colonel was not expected. He had walked from the -station, and the sound of his voice stopped the fun with a sudden horror -of silence and fright, which, indeed, was not complimentary to a father. -Instead of greetings, he asked why the children were allowed to make -such a confusion in the place, with a voice which penetrated to the -depths of the house and brought Bee and Betty flying from the -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“Papa!” they both cried, in surprise, mingled with alarm. Colonel -Kingsward walked into the room they had left, ordering peremptorily the -children to the nursery, but finding certain friends of Betty’s there, -in full enjoyment of talk and tea, retreated again to his library, Bee -following nervously.</p> - -<p>“Is your brother here?” he asked, harshly, establishing himself with his -back to the fire.</p> - -<p>“My brother?” echoed Bee, for indeed there were half-a-dozen, and how -was she to know on the spur of the moment which he meant.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked, in the partial light (for a lamp which smoked -had been brought in hurriedly, to make things worse), as if he would -have liked to seize his daughter and wring her slender neck. He went on -with additional irritation: “I said your brother. The others, I have no -doubt, will provide trouble enough in their turn. For the moment it is, -of course, Charlie I mean. Is he here?”</p> - -<p>“Papa! Why, he is at Oxford, you know, in the schools——”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward laughed harshly. “He was going in for honours, wasn’t -he? Wanted to go up to read in the long vacation—was full of what he -was going to do? Well, it has all ended in less than nothing, as I might -have known it would. Read that!” he cried, tossing a letter on the -table.</p> - -<p>Bee, with her heart sick, took up and opened the letter, and struggled -to read, in her agitation, an exceedingly bad hand by an indifferent -light. She made out enough to see that Charlie had not succeeded in his -“schools,” that he had not even secured a “pass,” that he had incurred -the continual censure of his college authorities by shirking lectures, -failing in engagements, and doing absolutely no work. So far as was -known there was nothing against his moral character, but—— Bee, to -whom the censure of the college sounded like a sentence of death, put -down the dreadful letter carefully, as if it might explode, and raised -large eyes, widened with alarm and misery, to her father’s face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa!” was all that she could say.</p> - -<p>“I telegraphed to him to come home at once and meet me here. The fool,” -said Colonel Kingsward, pacing about the room, “is capable of not doing -that—of going away—of——”</p> - -<p>“Papa, they say there is nothing against his character. Oh! you couldn’t -think that he would—do anything dreadful; not disappear, not——” Bee -said the rest in an anguish of suspicion and ignorance with her eyes.</p> - -<p>“God knows what an idiot like that may do! Things are bad enough, but he -will, of course, think them worse than they are. There is one thing we -may be sure of,” he said, with a fierce laugh, “Charlie will do nothing -to make himself uncomfortable. He knows how to take care of himself.” -Colonel Kingsward walked up and down the room, gnawing the end of his -moustache. The lamp smoked, but he took no notice of it. “There is one -thing certain,” he said, “and that is, there’s a woman in it. I remember -now, he was always thinking of something; like an ass, I supposed it was -his studies. No doubt it was some Jezebel or other.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Speak out! Has he told you anything?” He stopped in front of her, and -stood looking with threatening eyes into her face. “If you keep back -anything from me,” he said, “your brother’s ruin will be on your head.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Bee, faltering, “it is not much I know. I know that there -was a lady who lived in Oxford——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! The long vacation,” he exclaimed, with another angry laugh.</p> - -<p>“He used to write long letters to her, and he told me her name.”</p> - -<p>“That is something to the purpose. What was her name?”</p> - -<p>“He said,” said Bee, in a horror of betraying her brother, yet impelled -to speak, “he said that she was called—Laura, papa.”</p> - -<p>“What?” he cried, for Bee’s voice had sunk very low; and then he turned -away again with an impatient exclamation, calling her again a little -fool. “Laura, confound her! What does that matter? I thought you had -some real information to give.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Bee, timidly, “there is a little more, though perhaps it -isn’t information. When he took me to the Academy in summer I saw him -meet a lady. Oh, not a common person, a beautiful, grand-looking lady. -But it could not be the same,” Bee added, after a pause, “for she was -much older than Charlie—not a young lady at all.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?” cried Colonel Kingsward. “Can -one never secure the truth even from one’s own children? I should have -sent him off at once had I known. What do you mean by not young at all?”</p> - -<p>“I should think,” said Bee, with diffidence and a great anxiety not to -exaggerate such a dreadful statement, “that she might perhaps have -been—thirty, papa.”</p> - -<p>“You little idiot,” her father kindly replied.</p> - -<p>Why was she a little idiot? But Bee had not time to go into that -question. The evening was full of agitation and anxiety. The poor little -girl, unused to such sensations, sat through dinner in a quiver of -anxious abstraction, listening for every sound. There were several -trains by which he might still come, and at any moment when the door -opened Charlie might present himself, pale with downfall and distress, -to meet his father’s angry look, whose eyes were fixed on the door -whenever it opened with as much preoccupation as Bee’s—with this -difference, that Bee’s eyes were soft with excuses and pity, while those -brilliant steely eyes which shone from beneath her father’s dark brows, -and which were the originals of her own, blazed with anger. When dinner -was over, which he hurried through, disturbing the servants in their -leisurely routine, Colonel Kingsward again called Bee to him into the -library. She was the only person to whom he could talk of the subject of -which his mind was full, which was the sole reason for this great -distinction, for he had very little patience with Bee’s trembling -remarks. “Don’t be a little fool,” was the answer he made to any timid -suggestion upon which she ventured; but yet there was a necessity upon -him to discuss it with someone, and Bee, however inadequate, had this -burden to bear.</p> - -<p>“If the woman is the kind you say, and if she thinks there’s anything to -be made by it—why the fool may have married her,” he cried. “Heavens! -Think of it; married at three and twenty, without a penny! But,” he -added, colouring a little, “they are very knowing, these women. She -would find out that he was not worth her while, and probably throw him -off in time.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa!” cried Bee, horrified by the thought that her brother might -be deserted in the moment of his downfall.</p> - -<p>“That is the best we can hope. He will have Kingswarden, of course, when -I die, but not a penny—not a penny in the meantime to keep up any such -ridiculous—Listen! Is that the train?”</p> - -<p>There was a cutting near Kingswarden through which the thundering of the -train was heard as it passed. This had been a great grievance at first, -but it was not without its conveniences to the accustomed ears of the -household now. They both listened with anxiety, knowing that by this -time it must have stopped at the station and deposited any passenger, -and for the next half-hour watched and waited; Bee, with all her being -in her ears, listened with an intensity of attention such as she had -never known before, holding her breath; while Captain Kingsward himself, -though he kept walking up and down the room, did so with a softened -step which made no sound on the thick carpet, not uttering a word, -listening too. To describe all the sounds they heard, or thought they -heard, how often the gate seemed to swing in the distance, and the -gravel start under a quick foot, would be endless. It was the last -train; if he did not come now it would be clear that he did not mean to -come. And it was now too late for any telegram. When it was no longer -possible to believe that he could have been detained on the way, Colonel -Kingsward drew a long breath of that disappointment which, in the -yielding of nervous tension, is almost for the moment a relief.</p> - -<p>“If there is no letter to-morrow morning I shall go up to Oxford,” he -said, “and, Bee, if you like, you can come with me. You might be of use. -Don’t say anything to Betty or your aunt. Say you are going with me to -town by the early train, and that you may possibly not return till next -day. There is no need for saying any more.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” said Bee, submissively. That was all he knew! No need for -saying any more to Betty, who had known every movement her sister made -since ever she was born! But, at all events, Bee made up her mind to -escape explanation so far as she could to-night. She paused for a moment -at the door of the drawing-room as she passed. No more peaceful scene -could have been presented. Betty was at the piano singing one song after -another, half for practice, half to amuse the aunt, who sat dozing in -her chair by the fire. The others had gone to bed, and careless youth -and still more careless age, knowing nothing of any trouble, pursued -their usual occupations in perfect composure and calm. The aunt knitted -mechanically, and dozed in the warmth and quiet which she loved, and -Betty went on singing her songs, indifferent to her audience, yet -claiming attention, breaking off now and then in the middle of a line to -ask “Do you like that, Aunt Ellen? Are you paying any attention, Aunt -Ellen?” “Yes, my dear, I like it very much,” the old lady said, and -dozed again. Bee turned away with a suppressed sob. Where was Charlie? -In disgrace, perhaps heart-broken, deserted by his love, afraid to meet -his father! It was foolish to think that he was out in the night, -wandering without shelter, without hope, for there was no need of any -such tragic circumstances, but this was the picture that presented -itself to Bee’s aching and inexperienced heart.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Charlie</span> was not in his rooms at College, he had not been there for some -days, and nobody could furnish any information as to where he was. -Colonel Kingsward had left Bee in the hotel while he went on to make his -inquiries. He was very guarded in the questions he asked, for though he -was himself very angry with his son, he was still careful for Charlie’s -reputation, explaining even to the college porter, who was very well -acquainted with the eccentricities of the gentlemen, that he had no -doubt his son had returned home, though they had unfortunately crossed -each other on the way. The Colonel tried to keep up this fiction even -with the sympathetic Don, who made matters so much worse by his -compassion, but who was very full and detailed in his relation of poor -Charlie’s backslidings, the heaviness of whose gate bill and the amount -of whose sins and penalties were terrible to hear. He had attended no -lectures, he had written no essays, he had been dumb and blank in every -examination.</p> - -<p>“Out of consideration to you, Colonel Kingsward, the College has been -very forbearing, and shut its eyes as long as possible.”</p> - -<p>“I wish, sir, the College had shown more common sense and let me know,” -the Colonel cried, in wrath; but that did not throw any light upon the -subject.</p> - -<p>As it turned out, Charlie had not “gone in” for his “schools” at all. He -had done nothing that he ought to have done. What things he had done -which he ought not to have done remained to be discovered. His stern -father did not doubt that a sufficient number of these actual offences -would soon be found to add to the virtues omitted. He went back to the -hotel where Bee had been spending a miserable morning, and they sat -together in gloom and silence.</p> - -<p>“You had better go home,” he said to her. “He may have got home by this -time, and I don’t see what use you can be here.”</p> - -<p>Bee was very submissive, yet begged hard to return as far as London, at -least, with her father; to wait for another day, in case some trace of -the prodigal might be found. Many such parties have occupied the dreary -hotel rooms and stared in vain out of the windows, and watched with sick -hearts the passing throng, the shoals of undergraduates, to their eyes -all dutiful and well-doing, while the one in whom they are concerned is -absent, in what evil ways they know not. Poor Bee was too young to feel -the full weight of such alarms but she was as miserable as if she had -known everything that could happen in the vagueness of her consciousness -of despair and pain. What Charlie could have done, what would become of -him, what his father would do or could do, were all hidden from Bee. But -there was in it all a vague misery which was almost worse than clear -perception. Colonel Kingsward, with all his knowledge of the world, was -scarcely less vague. He did not know how to find out the secrets of an -under-graduate. Charlie had friends, but all of them protested that -they had seen very little of him of late. He had fallen off from sports -and exercise as much as from study. He had scarcely been on the cricket -ground all the summer; he had given up football; “boating on the river -with ladies,” he had been seen, but not recently, for the floods were -out and such amusements were no longer practicable. At night the Colonel -knew almost as little about his son as when he had arrived full of -certainty that the whole matter could be cleared up in a few hours.</p> - -<p>Next day began gloomily with another visit to the Don, whom Colonel -Kingsward hoped to have seen the last of on their former exasperating -interview. As he had discovered nothing elsewhere, he went back again to -the authority, who had also hoped on his side to be free from the -anxious but impatient father, and they had another long talk, which -ended like the first in nothing. The college potentate had no idea where -the youth could have gone. Charlie had left most of his property still -in his rooms; he had gone out with only a little bag, nobody suspecting -him of an intention to “go down.” After they had gone over the question -again, the Don being by no means as sympathetic as the first time, and -contributing a good deal to Colonel Kingsward’s acquaintance with his -son’s proceedings—a sudden light was for the first time thrown upon the -question by a chance remark. “You know, of course, that he had friends -in Oxford?”</p> - -<p>“Like other young men, I suppose. I have seen several of them, and they -can give me no information.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean undergraduates: people living in the town—ladies,” said -the Don, who was a young man, almost with a blush. And after sending for -Charlie’s scout, and making other inquiries, Colonel Kingsward was -furnished with an address. He went back to the hotel quickly, in some -excitement, to inform Bee of the new clue he had obtained, but he -scarcely reached the room where she was awaiting him when he was told -that a lady had just asked for him downstairs. Bee was sent off -immediately to her room while her father received this unexpected -visitor. Bee had been watching at the window all the morning, looking -down upon that world of young men, all going about their work or their -pleasure, all in their fit place, while Charlie was no one knew where. -The poor girl had been breaking her heart over that thought, wistfully -watching the others among whom he ought to have been, feeling the pang -of that comparison, sometimes imagining she saw a figure like his in the -distance, and watching, as it approached, how every trace died away. -Where was he? Bee’s young heart was very sore. The vacancy was appalling -to her, filling itself with all kinds of visionary shapes of terror. She -could not think of him only as wandering away in misery and despair, -feeling himself to have failed, ashamed and afraid to look anyone in the -face. She scarcely understood her father when he hurried her out of the -sitting-room, but obeyed him with a sense of trouble and injury though -without knowing why.</p> - -<p>Bee spent a very forlorn hour in her room. She heard the sound of the -voices next door. Her father’s well known tones, and a low voice which -she felt must be a woman’s. She would have been much tempted to listen -to what they said if it had been possible, but there was no door between -the rooms, and she could only hear that a long and close conversation -was going on, without making out a word of it. She was very restless in -her anxiety, wandering from the window to the door, which she opened -with a desire to hear better, which defeated itself—and to see better, -though there was nothing to be seen. It seemed to Bee that half the day -was over before the sound of movement in the sitting-room warned her -that the conference was breaking up. Even after that there was a long -pause, and the talking went on, though it moved closer to the door. Bee -had gradually grown in excitement as those sounds went on. She stole to -her own half-open door, as the one next to it was opened, and the -visitor came forth attended with the greatest courtesy by Colonel -Kingsward, who accompanied her to the stairs. There the lady turned -round and gave him her hand, turning her face towards the spot where the -unsuspected watcher stood gazing with eyes of wonder and terror.</p> - -<p>“Not another step,” she said, with a sweet but decided voice. “The only -thing I will ask from you, Colonel Kingsward, will be a line, a single -line, to say that all is well.”</p> - -<p>“You may rely upon that,” the Colonel said, bowing over the hand he -held, “but may not I see you to your carriage, call your servant?”</p> - -<p>“I am walking,” she said, “and I am alone; come no further, please; one -line to say that all is well.” He still held her hand and she gave it a -little, significant pressure, adding in a low tone: “And happy—and -forgiven!”</p> - -<p>Bee stood as if she had been turned to stone; a little, clandestine -figure within the shelter of the door. It was a beautiful face that was -thus turned towards her for a minute, unconscious of her scrutiny, and -the voice was sweet. Oh, not a woman like any other woman! She said to -herself that she remembered the voice and would have known it anywhere; -and the look, half kind, yet with a touch of ridicule, of mockery in it. -This was evidently not what the Colonel felt. He descended a few of the -stairs after her, until turning again with a smile and with her hands -extended as if to drive him back, she forbade his further attendance. He -returned to the sitting-room thoughtfully, yet with a curious, softened -expression upon his face, and a few minutes afterwards, not at once, he -came to the door again and called Bee. There was still a smile lingering -about his lips, though his mouth had stiffened back into its usual -somewhat stern composure.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” he said, “I have something to tell you. I have had a very -strange visit—a visit from a lady.”</p> - -<p>“I saw her,” said Bee, under her breath, but her father was too much -pre-occupied to hear.</p> - -<p>“If this was, as I suppose, the lady whom you and your brother met, you -are right, Bee, in thinking her very remarkable. She is one of the -handsomest women I ever saw, and with a charm about her, which—. But, -of course what you want to hear is about Charlie. I am glad to tell you -that she has very much relieved my mind about Charlie, Bee.”</p> - -<p>Bee stood before her father with her hands folded, with the most -curious sense of revolt and opposition in her mind—looking at him, a -spectator would have said, with something of the sternness that was -habitual to him, but so very inappropriate on her soft brow. She made no -reply to this. Her countenance did not relax. Relieved about Charlie? -No! Bee did not believe it. Pity and terror for Charlie seemed to take -stronger and stronger possession of her heart.</p> - -<p>“It is a long story,” he said. “Sit down, you have got a way of standing -staring, my dear. I wish you had more womanly models like the lady I -have just been talking to—perfectly clear and straightforward in what -she said, but with a feminine grace and sweetness. Well, it appears that -Charlie had the good luck to get introduced to this lady about a year -ago. Sit down, I tell you, I won’t have you staring at me in that rude -way.”</p> - -<p>There was a little pause, and Bee sat down abruptly, and not very -gracefully. Colonel Kingsward could not but remark the difference. He -followed her movements for a moment with his eyes, and then he began -again—</p> - -<p>“For all I can make out, he has been treated with a kindness which -should have done everything for a young man. He has been invited to the -house of these ladies—he has met all sorts of people who ought to be of -use to him, whom it was a distinct advantage to meet—he has been kept -out of the usual foolish diversions of young men. So far as I can make -out, there is nothing against his character except what these -Don-fellows call idleness—a thing that scarcely tells against a young -man in after-life, unless he is a parson, or a schoolmaster, or -something of that kind. Even the missing of his degree,” said the -Colonel, pulling his moustache reflectively, “is of little importance -among practical men. So long as he can get through in his modern -languages, and so forth, of what importance are the classics? I am very -much relieved in my mind about Charlie. She thinks he must have gone -straight down to London, instead of going home.”</p> - -<p>“Who is the lady, papa?”</p> - -<p>Bee’s interest in Charlie seemed to have dropped, as the Colonel’s had -done, for the moment. His advocate had made herself the first person on -the horizon.</p> - -<p>“The lady? So far as I can make out she is living here with some -friends, up in the district called the Parks, where a great many people -now live. She says she has always taken an interest in the -undergraduates, who are left so sadly to themselves, and that, being of -an age to make it possible, she has wished very much to devote herself -to do what she could for these boys. Unfortunately, with her unusual -personal attractions——.” The Colonel stopped short and bit his -moustache. “After all her kindness to your brother, encouraging him in -his work and setting his duty before him—and no elder sister, no -mother, could have been kinder, from all she tells me—the foolish boy -repaid her good offices by—what do you think? But you will never -guess.”</p> - -<p>“And I will never, never believe it,” cried Bee, “if it was -anything—anything that was not nice on Charlie’s part!” Her voice was -quite hoarse in her emotion, her secret fury against this woman, of whom -she knew nothing, rising more and more.</p> - -<p>“You little fool!” her father said, rising and standing up against the -mantel-piece. He laughed angrily, and looked at her with his most -contemptuous air. “One would think that even in their cradles women must -begin to hate women,” he said.</p> - -<p>Bee, who hated no one unless it was this woman whom she feared but did -not know, grew angry red. Her blue eyes flashed and shone like northern -lights. The cruel and contemptuous assumption which touched her pride of -sex, added vehemence to the other emotion which was already strong -enough, and roused her up into a kind of fury.</p> - -<p>“If she says anything bad of Charlie I don’t believe it,” she cried, -“not a word, not a word! Whatever he has done she has driven him to it!” -Then Bee was suddenly silent, panting, terrified or afraid that her -little outburst of passion would close all further revelations.</p> - -<p>“It seems unnecessary to add another word in face of such fierce -prejudice!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, forgive me. Tell me; I shall say nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“You have said a great deal too much already. After this,” he said, -sarcastically, “you will perhaps think that your brother—of three and -twenty, without a penny or a prospect—did Miss Lance honour by forcing -a proposal upon her, making love to her at the end of all——”</p> - -<p>“Miss Lance!” Bee said, with a sharp cry.</p> - -<p>The Colonel took no notice of the interruption. He went on with a kind -of disdainful comment to himself rather than to her.</p> - -<p>“After all, there are things which a lady has to put up with, which we -don’t take into consideration. A young fool whom she has been kind to, -knowing he has nobody near to look after him, no mother”—his voice even -grew a little tender at this point—“and by way of reward the idiot -falls in love with her, asks a woman like that to share his -insignificant little life! Jove! What a piece of impertinence!” the -Colonel said, with an angry laugh.</p> - -<p>“Did you say,” said Bee, with faltering lips, “Miss Lance, papa?”</p> - -<p>He turned upon her with a look of extreme surprise.</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t I have said Miss Lance? What is there unusual in the -name?”</p> - -<p>Bee looked at him with a dumb rebellion, an almost scorn and passion far -greater than his own. He had forgotten the name—but Bee had not -forgotten it. The fact that Bee’s own young life had suffered shipwreck -had perhaps escaped from his memory altogether, though it was she who -had done it. Bee looked at him with her blue eyes blazing, remembering -everything that he had forgotten. Her brother had gone out of her mind, -and all the history of his Laura, and the way in which he had been -enfolded in this fatal web. She went back to her own wrongs—forgetting -that she had keenly confirmed her father’s decision and rejected Aubrey -on what she thought to be other and sufficient grounds. She thought only -of the moment when sudden darkness had fallen upon her in the first -sunshine of her life, and she had struggled against the rigid will of -her father, who would listen to no explanations—who would not -understand. And all for the sake of this woman—the spider who dragged -fly after fly into her net; the witch, the enchantress of whom all -poems and stories spoke! Her exasperation was so intense that she forgot -all the laws of respect and obedience in which her very being had been -bound, and looked at her father as at an equal, an enemy whom she -scorned as well as feared.</p> - -<p>“What is the meaning of these looks,” he said, “I am altogether at a -loss to understand you, Bee. Why this fury at a name—which you have -never heard before, so far as I know.”</p> - -<p>“You think I have never heard it before?” said Bee, in her passion. “It -shows how little you think of me, or care for anything that has happened -to me. Oh, I have heard it before, and I shall hear it again, I know. I -know I shall hear it again. And you don’t mind, though you are our -father! You don’t remember!” Bee was still very young, and she had that -fatal woman’s weakness which spoils every crisis with inevitable tears. -Her exasperation was too great for words. “You don’t remember!” she -cried, flinging the words at him like a storm; and then broke down in a -passion of choking sobs, unable to say more.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">To</span> do Colonel Kingsward justice, he was taken entirely by surprise by -Bee’s outburst. He had no remembrance of the name. The name had been -wholly unimportant to him even at the time when it had come under his -notice. The previous claimant to Aubrey Leigh’s affections had been “the -woman,” no more, to his consciousness. He did not remember anything -about the business now, except that there was a story about a woman, and -that he would not permit his young daughter to marry a man concerning -whom such a story existed. Even after Bee had left him, when he really -made an effort to pursue into the recesses of his mind anything that was -connected with that name, he could not make it out. Was it perhaps a -tyrannical governess? but that would not explain the girl’s vehement -outcry. He had not thought for a long time of Bee’s interrupted love, -and broken-off engagement. Of what consequence is such an episode to so -young a girl? And there were other matters in his mind of what seemed a -great deal more importance. Whatever was the source of Bee’s previous -knowledge of Miss Lance, she hated that singularly attractive woman, as -it is usual for the sex—Colonel Kingsward thought—to hate -instinctively every other woman who is endowed with unusual attractions.</p> - -<p>What a magnificent creature that woman was! How finely she had talked of -the undeveloped boy to whom she had hoped to be of service, and with -what genuine feeling, half-abashed, distressed, yet not without a gleam -of amusement, she had told him of the wonderful scene at the end, when -Charlie had asked her to marry him.</p> - -<p>“Me! A woman who might be his mother!” she had said, with beautiful -candour; though it was not candour, it was more like jest, seeing that -she was still young—young enough to turn any man’s head. And she had -added hastily, “It must have been my fault. Somehow I must have led him -astray, though I was so far from intending it. A boy like your son would -not have done such a wild thing had he not supposed——” She put up her -hands to her face to hide a blush. “That is the worst of us, poor -women,” she had said, “we cannot show an interest even in a boy but he -supposes—oh, Colonel Kingsward, can’t you imagine what I felt, wishing -solely to be of use to your son, who is such a good, ingenuous, <i>nice</i> -boy—and finding in a moment, without the least warning, that he had -mistaken me like <i>that</i>!”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was of opinion, and so was everybody who knew him, -that he was by no means an impressionable man; but it would be -impossible to say how touched he had been by that explanation. And she -was so sorry for Charlie. She avowed that, after what had happened, she -would have considered herself inexcusable if she had not come to his -father, however unpleasant it might be to herself, to show him how -little, how very little, Charlie was to blame.</p> - -<p>“You must not—must not be angry with him,” she had said, joining her -hands in appeal. “Oh, forgive him; it is so much my fault. If I could -but bear the penalty! But I cannot endure to think that the poor boy -should be punished when all the time I, who am so much older than he is, -am the one to blame. I ought to have known better. I am at your mercy, -Colonel Kingsward. You cannot say anything worse to me than I have done -to myself; but he, poor boy, is really not to blame.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel had no wish to say anything to her that was uncomplimentary. -He entered into her position with the most unusual sympathy. Perhaps he -had never had so warm a feeling of understanding and affection for -anyone before. The compassion and the appeal was something quite new and -original to him. He was not a man to be sympathetic with the troubles of -a middle-aged spinster—an elderly flirt, as he would probably have -called her, had he heard the story at second hand; in such a case he -would have denounced the mature siren in the terms usual to men of -experience. But the presence of this lady made all the difference. She -was not like anyone else. The usual phrases brought forward on such -occasions were meaningless or worse in respect to her. He was softened -to Charlie, too, by the story, though he could have raved at his son’s -folly. The puppy!—to think a woman like that could care for him! And -yet, as she said, there was no harm in the boy; only absurdity, -presumption, the last depths of fatuity. Poor young fool! But it was a -different thing from racing towards the bottomless pit for the mere -indulgence of his own appetites, as so many young men did, and if this -was the only reason of Charlie’s downfall it involved no loss of -character and need make no breach in his career, which was the chief -thing. He could make up his lost ground, and the F.O. would care very -little for what the Dons said. The idleness of a boy in love (the puppy! -inexcusable in his presumption, but yet with plenty of justification at -least) could do him no more than temporary harm in any case.</p> - -<p>These thoughts passed through the Colonel’s mind with a great sense of -relief. It did not occur to him that Charlie, when he saw his folly, -could have much difficulty in getting over such a misplaced sentiment. -It must be done, and the boy must feel that such a hope was as much -above him as was the moon in the skies. He must make up his mind to -apply himself, to get through his examination, to begin his real -life—which his father would certainly impress upon him was not mere -amusement or happiness, if he liked to call it so, but work and a sharp -struggle to secure his standing. As for his degree, that was a matter of -complete indifference to Colonel Kingsward. The boy had his experience -of Oxford life to talk of and fall back upon; he was a University man -all the same, though he had not been crowned by any laurels he had made -some friends, and he had gained the necessary familiarity with that -phase of a young man’s existence. What did the details matter, and who -would ever ask about his degree? An attaché does not put B.A. or M.A. -(which was which, or if there was any difference, or on what occasion -such vanities should be displayed the Colonel was quite unaware) to his -name like a schoolmaster. Nothing could be of less importance than this. -He dismissed Charlie from his mind accordingly with much relief. It was -not at all unnatural that the boy should have gone to town instead of -going to Kingswarden. No doubt by this time he had made his way home, -and this reminded the Colonel that it would be as well to send his -sister off at once to meet Charlie there. He called Bee again -accordingly from her room, where she had taken refuge, and instructed -her in what he desired.</p> - -<p>“There is a train in an hour,” he said. “You had better get ready. I -wish you to go home at once. Charlie will be there by this time, I have -no doubt, and I should like you to let him know that if he is reasonable -and drives all folly from his mind, and addresses himself at once to his -preparation for the exam., he shall hear no more from me about the -Oxford business. It depends upon himself whether it is ever alluded to -again.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Bee, faltering a little, “am I to go alone?”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t you go alone? Are you afraid of getting into a cab at -Paddington and driving to Victoria, the most ordinary everyday business? -Why, I thought the girls of your period revolted against being -protected, and were able to take care of themselves wherever they went?”</p> - -<p>Now Colonel Kingsward had always insisted on surrounding his daughters -with quite unnecessary care, being, as he prided himself, on all -questions in respect to women, of the old school.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Bee, very tremulous, looking at him with eyes full of -meaning, “I am not afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Then why do you make any fuss about it?” he said. “I shall stay behind -for a few hours, perhaps for another night. I must see whether he has -left any debts, and square accounts with the College, and—settle -everything.” Bee was still looking at him with that troubled air of -meaning, and he looked at her with a stern look, putting her down; but -there was in his eyes a certain understanding of her meaning and a -shrinking from her scrutiny all the same. “You have just time to get -ready,” he said, pulling out his watch and holding it up to her. And Bee -had nothing to do but to obey. It was not the drive from Paddington to -Victoria, the change from one railway to another, which frightened her, -though for a girl who had never done anything alone, that was not a -pleasant thought; but the girl was deeply disturbed to leave her father -there within the power of the woman whom more than ever she looked upon -with terror as if she had been an embodied Fate. How ludicrous was the -idea that a girl of twenty should be disturbed and anxious at the -thought of leaving her father unprotected by her poor little -guardianship—and such a father as Colonel Kingsward! Bee saw at once -the folly and futility of such a notion, but she could not rid herself -of the alarm. Her terror of this woman, now fully evident as the same -who had wrecked her own life, was more than ever a superstitious panic.</p> - -<p>Bee’s mind was wholly possessed with this idea. She thought of the -beautiful, dreadful lady in Christabel. She thought of that other -shuddering image in the poem, of “the angel, beautiful and bright,” who -looked the hero in the face; “And how he knew it was a fiend, that -miserable knight——” Aubrey had not known she was a fiend, nor Charlie; -and now papa! What could such a woman do to papa? He was old (Bee -thought) beyond the reach of the influences which had moved the others. -What could Fate do to him? She asked herself this question in her great -alarm, trying to beat down the terror in her bosom, and persuade herself -that it was foolishness. But the more she thought the more her heart -beat with fright and apprehension. It seemed to her, somehow, as if the -former dangers had been nothing in comparison with this, although she -did not know what it was that she feared.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward walked with his daughter to the station, and he was -very affable and kind to her, taking unusual pains to make her feel that -there was nothing to fear. He selected carefully a carriage which was -reserved for ladies, and put her into the charge of the guard, whom he -desired to find a cab for her at Paddington, and look after her in every -way. Nothing could be more fatherly, more thoughtful than he was; but -all these precautions, instead of reassuring Bee, increased her -sensation of danger. For the Colonel, though he had always insisted upon -every precaution, had not been in the habit of personally seeing to the -comfort of his children. She followed him with her eyes as he occupied -himself with all these little cares, and explained to the guard what was -to be done. And then he went to the bookstall and bought her illustrated -papers and a book to amuse her on the journey, Bee watching all the time -with growing wonder. She gave a hurried glance now and then around her, -sweeping the station from one end to another, with a terror of seeing -somewhere appear the woman who had brought such pain and trouble into -her life—though this, too, was folly, as she was aware. And when at -last the carriage door was closed, and the train almost in motion, Bee -gave her father a last look, in which there were unutterable things. He -had not met her eyes hitherto, whether by chance or precaution. But now -he was off his guard and did so. Their looks encountered with a clash, -as if they had been meeting swords, the same eyes, brilliant with that -blue blaze, flashing like lightning. But it was the father’s fiery eyes -which gave way. The girl’s look penetrated into his very being; his -dropped, almost abashed. How did this strange change of position come -about? It was anything but reassuring to Bee. It seemed to her as if -already a new chapter of misery and dismay had opened in life, although -her fears had taken no shape, and she could not tell what calamity was -possible. The very vagueness made it all the more appalling to her -inexperienced heart.</p> - -<p>As for Colonel Kingsward, he saw his little daughter go away with a -relief which he felt to be ridiculous. That Bee’s looks should affect -his movements one way or another was beyond measure absurd, and yet he -was relieved that she was gone, and felt himself more at ease. He had a -great many things to do—to settle his son’s accounts, to take his name -off the college books, to wind up that early unsuccessful chapter of -Charlie’s life. But he now felt very little real anger against -Charlie—this shipwreck of his had suddenly introduced his father to -what seemed a new view and new objects, which indeed he did not in any -way define to himself, but of which he felt the stimulus with vague -exhilaration to the bottom of his heart.</p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> Charlie Kingsward fled from Oxford, half mad with disappointment -and misery, he had no idea or intention about the future left in his -mind. He had come to one of those strange passes in life beyond which -the imagination does not go. He had been rejected with that deepest -contumely which takes the aspect of the sweetest kindness, when a woman -affects the most innocent suspicion at the climax to which, consciously -or unconsciously, she has been working up.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor boy, was that what you were thinking of?” There is no way -in which a blow can be administered with such sharp and keen effect. It -made the young man’s brain, which was only an ordinary brain, and for -some time had exercised but small restraining power upon him in the -hurry and sweep of his feelings, reel. When he pulled the door upon him -of those gardens of Aminda, that fool’s paradise in which he had been -wasting his youth, and which were represented in his case by a very -ordinary suburban garden in that part of Oxford called the Parks, his -rejected and disappointed passion had every possible auxiliary emotion -to make it unbearable. Keen mortification, humiliation, the sharp sense -of being mocked and deceived; the sudden conviction of having given what -seemed to the half-maddened boy his whole life, for nothing whipped him -like the lashes of the Furies. In most of the crises of life the thought -what to do next occurs with almost the rapidity of lightning after a -great catastrophe, but Charlie felt as if there was nothing beyond. The -whole world had crumbled about him. There was no next step; his very -fooling had failed him. He rushed back to his rooms by instinct, as a -wounded creature would rush to its lair, but on his way was met by eager -groups returning from the “Schools,” in which he ought to have been, -discussing among each other the stiffness of the papers, and how they -had been done. This would scarcely add to his pain, but it added to that -sickening effort of absolute failure of the demolition of everything -around and before him, which was what he felt the most. They made the -impossible more impossible still, and cut off every retreat. When he -stood in his room, amid all the useless books which he had not opened -for days or weeks, and heard the others mounting the staircase outside -his locked door, it seemed to the unhappy young man as though the floor -under his feet was the last spot on which standing ground was possible, -and that beyond and around there was nothing but chaos. For what reason -and on what impulse he rushed to London it would be difficult to tell. -He had little money, few friends—or rather none who were not also the -friends of his family—no idea or intention of doing anything.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps the world will end to-night.”</p> - -<p>He did not even think so much as that, though perhaps it was in some -sort the feeling in his mind. Yet no suggestions of suicide, or of -anything that constitutes a moral suicide, occurred to him. These would -have been something definite, they would have provided for a future, but -Charlie was stupefied and had none. He had not so much sense of any -resource as consisted in a pistol or a plunge into the river. He flung -himself into the train and went to London, because after a time the -sound of his comrades, or of those who ought to have been his comrades, -became intolerable to him. They kept pacing, rushing up and down the -staircase, calling to each other. One or two, indeed, talked at his own -closed door, driving him into a silent frenzy. As soon as they were gone -he seized a travelling bag, thrust something, he did not know what, into -it, and fled—to the desert—to London, where he would be lost and no -one would drive him frantic by calling to him, by making believe that -there was something left in life.</p> - -<p>It occurred to him somehow, by force of that secondary consciousness -which works for us when our minds are past all exertion, to fling -himself into the corner of a third-class carriage as the place where he -was least likely to meet anyone he knew, though indeed the precaution -was scarcely necessary, since he could not have recognised anyone, as he -sat huddled up in his corner, staring blankly at the landscape that flew -past the window and seeing nothing. When he arrived in the midst of the -din and bustle of the great railway station, he fled once more through -the crowd into the greater crowd outside, clutching instinctively at the -bag which lay beside him, but seeing no one, nor whither he went nor -where he was going. He walked fast, and in a fierce unconsciousness -pushing his way through everything, and though he had in reality no aim, -took instinctively the way to his father’s house—his home—though it -was at that time no home for him, being occupied by strangers. When he -got into the park a vague recollection of this penetrated through the -maze in which he was enveloped, and for a moment he paused, but then -went on walking at the same pace, making the circuit of the park which -lay before him in the mists of the afternoon, the frosty sun setting, -the hay taking a rosy tint. He went all round the silences of the -half-deserted walks, beginning to feel vaguely the strange desolate -sentiment of not knowing where to go, though only in the secondary phase -of his consciousness. Until all at once his strength seemed to fail him, -his limbs grew feeble, his steps slow, and he stopped short, -mechanically, as he had walked, not knowing why, and flung himself upon -a bench, where he sat long, motionless, as if that had now become the -only thing solid in the world and there was no step remaining to him -beyond.</p> - -<p>A young man, though he may have numberless friends, may yet make a -despairing transit like this from one place to another through the midst -of a crowd without being seen by anyone who knows him; if the encounters -of life are wonderful, the failures to encounter, the manner in which we -walk alone with friends on all hands, and in our desperate moments, when -help is most necessary, do not meet or come within sight of any, is -equally wonderful. The Kingswards had a large circle of acquaintance, -and Charlie himself had the numberless intimates of a public school boy, -a young university man, acquainted with half the youth of his -period—yet nobody saw him, except one to whom he would scarcely have -accorded a salutation in ordinary circumstances. Aubrey Leigh, who had -been so strangely and closely connected for a moment with the Kingsward -family, and then so swiftly and peremptorily cut off, arrived in London -from a short visit to a suburban house by the same train which brought -Charlie, and caught sight of him as he jumped out of his compartment -with his bag in his hand. A very cool, self-possessed, and trim young -man young Kingsward had always appeared to the other, with whose -brightest and at the same time most painful recollections his figure was -so connected. To see him now suddenly, with that air of desperation -which had triumphed over all his natural habits and laws, that -abstracted look, clutching his bag, half leaping, half stumbling out of -the carriage, going off at a swift, unconscious pace, pushing through -every crowd, filled Aubrey with surprise which soon turned into anxiety. -Charlie Kingsward, with a bag in his hand, rushing through the London -streets conveyed an entirely new idea to the minds of the spectators. -What such an arrival would have meant in ordinary circumstances would -have been the rattling up of a hansom, the careless calling out of an -address, the noisy progress over the stones, of the driver expectant of -something more than his fare, and keenly cognisant of the habits of the -young gentlemen from Oxford.</p> - -<p>Aubrey quickened his own pace to follow the other, whose arrival this -time was in such different guise. A sudden terror seized his mind, -naturally quite unjustified by the outward circumstances. Was anyone -ill?—which meant, was Bee ill? Had anything dreadful happened? A -moment’s reflection would have shown that in such a case the hansom -would be more needed than usual, as conveying her brother the more -quickly to his home. But Aubrey did not pause on probabilities. A moment -more would have made him sure of the unlikelihood that Charlie would be -sent for in case of Bee’s illness, unless, indeed, the question had been -one of life and death.</p> - -<p>But he had not even heard of his love for many months. His heart was -hungry for news of her, and in that case he would have done his best to -intercept Charlie, to extract from him, if possible, some news of his -sister. He followed, accordingly, with something of the same headlong -haste with which Charlie was pushing through the streets, and for a long -time, up to the gates of the park, indeed, kept him in sight. At the -rate at which the young man was going it was impossible to do more.</p> - -<p>Then Aubrey suddenly lost sight of the figure he was pursuing. There was -a group of people collected for some vulgar, unsupportable object or -other at that point, and it was there that Charlie deflected from the -straight road for home, which he had hitherto taken, and which his -pursuer took it for granted he would follow for the rest of the way. -When Aubrey had pushed his way through the little crowd Charlie was no -longer visible. He looked to left and to right in vain, scrutinised the -short cut over the park, and the broad road full of passing carriages -and wayfarers, but saw no trace of the figure he sought. Aubrey then -walked quickly to the point where Charlie, as he supposed, must be -going, and soon came to the gate on the other side and the street itself -in which the house of the Kingswards was. But he saw no sign of Charlie, -nor of anyone looking for him. He himself had no acquaintance with that -house, to which he had never been admitted, but he had passed it many -times in the vain hope of seeing Bee at a window, not knowing that it -was occupied by strangers. While he walked down the street, however, -anxiously gazing to see if there were any signs of illness, asking -himself whether he dared to inquire at the door, he saw a gentleman come -up and enter with a latch key, who certainly did not belong to the -Kingsward family. This changed the whole current of Aubrey’s thoughts. -It was not here then that Charlie was coming. His rapid and wild walk -could not mean any disaster to the family—any trouble to Bee.</p> - -<p>The discovery was at once a disappointment and a relief; a relief from -the anxiety which had gradually been gaining upon him, a disappointment -of the hope of hearing something of her. For if Charlie was not going -home, who could trace out where such a young man might be going? To the -dogs, Aubrey thought, instinctively; to the devil, to judge by his -looks. Yet Charlie Kingsward, the most correct of modern young men, had -surely in him no natural proclivity towards that facile descent. What -could it be that had driven him along like a leaf before the wind?</p> - -<p>Aubrey was himself greatly disturbed and stirred up by this encounter. -He had schooled himself to quiet, and the pangs of his overthrow, though -not quenched, had been kept under with a strong hand. The life which he -desired for himself, which he had so fully planned, so warmly hoped for, -had been broken to pieces and made an end of, leaving the way he had -chosen blank to him, as he thought, for evermore. He had been very -unfortunate in that way, his early venture ending in bitter -disappointment; his other, more wise, more sweet, cut off before it had -ever been. But he was a reasonable being, and knew that life had to be -put to other uses, even when that sole fair path which the heart desired -was closed. He had given it up definitely, neither thinking nor hoping -again for the household life, the patriarchal existence among his own -fields, his own people, under his own roof, and was now doing his best -to conform his life to a more grey and monotonous standard.</p> - -<p>But the sight of Charlie, or rather the sight of Bee’s brother, -evidently under the influence of some strong feeling, and utterly -carried away by it so as to ignore all that regard for appearance and -decorum which had been his leading principle, came suddenly like a touch -upon a wound, reviving all the questions and impatiences of the past. -Aubrey felt that he could not endure the ignorance of her and all her -ways which had fallen over him like a pall, cutting off her being from -him as if they were not still living in the same world, still within -reach of each other. He might endure, he said to himself, to be parted -from her, to give up hope of her, since she willed it so—yet, at -least, he must know something of her, find out if she were ill or well, -what she was doing, where she was even; for that mere outside detail he -did not know. How was it possible he should bear this—not even to know -where she was? This thought took hold of him, and drove him into a fever -of sudden feeling. Oh! yes; he had resigned himself to live without her, -to endure his solitary existence far from her, since she willed it so; -but not even to know where she was, how she was, what she was doing!</p> - -<p>Suddenly, in a moment, the fiery stinging came back, the sword plunged -into the wound. He had not for a moment deluded himself with the idea -that he was cured of it, but yet it had been subdued by necessity, by -the very silence which now he felt to be intolerable. He went back into -the park, where the long lines of the misty paths were now almost -deserted, gleams of the lamps outside shining through the dark tracery -of the branches, and all quiet except in the broad road, still sounding -with a diminished stream of carriages. He dived into the intersections -of the deserted paths, something as Charlie had done, seeking -instinctively a silent place where he could be alone with the -newly-aroused torment of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>When he came suddenly upon the bench upon which Charlie had flung -himself, his first movement was to turn back. He had been walking over -the grass, and his steps were consequently noiseless, and he was in the -mood to which any human presence—the possible encounter of anyone who -might speak to him and disturb his own hurrying passions—was -intolerable. But as he turned, his eye fell on the bag—the dusty, -half-empty thing still clutched by a hand that seemed more or less -unconscious. This insignificant detail arrested Aubrey. He moved a -little way, keeping on the grass, to get a fuller view of the -half-reclining figure. And then he made out in the partial light that it -was the same figure which he had pursued so long.</p> - -<p>What was Charlie doing here in this secluded spot—he, the most unlike -any such retirement, the well-equipped, confident, prosperous young man -of the world, subject to so few delusions, knowing his way so well, both -in the outer and the inner world?</p> - -<p>Aubrey was more startled than tongue can tell. He thought no longer of -family disaster, of illness, or trouble. Whatever was amiss, it was -evidently Charlie who was the sufferer. He paused for a minute or more, -reflecting what he should do. Then he stepped forward upon the gravel, -and sitting down, put his hand suddenly upon that which held the -half-filled bag.</p> - -<p>“Kingsward!” he said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Meanwhile</span> Colonel Kingsward had remained in Oxford. It was necessary -that he should regulate all Charlie’s affairs, find out and pay what -bills he had left, and formally sever his connection with the -University. It is a thing which many fathers have had to do, with pain -and sorrow, and a sense of premature failure, which is one of the -bitterest things in life; but Colonel Kingsward had not this painful -feeling to aggravate the annoyance and vexation which he actually felt. -The fact that his son had been idle in the way of books, and was leaving -Oxford without taking his degree, did not affect his mind much. Many -young fellows did that, especially in the portion of the world to which -Charlie belonged. The Colonel was irritated by having to interfere, by -the trouble he was having, and the deviation from salutary routine, but -he felt no humiliation either for himself or his son. And Charlie’s -liabilities were not large, so far as he could discover. The fellow, at -least, had no vices, he said to himself. Even the unsympathetic Don had -nothing to say against him but that charge of idleness, which the -Colonel rather liked than otherwise. Had he been able to say that it was -his son’s social or even athletic successes which were the causes of the -idleness he would have liked it altogether. He paid Charlie’s bills with -a compensating consciousness that these were the last that would have to -be paid at Oxford, and he was not even sorry that he could not get back -to town by the last train. Indeed, I think he could have managed that -very well had he tried. He remained for the second night with wonderful -equanimity, finding, as a matter of course, a man he knew in the hotel, -and dining not unpleasantly that day. Before he went back to town, he -thought it only civil to go out to the Parks to return, as politeness -demanded, the visit of the lady who had so kindly and courageously gone -to see him, and from whom he had received the only explanation of -Charlie’s strange behaviour. He went forth as soon as he had eaten an -early luncheon, in order to be sure to find Miss Lance before she went -out, and stopped only to throw a rapid glance in passing at a band of -young ruffians—mud up to their eyes, and quite undistinguishable for -the elegant undergraduates which some of them were—who were playing -football in the Parks. The Colonel had, like most men, a warm interest -in athletic sports, but his soldierly instincts disliked the mud. Miss -Lance’s house was beyond that much broken up and down-trampled green. It -was a house in a garden of the order brought into fashion by the late -Randolph Caldecott, red with white “fixings” and pointed roof, and it -bore triumphantly upon its little gate post the name of Wensleydale, -Oxford Dons, and the inhabitants of that district generally, being fond -of such extension titles. Colonel Kingsward unconsciously drew himself -together, settled his head into his collar, and twisted his moustache, -as he knocked at the door, and yet it was not an imposing door. It was -opened, not by a solemn butler, but by a neat maid, who showed Colonel -Kingsward into a trim drawing-room, very feminine and full of flowers -and knick-knacks. Here he waited full five minutes before anyone -appeared, looking about him with much curiosity, examining the little -stands of books, the work-tables, the writing-tables, the corners for -conversation. It was not a large room, and yet space had been found for -two little centres of social intercourse. There were, therefore, the -Colonel divined, two ladies who shared this abode. Colonel Kingsward had -never been what is called a ladies’ man. The feminine element in life -had been supplied to him in that subdued way naturally exhibited by a -yielding and gentle wife in a house where the husband is supreme. He was -quite unacquainted with it in its unalloyed state, and the spectacle -amused and pleasantly affected him with a sense at once of superiority -and of novelty. It was pleasant to see how these little known creatures -arranged themselves in their own private dominion, where they had -everything their own way, and the touch of the artificial which -appeared in all these dainty particulars seemed appropriate and -commended itself agreeably to the man who was accustomed to a broader -and larger style of household economy. A man likes to see the difference -well marked, at least a man who holds Colonel Kingsward’s ideas of life. -He had gone so far as to note the “Laura” with a large and flowing “L” -on the notepaper, which “L” was repeated on various pretty articles -about. When the door opened and Miss Lance appeared, she came up to him -holding out both her hands as to an old friend.</p> - -<p>“Will you forgive me for keeping you waiting, Colonel Kingsward? The -fact is we have just come in, and you know that a woman has always a -toilette to make, not like you lucky people who put on or put off a hat -and all is done.”</p> - -<p>“I did not think you were likely to be out so early,” the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>“My friend has a son at Oriel,” replied Miss Lance. “He is a great -football player as it happens, and we are bound to be present when he -is playing; besides, the Parks are so near.”</p> - -<p>“I did not think it was a game that would interest you.”</p> - -<p>“It does not, except in so far that I am interested in everything that -interests my surroundings. My friend goes into it with enthusiasm; she -even believes that she understands what it is all about.”</p> - -<p>“It seems chiefly mud that is about,” said the Colonel, with a slight -tone of disapproval, for it displeased him to think that a woman like -this should go to a football match, and also it displeased him after his -private amusement and reflections on the feminine character of the house -to find, after all, a man connected with it, even if that man were only -a boy.</p> - -<p>“Come,” said Miss Lance, indicating a certain chair, “sit down here by -me, Colonel Kingsward, and let us not talk commonplaces any longer. You -have been obliged to stay longer than you intended. I had been thinking -of you as in London to-day.”</p> - -<p>“It was very kind to think of me at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say so—that is one of the commonplaces too. Of course, I -have been thinking of you with a great deal of interest, and with some -rather rebellious, undutiful sort of thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“What thoughts?” cried the Colonel, in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said, “it is a great blessing, no doubt, to have -children—to women, perhaps, an unalloyed blessing; and yet, you know, -an unattached person like myself cannot help a grudge occasionally. Here -are you, for instance, in the prime of life; your thoughts about -everything matured, your reason more important to the world than any of -the escapades of youth, and yet you are depleted from your own grave -path in life; your mind occupied, your thoughts distracted; really your -use to your country interrupted by—by what are called the cares of a -family,” she concluded, with a short laugh.</p> - -<p>She spoke with much use of her hands in graceful movement that could -scarcely be called gesticulation—clasping them together, spreading them -out, making them emphasise everything. And they were very white and -pretty hands, with a diamond on one, which sparkled at appropriate -moments, and added its special emphasis too.</p> - -<p>The Colonel was flattered with this description of himself and his -capacities.</p> - -<p>“There is great truth,” he said, “in what you say. I have felt it, but -for a father at the head of a family to put forth such sentiments would -shock many good people.”</p> - -<p>“Fortunately there are no good people here, and if there were I might -still express them freely. It is a thing that strikes me every day. In -feeble specimens it destroys the individuality; in strong characters -like yourself——”</p> - -<p>“You do me too much honour, Miss Lance. My position, you are aware, is -doubly unfortunate, for I have all upon my shoulders. Still, one must do -one’s duty at whatever cost.”</p> - -<p>“That would be your feeling, of course,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of -admiring and regretful expression. “For my part, I am the most dreadful -rebel. I kick against duty. I think a man has a duty to himself. To -stint a noble human being for the sake of nourishing some half-dozen -secondary ones, is to me—— Oh, don’t let us talk of it! Tell me, dear -Colonel Kingsward, have you got everything satisfactorily settled, and -heard of the arrival——? Oh,” she cried, clasping those white hands, -“how can I sit here calmly and ask, seeing that I have a share in -causing all this trouble—though, heaven knows, how unintentionally on -my part!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so,” said the Colonel, putting his hands for a second on -those clasped white hands. “I am sure that you can have done nothing but -good to my foolish boy. To be admitted here at all was too much honour.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never be able to take an interest in anyone again,” she said, -drooping her head. “It is so strange, so strange to have one’s motives -misunderstood, but you don’t do so. I am so thankful I had the courage -to go to you. My friend dissuaded me strongly from taking such a step. -She said that a parent would naturally blame anyone rather than his own -son——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Lance, who could blame you? I don’t know,” said the -Colonel, “that I blame poor Charlie so much either. To be much in your -company might well be dangerous for any man.”</p> - -<p>“You must not speak so—indeed, indeed, you must not! I feel more and -more ashamed! When a woman comes to a certain age—and has no children -of her own. Surely, surely——”</p> - -<p>“Come!” he cried. “You said a parent’s cares destroyed one’s -individuality——”</p> - -<p>“Not with a woman. What individuality has a woman? The only use of her -is to sink that pride in a better—the pride of being of some use. What -I regretted was for you—and such as you—if there are enough of such to -make a class—. Yes, yes,” she added, looking up, “I acknowledge the -inconsistency. I have not sense enough to see the pity of it in all -cases—but my real principle, my deep belief is that to draw a man like -you away from your career, to trouble and distress you about others, who -are not of half your value—is a thing that ought to be prevented by Act -of Parliament,” she cried, breaking off with a laugh. “But you have not -told me yet how everything has finished,” she added, in a confidential -low tone, after a pause.</p> - -<p>Then he told her in some detail what he had done. It was delightful to -tell her, a woman so sympathising, so quick to understand, with that -approving, consoling, remonstrating action of her white hands which -seemed at the same moment to applaud and deprecate, with a constant -inference that he was too good, that really he ought not to be so good. -She laughed at his description of the Don, adding a graphic touch or two -to make the picture more perfect—till Colonel Kingsward was surprised -at himself to think how cleverly he had done it, and was delighted with -his own success. This gave a slightly comic character to his other -sketches of poor Charlie’s tradesmen, and scout, and an unutterable cad -of a young fellow who had met the Colonel leaving the college and had -told him of a small sum which Charlie owed him.</p> - -<p>“The little beast!” the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>“Worse!” cried Miss Lance, “I would not slander any gentlemanly dog by -calling him of the same species.”</p> - -<p>Altogether, her interest and sympathy changed this not particularly -lively occasion into one of the brightest moments of Colonel -Kingsward’s life. He had not been used to a woman so clever, who took -him up at half a word, and enhanced the interest of everything. Had he -been asked, indeed, he would have said that he did not like clever -women. But then Miss Lance had other qualities. She was very handsome, -and she had an evident and undisguised admiration for him. She was so -very frank and sure of her position as a woman of a certain age—a -qualification which she appropriated to herself constantly, though most -women thought it an insult—that she did not find it needful to conceal -that admiration. When he thanked her for her kindness for the patient -hearing of all his story, and the interest she had shown, to which he -had so little claim, Miss Lance smiled and held out those white hands.</p> - -<p>“I assure you,” she said, “the benefit is all on my side. Living here -among very young men, you must think what it is to talk to, to be -treated confidentially, by a man like yourself. It is like a glance into -another life.” She sighed, and added, “The young are delightful. I am -very fond of young people. Still, to meet now and then with someone of -one’s own age, of one’s own species, if I may say so—”</p> - -<p>“You do me too much honour,” said Colonel Kingsward, feeling with a -curious elation, how superior he was. She went with him to the garden -gate, not afraid of the wintry air, showing no sense of the chill, and -though she had given him her hand before, offered it again with the -sweetest friendliness.</p> - -<p>“And you promised,” she said, looking in his face while he held it, -“that you would send me one line when you got home, to tell me how you -find him—and that all is well—and forgiven.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be too happy to be permitted to write,” Colonel Kingsward said.</p> - -<p>“Forgiven,” she said, “and forgotten!” holding up a finger of the other -hand, the hand with the diamond. She stood for a moment watching while -he closed the low gate, and then, waving her hand to him, turned away. -Colonel Kingsward had never been a finer fellow, in his own estimation, -than when he walked slowly off from that closed door.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p>I <span class="smcap">will</span> not repeat the often described scene of anxiety which existed in -Kingswarden for some time after. Colonel Kingsward returned, as Bee had -done, to find that nothing had been seen or heard of Charlie, whom both -had expected to find defiant and wretched at home. It is astonishing how -quickly in such circumstances the tables are turned, and the young -culprit—whom parents and friends have been ready to crush the moment he -appears with well-deserved rebuke—becomes, when he does not appear, the -object of the most eager appeals; forgiveness, and advantages of every -kind all ready to greet him if only he will come back. The girls were -frightened beyond description by their brother’s disappearance, and -conjured up every dreadful image of disaster and misery. They thought of -Charlie in his despair going off to the ends of the earth and never -being seen more. They thought of him as in some wretched condition on -shipboard, sick and miserable, reduced to dreadful work and still more -dreadful privations, he who had lain in the lilies and fed on the roses -of life. They thought of him, Colonel Kingsward’s son, enlisted as a -private soldier, in a crowded barrack-room. They thought of him -wandering about the street, cold, perhaps hungry, without a shelter. The -most dreadful images came before their inexperienced eyes. The old aunt -who was their companion told them dreadful stories of family prodigals -who disappeared and were never heard of again, and terror took hold of -the girls’ minds.</p> - -<p>Their constant walk was to the station, with the idea that he might -perhaps come as far as the village, and that there his heart might fail -him. Except for that melancholy indulgence, they would not be out of the -house at any time together, lest at that moment Charlie might arrive, -and no one be there to welcome him. There was always one who ran to the -door at every sound, scandalising the servant, who could never get there -so fast but one of the young ladies was before him. They had endless -conversations and consultations on the subject, forming a hundred plans -as to how they should go forth into the world to seek for him, all -rendered abortive by the reflection that they knew not where to go. Bee -and Betty were very unhappy during these lingering, chilly days of early -spring. The tranquillity of the family life seemed to be destroyed in a -moment. Where was Charlie? Was there any news of Charlie? This was the -question that filled their minds day and night.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was not less affectionate, but he was more practical -and experienced. He knew that now and then it does happen that a young -man disappears, sinks under the stream, and goes, as people say, to the -dogs, and is heard of no more—or, at least, only in a shipwrecked -condition, the shame and trouble of his friends. It did not seem to him, -at first, that there could be any such danger for his son. He -anticipated nothing more than a few days’ sullenness, perhaps in some -friend’s house, who would make cautious overtures and intercede for the -rebellious but shame-stricken boy. When, however, the time passed on, -and a longer interval than any judicious friend would permit had -elapsed, a deep anxiety arose also in Colonel Kingsward’s mind. The -<i>esclandre</i> of an Oxford failure did not trouble him much, but, in view -of Charlie’s future career, he could not employ detectives, or advertise -in the papers, or take any steps which might lead to a paragraph as to -the anxiety of a distinguished family on account of a son who had -disappeared. Colonel Kingsward might not be a very tender parent, but he -was fully alive to the advantage of his children, and would allow no -stigma to be attached to them which he could prevent. He went a great -deal about London in these days, going into many a spot where a man of -his dignity was out of place, with an anxious and troubled eye upon the -crowds of young men, the familiars of these confused regions, among -whom, however, no trace was to be found of his son.</p> - -<p>Nobody ever knew how much the Colonel undertook, in how many strange -scenes he found himself, or half of what he really did to recover -Charlie, and save him from the consequences of his folly. The most -devoted father could scarcely have done more, and his mind was almost as -full of the prodigal as were the minds of the girls, who thought of so -many grievous dangers, yet did not think of those that filled their -father’s mind. Colonel Kingsward went about everywhere, groping, saying -not a word to betray his ignorance of Charlie’s whereabouts. To those -who had any right to know his family affairs, he explained that he had -decided not to press Charlie to undergo any examination beyond what was -necessary, that he had given up the thought of taking his degree, and -was studying modern languages and international law, which were so much -more likely to be useful to him. “He is a steady fellow—he has no -vices,” he said, “and I think it is wise to let him have his head.” -Colonel Kingsward was by nature a despotic man, and his friends were -very glad to hear that he was, in respect to Charlie, so amiable—they -said to each other that his wife’s death had softened Kingsward, and -what a good thing it was that he was behaving so judiciously about his -son.</p> - -<p>A pause like this in the life of a family—a period of darkness in which -the life of one of its members is suspended, interrupted, as it were, in -mid career, cut off, yet not with that touch of death which stills all -anxieties—is always a difficult and miserable one. Some, and the number -increases of these uncontrolled persons, cry out to earth and heaven, -and make the lapse public and set all the world talking of their -affairs. But Colonel Kingsward sternly put down even the tears of his -young daughters.</p> - -<p>“If you cannot keep a watch over yourselves before the servants, you had -better leave the house,” he said, all the more stern to them that he was -soft to Charlie; but indeed it was not so much that he was soft to -Charlie as that he was concerned and anxious about Charlie’s career.</p> - -<p>“Betty, I suppose, can go back to the Lyons’ in Portman Square, and -Bee——”</p> - -<p>“If you think that I can go visiting, papa, and no one with the -children, and poor Charlie——”</p> - -<p>“I think—and, indeed, I know, that you can and will do what I think -best for you,” said Colonel Kingsward.</p> - -<p>Bee looked up at him quickly and met her father’s eyes. The two looked -at each other suspiciously, almost fiercely. Bee saw in her father’s -look possibilities and dangers as yet undeveloped, mysteries which she -divined and feared, yet neither could nor would have put into words, -while he looked at her divining her divinations, defying unconsciously -the suspicion which he could not have expressed any more than she.</p> - -<p>“Let it be understood once for all,” he said, “that the children have -their nurses and governess, and that your presence is by no means -indispensable to them. You are their eldest sister, you are not the -mistress of the house. Nothing will happen to the children. In -considering what is best for you——”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Bee, almost fiercely; but she did not pour out upon him -that bitterness which had been collecting in her heart. She paused in -time; but then added, “I have not asked you to consider what was best -for me.”</p> - -<p>“That is enough to show that it is time for me to consider it,” he said.</p> - -<p>And then, once more their looks met, and clashed like the encounter of -two armies. What did she suspect? What did he intend? They both breathed -short, as if with the impulse of battle, but neither, even to -themselves, could have answered that question. Colonel Kingsward cried -“Take care, Bee!” as he went away, a by no means happy man, to his -library, while she threw herself down upon a sofa, and—inevitable -result in a girl of any such rising of passion—burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” said the sensible Betty, “you ought not to speak like that to -papa.”</p> - -<p>“I ought to be thankful that he has considered what was best for me, and -spoilt my life!” cried Bee, through her tears. “Oh, it is very easy for -you to speak. You are to go to the Lyons’, where you wish to go—to be -free of all anxiety—for what is Charlie to you but only your brother, -and you know that you can’t do him any good by making yourself miserable -about him? And you will see Gerald Lyon, who is doing well at -Cambridge, and listen to all the talk about him, and smile, and not hate -him for being so smug and prosperous, while poor Charlie——”</p> - -<p>“How unjust you are!” cried Betty, growing red and then pale. “It is not -Gerald Lyon’s fault that Charlie has not done well—even if I cared -anything for Gerald Lyon.”</p> - -<p>“It is you who ought to take care,” said Bee, “if papa thinks it -necessary to consider what is best for you.”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to consider,” said Betty, with a little movement of -her hands.</p> - -<p>“But it can never be so bad for you,” said Bee, with a tone of regret. -“Never! To think that my life should be ruined and all ended for the -sake of a woman—a woman—who has now ruined Charlie, and whom papa—oh, -papa!” she cried, with a tone indescribable of exasperation and scorn -and contempt.</p> - -<p>“What is it about papa? You look at each other, you and he, like two -tigers. You have got the same dreadful eyes. Yes, they are dreadful -eyes; they give out fire. I wonder often that they don’t make a noise -like an explosion. And Bee, you said yourself that there was something -else. You never would have given in to papa, but there was something of -your own that parted you from Aubrey—for ever. You said so, Bee—when -his mother——”</p> - -<p>“Is there any need for bringing in any gentleman’s name?” cried Bee, -with the dignity of a dowager. And then, ignoring her own rule, she -burst forth, “What I have got against him is nothing to anyone—but that -Aubrey Leigh should be insulted and rejected and turned away from our -door, and that my heart should be broken because of a woman whom papa -and Charlie—whom papa——! He writes to her, and she writes to him—he -tells her everything—he consults her about us, us, my mother’s -children! And yet it was on her account that Aubrey Leigh was turned -from the door—— Oh, if you think I can bear that, you must think me -more than flesh and blood!” Bee cried, the tears adding to the fire and -sparkle of her blazing eyes.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t very nice,” said little Betty, sagely, “but I am not so sure -that it was her fault, for if you had stuck to Aubrey as you meant to do -at first, your heart would not have been broken, and if Charlie had not -been very silly, a person of that age could not have done him any harm; -and then papa——. What can she do to papa? I suppose he thinks as she -is old he may write to her as a friend and ask her advice. There is not -any harm that I can see in that.”</p> - -<p>Bee was too much agitated to make any reply to this. She resumed again, -after a pause, as if Betty had not spoken: “He writes to her, and she -writes to him, just as she did to Charlie, for I have seen them -both—long letters, with that ridiculous “Laura,” and a big L, as if she -were a girl. You can see them, if you like, at breakfast, when he reads -them instead of his papers, and smiles to himself when he is reading -them, and looks—ridiculous”—cried Bee, in her indignation. -“Ridiculous! as if he were young too; a man who is father of all of us; -and not much more than a year ago—. Oh, if I were not to speak I think -the very trees would, and the bushes in the shrubbery! It is more than -anyone can bear.”</p> - -<p>“You are making up a story,” said Betty, wonderingly. “I don’t know what -you mean.” Then she cried, carrying the war into the enemy’s country, -“Oh, Bee, if you had not given him up, if you had been faithful to -him!—now we should have had somebody to consult with, somebody that -could have gone and looked for poor Charlie; for we are only two girls, -and what can we do?”</p> - -<p>Bee did not make any reply, but looked at her sister with startled eyes.</p> - -<p>“Mamma was never against Aubrey Leigh,” said Betty, pursuing her -advantage. “She never would have wished you to give him up. And it is -all your own doing, not papa’s doing, or anyone’s. If I had ever cared -for him I never, never should have given him up; and then we should have -had as good as another brother, that could have gone into the world and -hunted everywhere and brought Charlie home.”</p> - -<p>The argument was taken up at hazard, a chance arrow lying in the young -combatant’s way, without intention—but it went straight to its mark.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> house that had been so peaceful was thus full of agitation and -disturbance, the household, anxious and alarmed, turning their weapons -upon each other, to relieve a little the gnawing of that suspense which -they were so unaccustomed to bear. It was true what Bee’s keen and -sharply aroused observation had convinced her, that Colonel Kingsward -was in correspondence with Miss Lance, and that her letters were very -welcome to him, and read with great interest. He threw down the paper -after he had made a rush through its contents, and read eagerly the long -sheets of paper, upon which the great L, stamped at the head of every -page, could be read on the other side of the table. How did that woman -know the days he was to be at home, that her letters should always come -on those mornings and never at any other time? Bee almost forgot her -troubles, those of the family in respect to Charlie, and those which -were her very own, in her passionate hatred and distrust of the new -correspondent to whom Colonel Kingsward, like his son, had opened his -heart.</p> - -<p>He was not, naturally, a man given to correspondence. His letters to his -wife, in those days which now seemed so distant, had been models of -concise writing. His opinions, or rather verdicts, upon things great and -small had been conveyed in terse sentences, very much to the purpose; -deliverances not of his way of thinking, but of the unalterable dogmas -that were to rule the family life; and her replies, though diffuse, were -always more or less regulated by her consciousness of the little time -there would be given to them, and the necessity of making every -explanation as brief as possible—not to worry papa, who had so much to -do.</p> - -<p>Why it was that he found the long letters, which he read with a certain -defiant pride in the presence of his daughters at the breakfast table, -so agreeable, it would be difficult to tell. They were very carefully -adapted to please him, it is true; and they were what are called clever -letters—such letters as clever women write, with a <i>faux air</i> of -brilliancy which deceives both the writer and the recipient, making the -one feel herself a Sevigné and the other a hero worthy the exercise of -such powers. And there was something very novel in this sudden inroad of -sentimental romance into an existence never either sentimental or -romantic, which had fallen into the familiar calm of family life so long -ago with a wife, who though sweet and fair enough to delight any man, -had become in reality only the chief of his vassals, following every -indication of his will, when not eagerly watching an opportunity of -anticipating his wishes. His new friend treated the Colonel in a very -different way. She expounded her views of life with all the adroitness -of a mind experienced in the treatment of those philosophies which touch -the questions of sex, the differences between a man’s and a woman’s -view, the sentiment which can be carried into the most simple subjects. -There is nothing that can give more entertaining play of argument, or -piquancy of intercourse, than this mode of correspondence when cleverly -carried out, and Miss Laura Lance was a mistress of all its methods. It -was all entirely new to Colonel Kingsward. He was as much enchanted with -it as his son had been, and thought the writer as brilliant, as -original, as poor Charlie had done, who had no way of knowing better. -The Colonel’s head, which generally had been occupied by professional or -public matters—by the intrigues of the service or the incompetencies of -the Department—now found a much more interesting private subject of -thought. He was a man full of anxiety and annoyance at this particular -crisis of his career, and his correspondent was by way of sharing his -anxiety to the utmost and even blaming herself as the cause of it; yet -she contrived to amuse him, to bring a smile, to touch a lighter key, to -relieve the tension of his mind from time to time, without ever allowing -him to feel that the chief subject of their correspondence was out of -her thoughts. He got no relief of this description at home, where the -girls’ anxious questions about Charlie, their eagerness to know what had -been done, seemed to upbraid him with indifference, as if he were not -doing everything that was possible. Miss Lance knew better the dangers -that were being run, the real difficulties of the case, than these -inexperienced chits of children; but she knew also that a man’s mind -requires relief, and that, in point of fact, the Colonel’s health, -strength and comfort, were of more importance than many Charlie’s. This -was a thing that had to be understood, not said, and the Colonel indeed -was as anxious and concerned about Charlie as it was almost possible to -be. He did not form dreadful pictures as Bee and Betty did of what the -boy might be suffering. The boy deserved to suffer, and this -consideration, had he dwelt upon it, would have afforded a certain -satisfaction. But what did make him wretched was the fear of any -exposure, the mention in public of anything that might injure his son’s -career. An opportunity was already dawning of getting him an -appointment upon which the Colonel had long kept his eye, and which -would be of double importance at present as sending him out of the -country and into new scenes. But of what use were all a father’s careful -arrangements if they were thus balked by the perversity of the boy?</p> - -<p>Things were still in this painful suspense when Miss Lance announced to -Colonel Kingsward her arrival in town. She described to him how it was -that she was coming.</p> - -<p>“My friend is absent with her son till after Easter, and I am understood -to be fond of town, and am coming to spend a week or two to see the -first of the season, the pictures, &c., as well as a few friends whom I -still keep up, the relics of brighter and younger days—this is the -reason I give, but you will easily understand, dear Colonel Kingsward, -that there is another reason far more near to my heart. Your poor boy! -Or may I for once say our poor boy? For you are aware that I have never -ceased to upbraid myself for what has happened, and that I shall always -bear a mother’s heart to Charlie, dear fellow, to whom, in wishing him -nothing but good, I have been so unfortunate as to do such dreadful -wrong. Every word you say about your hopes for him, and the great chance -which he is so likely to miss, cuts me to the heart. And it has occurred -to me that there are some places in which he may have been heard of, to -which I could myself go, or where I might take you if you wished, which -you would not yourself be likely to know. I wish I had thought of them -before. I come up now full of hope that we may hear something and find a -reliable clue. I shall be in George Street, Hanover Square, a place -which is luckily in the way for everything. Please come and see me. I -hope you will not think I am presuming in endeavouring to solve a -difficulty for which I am, alas, alas! partially to blame. To assure me -of this at least if no more, come, do come to see me to-morrow, Tuesday -afternoon. I shall do nothing till I have your approval.”</p> - -<p>This letter had an exciting effect upon the Colonel, more than anything -he had known for years. He held it before him, yielding himself up to -this pleasurable sensation for some minutes after he had read it. The -Easter recess had left London empty, and he had been deprived of some of -the ordinary social solaces which, though they increased the difficulty -of keeping his son’s disappearance a secret, still broke the blank of -his suspense and made existence possible. Hard to bear was the point -blank shock which he had sometimes received, as when an indiscreet but -influential friend suddenly burst upon him, “I don’t see your son’s name -in the Oxford lists, Kingsward.” “No,” the Colonel had replied, with a -countenance from which all expression had been dismissed, “we thought it -better that he should keep to his special studies.” “Quite right, quite -right,” answered that great official, for what is a mere degree to F. -O.? Even to have such things as this said to him, with the chance of -putting in a response, was better than the stagnation, in which a man is -so apt to feel that all kinds of whispers are circulating in respect to -the one matter which it is his interest to conceal.</p> - -<p>And his heart, though it was a middle-aged, and no longer nimble organ -given to leaping, jumped up in his breast when he read his letter. There -was the possible clue which it was good to hear of—and there was the -listener to whom he could tell everything, who took such an entire and -flattering share in his anxieties, with whom there was no need to invent -excuses, or to conceal anything. Perhaps there were other reasons, too, -which he did not put into words. The image which had dazzled him at -Oxford rose again before his eyes. It was an image which had already -often visited him. One of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and so -flattering, so confidential, so deeply impressed by himself, so candid -and anxious to blame herself, to place herself in his hands. He went -back to town with agreeable instead of painful anticipations. To share -one’s cares is always an alleviation—to be able openly to take a -friend’s advice. The girls, to whom alone he could be perfectly open on -this matter, were such little fools that he had ceased to discuss it -with them, if, indeed, he had ever discussed it. And to nobody else -could he speak on the subject at all. The opportunity of pouring forth -all his speculations and alarms, of hearing the suggestions of another -mind—and such a mind as hers—of finding a new clue, was balm to his -angry, annoyed and excited spirit. There were other douceurs involved, -which were not absent from his thoughts. The pleasure of the woman’s -society, who was so flatteringly pleased with his, her mature beauty, -which had so much attraction in it, the look of her eyes, which said -more than words, the touch—laid upon his for a moment with so much -eloquent expression, appeal, sympathy, consolation, provocation—of her -beautiful hands. All this was in the Colonel’s mind. He had scarcely -known what was the touch of a woman’s hand, at least in this way, during -the course of his long, calm domestic life. He had been very fond of his -wife, of course, and very tender, as well as he knew how, during her -illness, though entirely unconscious of how much he demanded from her -even in the course of that illness. But this was utterly different, -apart from everything he had ever known. Friendship—that friendship -between man and woman which has been the subject of so much sentimental -controversy. Somebody whom Miss Lance had quoted to him, some great man -in Oxford, had said it was the only real friendship; many others, -amongst whom Colonel Kingsward himself had figured when at any moment so -ridiculous an argument had crossed his path, denounced it as a mere -unfounded fiction to conceal other sentiments. Dolts! It was the Oxford -great man who was in the right of it. The only friendship!—with -sweetness in it which no man could give, a more entire confidence, a -more complete sympathy. He knew that he could say things to Laura—Miss -Lance—which he could say to no man, and that a look from her eyes would -do more to strengthen him than oceans of kind words from lips which -would address him as “old fellow.” He had her image before him all the -time as he went up in the train; it went with him into the decorous -dulness of his office, and when he left his work an hour earlier than -usual his steps were as light as a young man’s. He had not felt so much -exhilaration of spirit since——; but he could scarcely go back to a -date on which his bosom’s lord had sat so lightly on his throne. Truth -to tell, Colonel Kingsward had fallen on evil days. Even the course of -his ordinary existence, when he had gone through life with his pretty -wife by his side, dining out constantly, going everywhere, though -enjoyable in its way, and with the satisfaction of keeping up to the -right mark, had not been exciting. She no doubt told for a great deal in -his happiness, but there were no risks, no excitements, and not as much -as the smart of an occasional quarrel between them. He had known what to -expect of her in every emergency; there was nothing novel to be looked -for, no unaccustomed flavour in anything she was likely to do or say. He -did not make this comparison consciously, for indeed there was no -comparison at all between his late wife (he called her so already in his -mind) and Miss Lance—not the slightest comparison! The latter was a far -more piquant thing—a friend—and the most delightful friend, surely, -that ever man had!</p> - -<p>He found her in a little drawing-room on the first floor of what looked -very much like an ordinary London lodging-house; but within it had -changed its character completely, and had become, though in a different, -more subtle way than that of the drawing-room in Oxford, the bower of -Laura, a special habitation marked with her very name, like the -notepaper on her table. He could not for the first moment avoid a -bewildering idea that it was the same room in which he had seen her in -Oxford transported thither. There seemed the same pictures on the walls, -the same writing-table, or at least one arranged in precisely the same -way, the same chairs placed two together for conversation. What a -wonderful creature she was, thus to put the stamp of her own being upon -everything she touched. Once more he had to wait for a minute or two -before she came, but she made no apology for her delay. She came in with -her hand extended, with an air of sympathy yet satisfaction at the sight -of him which went to Colonel Kingsward’s heart. If she had been sorry -only it would have displeased him, as showing a mind occupied wholly -with Charlie, but the delicate mingling of pleasure with concern was -exactly what the Colonel felt to be most fit.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “How kind of you to come so soon, -to pay such prompt attention to my wish.”</p> - -<p>“Considering that it was my own wish,” he said, “and what I desired -most, I should say how good of you to come, but I can’t venture to hope -that it was entirely for me.”</p> - -<p>“It was very much for you, Colonel Kingsward. You know what blame I take -to myself for all that has happened. And I think, perhaps, I may have it -in my power to make some inquiries that would not suggest themselves. -But we must talk of this after. In the meantime, I can’t but think first -of you. What an ordeal for you—what weary work! But what a pull over us -you men have! You keep your great spirit and command over yourself -through everything, while, whatever little trouble we may have, it shows -immediately. Oh,” said Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a calm strong -man is a sight which it elevates one only to see.”</p> - -<p>“You give me far too much credit. One is obliged to keep a good face to -the world. I don’t approve of people who wash their dirty linen in -public.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t try to make yourself little with all this commonplace reasoning. -You need not explain yourself to me, dear Colonel Kingsward. I flatter -myself that I have the gift of understanding, if nothing else.”</p> - -<p>“A great many things else,” he said; “and indeed my keeping up in this -emergency has been greatly helped by your great friendship and moral -support. I don’t know what you have done to this room,” he added, -changing the theme quickly, “did you bring it with you? It is not a mere -room in London—it is your room. I should have known it among a -thousand.”</p> - -<p>“What a delightful compliment,” she said. “I am so glad you think so, -for it is one of the things I pride myself on. I think I can always make -even a lodging-house look a bit like home.”</p> - -<p>“It looks like you,” he repeated. “I don’t notice such matters much, but -no one could help seeing. And I hope you are to be here for some time, -and that if I can be of any use—”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Colonel Kingsward, don’t hold out such flattering hopes. You of -use! Of course, to a lone woman in town you would be far more than of -use—you would simply be a tower of strength. But I do not come here to -make use of you. I come—”</p> - -<p>“You could not give me greater pleasure than by making use of me. I am -not going much into society, my house is not open—my girls are too -young to take the responsibilities of a season upon themselves; but -anything that a single individual can do to be of service—”</p> - -<p>“Your dear girls—how I should like to see them, to be able to take them -about a little, to make up to those poor children as far as a stranger -could! But I can scarcely hope that you would trust them to me after the -trouble I have helped to bring on you all. Dear Colonel Kingsward, your -chivalrous offer will make all the difference in my life. If you will -give me your arm sometimes, on a rare occasion—”</p> - -<p>“As often as you please—and the oftener the more it will please me,” he -cried, in tones full of warmth and eagerness. Miss Lance raised her -grateful eyes to him full of unspeakable things. She made no further -reply except by one of those light touches upon his arm less than -momentary, if that were possible, like the brush of a wing, or an -ethereal contact of ideas.</p> - -<p>And then she said gravely, “Now about that poor, dear boy; we must find -him, oh, we must find him. I have thought of several places where he may -have been seen. Do you know that I met him once by chance in town last -year? It was at the Academy, where I was with some artist friends. I -introduced him to them, and you know there is great freedom among them, -and they have a great charm for young men. I think some of them may have -seen him. I have put myself in communication with them.”</p> - -<p>“I would not for a moment,” said the Colonel, somewhat stiffly, “consent -to burden you with inquiries of this kind!”</p> - -<p>“You do not think,” she said, sweetly, “that I would do anything, or say -anything to compromise him or you?”</p> - -<p>The Colonel looked at her with the strangest sudden irritation. “I was -not thinking either of him or myself. Why should you receive men, who -must be entirely out of your way, for our sakes?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, with a soft laugh, “you are afraid that I may compromise -myself.” She rose with an unspoken impulse, which made him rise also, in -spite of himself, with a feeling of unutterable downfall, and the sense -of being dismissed. “Don’t be afraid for me, Colonel Kingsward, I beg. I -shall not compromise anyone.” Then she turned with a sudden illumination -of a smile. “Come back and see me to-morrow, and you shall hear what I -have found out.”</p> - -<p>And he went away humbly, relieved yet mortified, not holding his head as -high as when he came, but already longing for to-morrow, when he might -come back.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Colonel Kingsward</span> had been flattered, he had been pleased. He had felt -himself for a moment one of the exceptional men in whom women find an -irresistible attraction, and then he had been put down and dismissed -with the calmest decision, with a peremptoriness which nobody in his -life had ever used to him. All these sweetnesses, and then to be, as it -were, huddled out of doors the moment he said a word which was not -satisfactory to that imperial person! He could not get it out of his -mind during the evening nor all the night through, during which it -occurred to him whenever he woke, as a prevailing thought does. And he -had been right, too. To send for men, any kind of men, artists whom she -herself described as having so much freedom in their ways, and have -interviews with them, was a thing to which he had a good right to -object. That is, her friend had a right to object to it—her friend who -took the deepest interest in her and all that she was doing. That it was -for Charlie’s advantage made really no difference. This gave a beautiful -and admirable motive, but then all her motives were beautiful and -admirable, and it must be necessary in some cases to defend her against -the movements of her own good heart. Evidently she did not sufficiently -think of what the world would say, nor, indeed, of what was essentially -right; for that a woman of her attractions, still young, living -independently in rooms of her own, should receive artists -indiscriminately, nay, send for them, admit them to sit perhaps for an -hour with her, with no chaperon or companion, was a thing that could not -be borne. This annoyance almost drove Charlie out of Colonel Kingsward’s -head. He felt that when he went to her next day he must, with all the -precautions possible, speak his mind upon this subject. A woman with -such attractions, really a young woman, alone; nobody could have more -need of guarding against evil tongues. And artists were proverbially an -unregulated, free-and-easy race, with long hair and defective linen, not -men to be privileged with access under any circumstances to such a -woman. Unquestionably he must deliver his soul on that subject for her -own sake.</p> - -<p>He thought about it all the morning, how to do it best. It relieved his -mind about Charlie. Charlie! Charlie was only a young fellow after all, -taking his own way, as they all did, never thinking of the anxiety he -gave his family. And no doubt he would turn up of his own accord when he -was tired of it. That she should depart from the traditions which -naturally are the safeguards of ladies for the sake of a silly boy, who -took so little trouble about the peace of mind of his family, was -monstrous. It was a thing which he could not permit to be.</p> - -<p>When he went into his private room at his office, Colonel Kingsward -found a card upon his table which increased the uneasiness in his mind, -though he could not have told why. He took it up with great surprise -and anger. “Mr. Aubrey Leigh.” He supposed it must have been a card left -long ago, when Aubrey Leigh was Bee’s suitor, and had come repeatedly, -endeavouring to shake her father’s determination. He looked at it -contemptuously, and then pitched it into the fire.</p> - -<p>What a strange perversity there is in these inanimate things! It seemed -as if some malicious imp must have replaced that card there on that very -morning to disturb him.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward did not remember how it was that the name, the sacred -name, of Miss Lance was associated with that of Aubrey Leigh. He had -been much surprised, as well as angry, at the manner in which Bee -repeated that name, when she heard it first, with a vindictive jealousy -(these words came instinctively to his mind) which was not -comprehensible. He had refused indignantly to allow that she had ever -heard the name before. Nevertheless, her cry awakened a vague -association in his mind. Something or other, he could not recollect -what, of connection, of suggestion, was in the sound. He threw Aubrey’s -card into the fire, and endeavoured to dismiss all thought on the -subject. But it was a difficult thing to do. It is to be feared that -during those morning hours the work which Colonel Kingsward usually -executed with so much exactitude, never permitting, as he himself -stated, private matters—even such as the death of his wife or the -disappearance of his son—to interfere with it, was carried through with -many interruptions and pauses for thought, and at the earliest possible -moment was laid aside for that other engagement which had nothing to do -either with the office or the Service, though it was, he flattered -himself, a duty, and one of the most lofty kind.</p> - -<p>To save a noble creature, if possible, from the over generosity of her -own heart; to convince her that such proceedings were inappropriate, -inconsistent with her dignity, as well as apt to give occasion for the -adversary to blaspheme—this was the mission which inspired him. If he -thought of a natural turning towards himself, the friend of friends, in -respect to whom the precautions he enforced were unnecessary, in -consequence of these remonstrances, he kept it carefully in the -background of his thoughts. It was a duty. This beautiful, noble woman, -all frankness and candour, had taken the part of an angel in -endeavouring to help him in his trouble. Could he permit her to sully -even the tip of a wing of that generous effort. Certainly not! On the -contrary, it became doubly his duty to protect her in every way.</p> - -<p>This time Miss Lance was in her drawing-room, seated in one of the pair -of chairs which were arranged for intimate conversation. She did not -rise, but held out her hand to him, with a soft impulse towards the -other—in which Colonel Kingsward accordingly seated himself, with a -solemnity upon his brow which she had no difficulty in interpreting, -quick-witted as she was. She did not loose a shade upon that forehead, a -note of additional gravity in his voice. She knew as well as he did the -duty which he had come to perform. And she was a woman—not only -quick-witted and full of a definite aim, but one who took real pleasure -in her own dexterity, and played her <i>rôle</i> with genuine enjoyment. She -allowed him to open the conversation with much dignified earnestness, -and even to begin, “My dear Miss Lance,” his countenance charged with -warning before she cut the ground from under his feet in the lightest, -yet most complete way.</p> - -<p>“I know you are going to say something very serious when you adopt that -tone, so please let me discharge my mind first. Mrs. Revel kindly came -to me after you left yesterday, and she has made every inquiry—indeed, -as she compelled me to go back with her to dinner, I saw for myself——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Revel?” said the Colonel.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you know he was married? Oh, yes, to a great friend of mine, a -dear little woman. It is in their house I meet my artists, whom I told -you of. Tuesday is her night, and they were all there. I was able to -make my investigations without any betrayal. But I am very, very sorry -to say, dear Colonel Kingsward, equally without any effect.”</p> - -<p>“Without any effect,” Colonel Kingsward repeated, confused. He was not -so quick-witted as she was, and it took him some time to make his way -through these mazes. Revel, the painter, was a name, indeed, that he had -heard vaguely, but his wife, so suddenly introduced, and her “night,” -and the people described as my artists, wound him in webs of -bewilderment through which it was very difficult to guide his steps. It -became apparent to him, however, after a moment, that whatever those -things might mean, the ground had been cut from under his feet. “Does -Mrs. Revel know?” he added after a moment, in his bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“Know—our poor dear boy? Oh, yes; I took him there—in my foolish -desire to do the best I could for him, and thinking that to see other -circles outside of his own was good for a young man. I couldn’t take him -the round of the studios, you know—could I? But I took him to the -Revels. She is a charming little woman, a woman whom I am very fond of, -and—more extraordinary still, don’t you think, Colonel Kingsward?—who -is fond of me.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel was not up to the mark in this emergency. He did not give -the little compliment which is expected after such a speech. He sat -dumb, a dull, middle-aged blush rising over his face. He had no longer -anything to say; instead of the serious, even impassioned remonstrance -which he was about to address to her, he could only murmur a faint -assent, a question without meaning. And in place of the generous, -imprudent creature, following her own hasty impulses, disregarding the -opinion of the world, whom he had expected to find, here was female -dignity in person, regulated by all the nicest laws of propriety. He was -struck dumb—the ground was cut from beneath his feet.</p> - -<p>“This is only an interruption on my part. You were going to say -something to me? And something serious? I prize so much everything you -say that I must not lose it. Pray say it now, dear Colonel Kingsward. -Have I done something you don’t like? I am ready to accept even -blame—though you know what women are in that way, always standing out -that they are right—from you.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked at her, helpless, still without a word to say. -There was surely a laughing demon in her eyes which saw through and -through him and knew the trouble in his mind; but her face was serious, -appealing, a little raised towards him, waiting for his words as if her -fate hung upon them. The colour rose over his middle-aged countenance to -the very hair which was beginning to show traces of white over his high -forehead.</p> - -<p>“Blame!” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “I hope you don’t -think me quite a fool.”</p> - -<p>“What,” she cried, picking him up as it were on the end of her lance, -holding him out to the scorn—if not of the world, yet of himself. “Do -you think so little of a woman, Colonel Kingsward, that you would not -take the trouble to find fault with her? Ah! Don’t be so hard! You would -not be a fool if you did that—you should find that I would take it with -gratitude, accept it, be guided by it. Believe me, I am worthy, if you -think me in the wrong, to be told so—I am, indeed I am!”</p> - -<p>Were these tears in her fine eyes? She made them look as if they were, -and filled him with a compunction and a shame of his own superficial -judgment impossible to put into words.</p> - -<p>“I—think you wrong!” he said, stammering and faltering. “I would as -soon think that—heaven was wrong. I—blame you! Dear Miss Laura, how, -how can you imagine such a thing? I should be a miserable idiot indeed -if——”</p> - -<p>“Come,” she said, “I begin to think you didn’t mean—now that you have -called me by my name.”</p> - -<p>“I beg you a thousand pardons. I—I—It was a slip of the tongue. It -was—from the signature to your letters—which is somehow so like -you——”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said. “It pleases me very much that you should think so—more -like me than Lance. Lance! What a name! My mother made a mésalliance. I -don’t give up my father, poor dear, though he has saddled me with such a -family—but Laura is me, whereas Lance is only—an accident.”</p> - -<p>“An accident that may be removed,” he said, involuntarily. It was a -thing that might be said to any unmarried woman, a conventional sort of -half compliment, which custom would have permitted him to put in even -stronger terms—but to her! When he had said it horror seized his soul.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, gently shaking her head. “No. At my age one does not -recover from an accident like that; one must bear the scar all one’s -days. And you really had nothing to find fault with me about?”</p> - -<p>“How monstrous!” he cried, “to entertain such a thought.” Then, for he -was really uneasy in his sense of guilt, he plunged into a new snare. -“My little daughter, Betty,” he said, “is coming to town to-day to visit -some friends in Portman Square. I wonder if I might bring her to see -you.”</p> - -<p>“Your daughter!” cried Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a thing I did -not venture to ask—the very first desire of my heart. Your daughter! I -would go anywhere to see her. If you will be so nice, so sweet, so kind -as to bring her, Colonel Kingsward!”</p> - -<p>“I shall, indeed, to-morrow. It will do her good to see you. At her -susceptible age the very sight of such a woman as you—”</p> - -<p>“No compliments,” she cried, “if I am not to be blamed I must not be -praised either—and I deserve it much less. Is she the eldest?” There -was a gleam under her half-dropped eyelids which the Colonel was vaguely -aware of but did not understand.</p> - -<p>“The second,” he said. “My eldest girl is Bee, in many respects a -stronger character than her sister, but on the other hand—”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Miss Lance, “a little wilful, fond of her own way and her -own opinion. Oh, that is a good fault in a girl! When they are a little -chastened they turn out the finest women. But I understand what a man -must feel for this little sweet thing who has not begun to have a will -of her own.”</p> - -<p>It was not perhaps a very perfect characterisation of Betty, but still -it flattered him to see how she entered into his thoughts. “I think you -understand everything,” he said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was not with any intention, but solely to deliver himself from the -dilemma in which he found himself—the inconceivable error he had made, -imagining that it was necessary to censure, however gently, and warn -against too much freedom of action, a woman so absolutely above -reproach, and so full of ladylike dignity as Miss Lance—that Colonel -Kingsward had named the name of Betty, his little daughter, just arrived -in that immaculate stronghold of the correct and respectable Portman -Square. He was a little uneasy about it when he thought of it -afterwards. He was not sure that he desired even Betty to be aware of -his intimacy with Miss Lance. He felt that her youthful presence would -change, in some degree, the character of his relations with the -enchantress who was stealing his wits away. The kind of conversation -that had arisen so naturally between them, the sentiment, the -confidences, the singular strain of mutual understanding which he felt, -with mingled pride and bashfulness—bashfulness sat strangely upon the -much-experienced Colonel, yet such was his feeling—to exist between -Laura and himself, must inevitably sustain certain modifications under -the sharp eyes of the child. She would not understand that subtle but -strong link of friendship. He would require to be more distant, to treat -his exquisite friend more like an ordinary acquaintance while under the -inspection of Betty, even though he was perfectly assured that Betty -knew nothing about such matters. And what, then, would Laura say? -Confident as she was in her own perfect honour and candour, would she -understand the subdued manner, the more formal address which would be -necessary in the presence of the child? It was true that she understood -everything without a word said; but then her own entire innocence of -any motive but those of heavenly kindness and friendship might induce -her to laugh at his precautions. Was it, perhaps, because he felt his -motives to be not unmingled that the Colonel felt this? Anyhow, the -introduction of Betty, whom he had snatched at in his haste to save him -from the consequences of his own folly, would be a trouble to the -intercourse which, as it was, was so consolatory and so sweet.</p> - -<p>It must be added that Miss Lance, before he left her, had been very -consolatory to him on the subject of Charlie, which, though always lying -at the bottom of his thoughts, had begun in the midst of these new -developments to weigh upon him less, perhaps, than it was natural it -should have done. She had suggested that Charlie had friends in -Scotland, that he had most probably gone there to avoid for a time his -father’s wrath, that in all probability he was enjoying himself, and -very well cared for, putting off from day to day the necessity of -writing.</p> - -<p>“He never was, I suppose, much of a correspondent?” she said.</p> - -<p>“No,” Colonel Kingsward had replied, doubtfully; for indeed there never -had been anything at all to call correspondence between him and his son. -Charlie had written to his mother, occasionally to his sisters, but to -his father, save when he wanted money, scarcely at all.</p> - -<p>“Then this is what has happened,” said Laura; “he has gone off to be as -far out of the way as possible. He is fishing in Loch Tay—or he is -playing golf somewhere—you know his habits.”</p> - -<p>“And so it seems do you,” said the Colonel, a little jealous of his son.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know how a boy chatters of everything he does and likes.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward nodded his head gloomily. He did not know how boys -chattered—no boy had ever chattered to him; but he accepted with a -moderate satisfaction the fact that she, Laura, from whom he felt that -he himself could have no secret, had taken, and did take, the trouble of -turning the heart even—of a boy—outside in.</p> - -<p>“Depend upon it,” said Miss Lance, “that is where he has gone, and he -has not meant to make you anxious. Perhaps he thinks you have never -discovered that he had left Oxford, and he has meant to write day by -day. Don’t you know how one does that? It is a little difficult to -begin, and one says, ‘To-morrow,’ and then ‘To-morrow’; and the time -flies on. Dear Colonel Kingsward, you will find that all this time he is -quite happy on Loch Tay.” She held out her hand to emphasise these -words, and the Colonel, though all unaccustomed to such signs of -enthusiasm, kissed that hand which held out comfort to him. It was a -beautiful hand, so soft, like velvet, so yielding and flexible in his, -and yet so firm in its delicate pressure. He went away with his head -slightly turned, and the blood coursing through his veins. But when he -thought of little Betty he dropped down, down into a blank of decorum -and commonplace. Before Betty he certainly could not kiss any lady’s -hand. He would have to shake hands with Laura as he did with old Mrs. -Lyon in Portman Square, who, indeed, was a much older friend. This -thought gave him a little feeling of contrariety and uneasiness in the -contemplation of his promise to take his little girl to George Street, -Hanover Square.</p> - -<p>And next morning when he went into his office, Colonel Kingsward’s -annoyance and indignation could not be expressed when he found once more -upon his writing-table, placed in a conspicuous position so that he -could not overlook it, the card of Mr. Aubrey Leigh. Who had fished it -out of the waste paper basket and placed it there? He rang his bell -hastily to overwhelm his attendant with angry reproof. He could not have -told, himself, why it made him so angry to see that card. It looked like -some vulgar interference with his most private affairs.</p> - -<p>“Where did you find this card?” he said, angrily, “and why is it -replaced here? I threw it into the fire—or somewhere, yesterday—and -here it is again as if the man had called to-day.”</p> - -<p>“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday.”</p> - -<p>“What?” cried Colonel Kingsward, in a voice like a trumpet; but the man -stood his ground.</p> - -<p>“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday. He has called two or three -times; once when you were in the country. He seemed very anxious to see -you. I said two o’clock for a general thing, but you have been leaving -the office earlier for a day or two.”</p> - -<p>“You are very impertinent to say anything of the kind, or to give anyone -information of my private movements; see that it never occurs again. And -as for this gentleman,” he held up his card for a moment, looked at it -contemptuously and then pitched it once more into the fireplace, “be so -good as to understand that I will not see him, whether he comes at two -or at any other hour.”</p> - -<p>“Am I to tell him so, sir?” said the man, annoyed.</p> - -<p>“Of course you are to tell him so; and mind you don’t bring me any -message or explanation. I will not see him—that is enough; now you can -go.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I—— say you’re too busy, Colonel, or just going out, or -engaged——?”</p> - -<p>“No!” shouted Colonel Kingsward, with a force of breath which blew the -attendant away like a strong wind. The Colonel returned to his work and -his correspondence with an irritation and annoyance which even to -himself seemed beyond the occasion. Bee’s old lover, he supposed, had -taken courage to make another attempt; but nothing would induce him to -change his former decision. He would not hear a word, not a word! A kind -of panic mingled in his hasty impulse of rage. He would not so much as -see the fellow—give him any opportunity of renewing—— Was it his suit -to Bee? Was it something else indefinite behind? Colonel Kingsward did -not very well know, but he was determined on one thing—not to allow the -presence of this intruder, not to hear a word that he had to say.</p> - -<p>And then about Betty—that was annoying too, but he had promised to do -it, and to break his word to Laura was a thing he could not do. -Laura—Miss Laura, if she pleased, though that is not a usual mode of -address—but not Lance—how right she was! The name of Lance did not -suit her at all, and yet how just and sweet all the same. Her mother had -made a mésalliance, but there was no pettiness about her. She held by -her father, though she was aware of his inferiority. And then he thought -of her as she shook her head gently, and smiled at his awkward -stumbling suggestion that the accident of the name was not irremediable. -“At my age,”—what was her age? The most delightful, the most -fascinating of ages, whatever it was. Not the silly girlhood of Bee and -Betty, but something far more entrancing, far more charming. These -thoughts interfered greatly with his correspondence, and made the mass -of foreign newspapers, and the military intelligence from all over the -world, which it was his business to look over, appear very dull, -uninteresting and confused. He rose hastily after a while, and took his -hat and sallied forth to Portman Square, where he was expected to -luncheon. He was relieved, on the whole, to be thus legitimately out of -the way in case that fellow should have the audacity to call again.</p> - -<p>“I want you to come out with me, Betty,” he said, after that meal, which -was very solemn, serious and prolonged, but very dull and not -appetising. “I want to take you to see a friend—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa! we are going to—— Mrs. Lyon was going to take me to see -Mr. Revel’s picture before he sends it in.”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow will do, my dear, equally well, if your papa wants you to go -anywhere.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Revel’s picture? He is precisely a friend of the friend I am going -to take you to see.” For a moment Colonel Kingsward wavered thinking how -much more agreeable it would be to have his interview with Laura -undisturbed by the presence of this little chit with her sharp eyes. But -he was a soldier and faithful to his consignee. “If it will do as well -to-morrow, and will not derange Mrs. Lyon’s plans, I should like you to -come now.”</p> - -<p>“Run and get ready, Betty,” cried the old lady, to whom obedience was a -great quality, “and there will still be time to go there, if you are not -very long, when you come back.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel felt as if his foot was upon more solid ground; not that any -doubt of Laura had ever been in his mind—but yet—— He had not -suspected the existence of any link between her and Portman Square.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Revel is a very good painter, I suppose?” he said.</p> - -<p>“A great painter, we all think; and beginning to be really acknowledged -in the art world,” said the old lady, who liked it to be known that she -knew a great deal about pictures, and was herself considered to have -some authority in that interesting sphere.</p> - -<p>“And—hasn’t he a wife? I think I heard someone talking of his wife.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, a dear little woman!” cried Mrs. Lyon. “Her Tuesdays are the most -pleasant parties. We always go when we are able. Ah! here is Betty, like -a little rose. Now, acknowledge you are proud to have a little thing -like that, Colonel, to walk with you through the park on a fine day like -this?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked at Betty. She was a pretty little blooming -creature. He did not regard her with any enthusiasm, and yet she was a -creditable creature enough to belong to one. He gave a little nod of -approving indifference. Betty was very much admired at Portman -Square—from Gerald, who kept up an artillery of glances across the big -table, to the old butler, who called her attention specially to any -dish that was nicer than usual, and carried meringues to her twice, she -was the object of everybody’s regards. Her father did not, naturally, -look at her from the same point of view, but he was sufficiently pleased -with her appearance. He was pleased, too, exhilarated, he could scarcely -tell why, by the fact that Mrs. Lyon knew the painter’s wife and spoke -of her as a “dear little woman,” the very words Laura had used. Did he -require any guarantee that Laura herself was of the same order, knew the -same sort of people as his other friends? Had such a question been put -to him, the Colonel would have knocked the man down who made it, as in -days when duelling was possible he would have called him out—— But -yet—at all events it gave him much satisfaction that the British matron -in the shape of Mrs. Lyon spoke no otherwise of the lady whom for one -terrible moment of delusion he had intended to warn against intercourse, -too little guarded, with such equivocal men as artists. He shuddered -when he thought of that extraordinary aberration.</p> - -<p>“Who is it, papa, we are going to see?” said Betty’s little voice by his -side.</p> - -<p>“It is a lady—who has taken a great interest in your brother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, that I should not have asked that the first thing! Have you -any news?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing that I can call news, but I think I may say I have reason to -believe that Charlie has gone up to the north to the Mackinnons. That -does not excuse him for having left us in this anxiety; but the idea, -which did not occur to me till yesterday, has relieved my mind.”</p> - -<p>“To the Mackinnons!” said Betty, doubtfully, “but then I heard——” She -stopped herself suddenly, and added after a moment, “How strange, papa, -if he is there, that none of them should have written.”</p> - -<p>“It is strange; but perhaps when you think of all things, not so very -strange. He probably has not explained the circumstances to them, and -they will think that he has written; they would not feel it -necessary—why should they?—to let us know of his arrival. That, as a -matter of course, they would expect him to have done. I don’t think, on -the whole, it is at all strange; on his part inexcusable, but not to be -expected from them.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa!” cried Betty.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he said, almost crossly. “I don’t mind saying,” he added, -“that even for him there may be excuses—if such folly can ever be -excused. He never writes to me in a general way, and it would not be a -pleasant letter to write; and no doubt he has put it off from day to -day, intending always to do it to-morrow—and every day would naturally -make it more difficult.” Thus he went on repeating unconsciously all the -suggestions that had been made to him. “Remember, Betty,” he said, “as -soon as you see that you have done anything wrong, always make a clean -breast of it at once; the longer you put it off the more difficult you -will find it to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” said little Betty, with great doubt in her tone. She did -not know what to think, for she had in her blotting book at Portman -Square a letter lately received from one of these same Mackinnons in -which not a word was said of Charlie. Why should not Helen have -mentioned him had he been there? And yet, if papa thought so, and if it -relieved his mind to think so, what was Betty to set up a different -opinion? Her mind was still full of this thought when she found herself -following her father up the narrow stairs into the little drawing-room. -There she was met by a lady, who rose and came forward to her, holding -out two beautiful hands. “Such hands!” Betty said afterwards. Her own -were plump, reddish articles, small enough and not badly shaped, but -scarcely free from the scars and smirches of gardening, wild-flower -collecting, pony saddling, all the unnecessary pieces of work that a -country girl’s, like a country boy’s, are employed for. She had at the -moment a hopeless passion for white hands. And these drew her close, -while the beautiful face stooped over her and gave her a soft lingering -kiss. Was it a beautiful face? At least it was very, very handsome—fine -features, fine eyes, an imposing benignity, like a grand duchess at the -very least.</p> - -<p>“So this is little Betty,” the lady said, to whom she was presented by -that title, “just out of last century, with her grandmother’s name, and -the newest version of her grandmother’s hat. How pretty! Oh, it is your -hat, you know, not you, that I am admiring. Like a little rose!”</p> - -<p>Betty had no prejudices aroused in her mind by this lady’s name, for -Colonel Kingsward did not think it necessary to pronounce it. He said, -“My little Betty,” introducing the girl, but he did not think it needful -to make any explanations to her. And she thus fell, all unprotected, -under the charm. Laura talked to her for full five minutes without -taking any notice of the Colonel, and drew from her all she wanted to -see, and the places to which she was going, making a complete conquest -of the little girl. It was only when Colonel Kingsward’s patience was -quite exhausted, and he was about to jump up and propose somewhat -sullenly to leave his daughter with her new friend, that Miss Lance -turned to him suddenly with an exclamation of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear, Colonel Kingsward? She was going to see Arthur Revel’s -picture this afternoon. And so was I! Will you come too? He is a great -friend of mine, as I told you, and he knew dear Charlie, and, of course, -he would be proud and delighted to see you. Shall we take Betty back to -Portman Square to pick up her carriage and her old lady, and will you go -humbly on foot with me? We shall meet them, and Mrs. Revel shall give us -tea.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, do!” Betty cried.</p> - -<p>It was not perhaps what he would have liked best, but he yielded with a -very good grace. He had not, perhaps, been so proud of little Betty by -his side as the Lyons had expected, but Laura by his side was a -different matter. He could not help remarking how people looked at her -as they went along, and his mind was full of pride in the handsome, -commanding figure, almost as tall as himself, and walking like a queen. -Yet it made his head turn round a little when he saw Miss Lance seated -by Mrs. Lyon’s side in the studio, talking intimately to her of the -whole Kingsward family, while Betty clung to her new friend as if she -had known her all her life. Old Mrs. Lyon was still more startled, and -her head went round too. “What a handsome woman!” she said, in Colonel -Kingsward’s ear. “What a delightful woman! Who is she?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Lance,” he said, rather stupidly, feeling how little information -these words conveyed. Miss Lance? Who was Miss Lance? If he had said -Laura it might have been a different matter.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">While</span> all these things were going on, Bee was left at Kingswarden alone. -That is to say, she was so far from being alone that her solitude was -absolute. She had all the children and was very busy among them. She had -the two boys home for the Easter holidays; the house was full of the -ordinary noise, mirth and confusion natural to a large young family -under no more severe discipline than that exercised by a young elder -sister. The big boys, were in their boyish way, gentlemen, and deferred -to Bee more or less—which set a good example to the younger ones; but -she was enveloped in a torrent of talk, fun, games and jest, which raged -round her from before she got up in the morning till at least the -twilight, when the nursery children got tired, and the big boys having -exhausted every method of amusement during the day, began to feel the -burden of nothing to do, and retired into short-lived attempts at -reading, or games of beggar-my-neighbour, or any other simple mode of -possible recreation—descending to the level of imaginary football with -an old hat through the corridor before it was time to go to bed.</p> - -<p>In the evening Bee was thus completely alone, listening to the distant -bumps in the passage, and the voices of the players. The drawing-room -was large, but it was indifferently lighted, which is apt to make a -country drawing-room gloomy in the evening. There was one shaded lamp on -a writing-table, covered at this moment with colour boxes and rough -drawings of the boys, who had been constructing a hut in the grounds, -and wasting much vermillion and Prussian blue on their plans for it; and -near the fireplace, in which the chill of the Spring still required a -little fire, was another lamp, shining silently upon Bee’s white dress -and her hands crossed in her lap. Her face and all its thoughts were in -the shade, nobody to share, nobody to care what they were.</p> - -<p>Betty was in town. Her one faithful though not always entirely -sympathetic companion, the aunt—at all times not much more than a piece -of still life—was unwell and had gone to bed; Charlie was lost in the -great depth and silence of the world; Bee was thus alone. She had been -working for the children, making pinafores or some other necessary, as -became her position as sister-mother; for where there are so many -children there is always a great deal to do; but she had grown tired of -the pinafores. If it were not a hard thing to say she was a little tired -of the children too, tired of having to look after them perpetually, of -the nurse’s complaints, and the naughtiness of baby who was spoilt and -unmanageable—tired of the bumping and laughing of the boys, and tired -too of bidding them be quiet, not to rouse the children.</p> - -<p>All these things had suddenly become intolerable to Bee. She had a great -many times expressed her thankfulness that she had so much to do, and no -time to think—and probably to-morrow morning she would again be of -that opinion; but in the meantime she was very tired of it all—tired of -a position which was too much for her age, and which she was not able to -bear. She was only a speck in the long, empty drawing-room, her white -skirts and her hands crossed in her lap being all that showed -distinctly, betraying the fact that someone was there, but with her face -hidden in the rosy shade, there was nobody to see that tears had stolen -up into Bee’s eyes. Her hands were idle, folded in her lap. She was -tired of being dutiful and a good girl, as the best of girls are -sometimes. It seemed to her for the moment a dreary world in which she -was placed, merely to take care of the children, not for any pleasure of -her own. She felt that she could not endure for another moment the -bumping in the passage, and the distant voices of the boys. Probably if -they went on there would be a querulous message from Aunt Helen, or -pipings from the nursery of children woke up, and a furious descent of -nurse, more than insinuating that Miss Bee did not care whether baby’s -sleep was broken or not. But even with this certainty before her, Bee -did not feel that she had energy to get up from her chair and interfere; -it was too much. She was too solitary, left alone to bear all the -burden.</p> - -<p>Then the habitual thought of Charlie returned to her mind. Poor Charlie! -Where was he, still more alone than she. Perhaps hidden away in the -silence of the seas, or tossing in a storm, going away, away where no -one who cared for him would ever see him more. The tears which had come -vaguely to her eyes dropped, making a mark upon her dress, legitimatised -by this thought. Bee would have been ashamed had they fallen for -herself; but for Charlie—Charlie lost!—none of his family knowing -where he was—she might indeed be allowed to cry. Where was he? Where -was he? If he had been here he would have been sitting with her, making -things more possible. Bee knew very well in her heart that if Charlie -had been with her he would not have been much help to her, that he would -have been grumbling over his own hard fate, and calling upon her to pity -him; but the absent, if they are sometimes wronged, have, on the other -hand, the privilege of being remembered in their best aspect. Then Bee’s -thoughts glided on from Charlie to someone else whom she had for a long -time refused to think of, or tried to refuse to think of. She was so -solitary to-night, with all her doors open to recollections, that he had -stolen in before she knew, and now there was quite a shower of round -blots upon her white dress. Aubrey—oh, Aubrey! who had betrayed her -trust so, who had done her such cruel wrong!—but yet, but yet——</p> - -<p>She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the evening post. -Kingswarden was near enough to town to have an evening post, which is a -privilege not always desirable. But any incident was a good thing for -poor Bee. She drew the pinafore, at which she had been working, hastily -over her knee to hide the spots of moisture, and dashed the tears from -her eyes with a rapid hand. In the shade of the lamp not even the most -keen eyes could see that she had been crying. She even paused as she -took the letter to say, “Will you please tell the boys not to make so -much noise?” There were three letters on the tray—one for her father, -one for her aunt, one Betty’s usual daily rigmarole of little news and -nonsense which she never failed to send when she was away. Betty’s -letter was very welcome to her sister. But as Bee read it her face began -to burn. It became more and more crimson, so that the rose shade of the -lamp was overpowered by a deeper and hotter colour. Betty to turn upon -her, to take up the other side, to cast herself under that dreadful new -banner of Fate! Bee’s breath came quickly, her heart beat with anger and -trouble. She got up from her chair and began to walk quickly about the -room, a sudden passion sweeping away all the forlorn sentiment of her -previous thoughts. Betty! in addition to all the rest. Bee felt like the -forlorn <i>chatelaine</i> of a besieged castle alone to defend the walls -against the march of a destroying invader. The danger which had been far -off was coming—it was coming! And the castle had no garrison at all—if -it were not perhaps those dreadful boys making noise enough to bring -down the house, who were precisely the partisans least to be depended -upon, who would probably throw down their arms without striking a blow. -And Bee was alone, the captain deserted of all her forces to defend the -sacred hearth and the little children. The little children! Bee stamped -her foot upon the floor in an appeal, not to heaven, but to all the -powers of Indignation, Fury, War, War! She would defend those walls to -her last gasp. She would not give way, she would fight it out step by -step, to keep the invader from the children. The nursery should be her -citadel. Oh, she knew what would happen, she cried to herself -inconsequently! Baby, who was spoilt, would be twisted into rigid shape, -the little girls would be subdued like little mice—the boys—</p> - -<p>At this moment the old hat which served as a football came with a thump -from the corridor into the hall, followed by a louder shout than ever -from Arthur and Rex. Bee rushed forth upon them flinging the door open, -with her blue eyes blazing.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to bring down the house?” she said, in a sudden outburst. -“Do you mean to break the vases and the mirror and wake up the whole -nursery and bring Aunt Helen down upon us? For goodness sake try to -behave like reasonable creatures, and don’t drive me out of my senses!” -cried Bee.</p> - -<p>The boys were so startled by this onslaught that Rex, with a final kick -sent the wretched old hat flying to the end of the passage which led to -the servants’ hall, as if it were that harmless object that was to -blame—while Arthur covered the retreat sulkily by a complaint that -there was nothing to do in this beastly old hole, and that a fellow -couldn’t read books all the day long. Bee was so inspired and thrilling -with the passion in her, that she went further than any properly -constituted female creature knowing her own position ought to do.</p> - -<p>“You have a great deal more to do than I have,” she said, “far, far more -to do and to amuse yourselves with. Why should you expect so much more -than I do, because you are boys and I am a girl? Is it fair? You’re -always talking of things being fair. It isn’t fair that you should -disturb the whole house, the little babies, and everyone for your -pleasure; and I’m not so very much older than you are, and what -pleasure have I?”</p> - -<p>The boys were very much cast down by this fiery remonstrance. There had -been a squall as of several babies from the upper regions, and they had -already been warned of the consequence of their horseplay. But Bee’s -representation touched them in their tenderest point. Was it fair? Well, -no, perhaps it was not quite fair. They went back after her, humbled, -into the drawing-room, and besought her to join them in a game. After -they had finally retired, having finished the evening to their own -partial content, Bee took out again Betty’s letter and read it with less -excitement than at first—or at least with less demonstration of -excitement; this was what it said—</p> - -<p>“Bee, such a delightful woman, a friend of her papa’s! So handsome, so -nice, so clever, so well dressed, everything you can think except young, -which of course she is not—nor anything silly. Papa told me to get -ready to come out with him to see an old friend of his and I wasn’t at -all willing, didn’t like it, I thought it must be some old image like -old Mrs. Mackinnon or Nancy Eversfield, don’t you know. Mrs. Lyon had -settled to take me out to see some pictures, and Gerald was coming, and -we were to have a turn in the park after, and I had put on my new frock -and was looking forward to it, when papa came in with this order: ‘Get -on your things and come with me, I want to take you to see an old -friend.’ Of course I had to go, for Mrs. Lyon will never allow me to -shirk anything. But I was not in a very good humour, though they called -me as fresh as a rose and all that—to please papa; as if he cared how -we look! He took me to George Street, Hanover Square, a horrid little -lodging, such as people come to when they come up from the country. And -I had to look as serious and as steady as possible for the sake of the -old lady; when there rose up from the chair, oh, such a different -person, tall, but as slight as you are, with such a handsome face and -such a manner. She might have been—let us say a nice, sweet aunt—but -aunt is not a name that means anything delightful; and mother I must not -say, for there is only one mother in the whole world; oh, but something -I cannot give a name, so understanding, so kind, so nice, for that means -everything. She kissed me, and then she began to talk to me as if she -knew everyone of us and was very fond of us all. And then about Charlie, -whom she seemed to know very well. She called him dear Charlie, and I -wonder if it is she who has persuaded papa that he is with the -Mackinnons, in Scotland. But I know he is not with the -Mackinnons—however, I will tell you about this after.</p> - -<p>“Dear Bee, what will you say when I tell you that this delightful woman -is Miss Lance? You will say I have no heart, or no spirit, and am not -sticking to you through thick and thin as I ought; but you must hear -first what I have got to say. Had I known it was Miss Lance I should -have shut myself close up, and whatever she had done or however nice she -had been, I should have had nothing to say to her. If she had been an -angel under that name I should have remembered what you had said, and I -should not have seen any good in her. But I never heard what her name -was till we were all in Mr. Revel’s studio, quite a long time after. -Papa did as he always does, introduced me to her, but not her to me. He -said: “My daughter Betty,” as if I must have known by instinct who she -was. And, dear Bee, though I acknowledge you have every reason not to -believe it, she is delightful, she is, she is! She may have done wrong. -I can’t tell, of course; but I don’t believe she ever meant it, or to -harm you, or Charlie, or anyone. Everybody is delighted with her. Mrs. -Lyon, who you know is very particular, says she has the manners of a -duchess—and that she is such a handsome, distinguished-looking woman. -She is coming to dine here next Saturday. The only one who does not seem -to be quite charmed with her is Gerald, who is prejudiced like you.</p> - -<p>“Do try to get over your prejudice, Bee, dear—she is, she is, indeed -delightful! You only want to know her. By the way, about the Mackinnons: -papa has got it firmly into his head that Charlie is there; he says his -mind is quite relieved about him, and that the more he thinks of it, the -more he is certain it is so; now I know that it is not so. I got a -letter from Helen Mackinnon the day I came here, and there is not a -word about Charlie—and she would have been certain to have mentioned -him had he been there. I tried to say this to papa, but his head was so -full of the other idea that he did not hear me at first, and I couldn’t -go on. I whispered to Miss Lance in the studio, and asked her what I -should do? She was so troubled and distressed about Charlie that the -tears came into her eyes, but, after thinking a moment, she said, ‘Oh, -dear child, don’t say anything. Your young friend might have been in a -hurry, she might not have thought it necessary to speak of your brother. -Oh, don’t let us worry him now! Bad news always comes soon enough, and, -of course, he will find it out if it is so.’ Do you think she was right? -But, oh Bee, dear Bee, I am afraid you will not think anything she says -is right; and yet she is <i>delightful</i>. If only you knew her! Write -directly, and tell me all you think.”</p> - -<p>Bee was not excited on this second reading. She did not spring to her -feet, nor stamp on the floor, or feel inclined to call upon all the -infernal gods. But her heart sank down as if it would never rise again, -and a great pain took possession of her. Who was this witch, this -magician, that everyone who belonged to Bee should be drawn into her -toils—even Betty. What could she want with Betty, who was only a little -girl, who was her sister’s natural second and support? Bee sat a long -time with her head in her hands, letting the fire go out, feeling cold -and solitary and miserable, and frightened to death.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the afternoon of the next day, Bee was again alone. The old aunt had -come down for lunch, but gone up to her room again to rest after that -meal. It was a little chilly outside. The children, of course, wrapped -up in their warm things, and in the virtue of the English nursery, which -shrinks from no east wind, were out for their various walks. The big -boys, attended by such of the little boys as could be trusted with these -athletes, were taking violent exercise somewhere, and Bee sat by the -fire, alone. It is not a place for a girl of twenty. The little -pinafore, half made, was on the table beside her. She had a book in her -hand. Perhaps had she been a young wife looking for the return of her -young husband in the evening, with all the air of the bigger world about -him and an abundance of news, and plans, and life, a pretty enough -picture might have been made of that cosy fireside retirement.</p> - -<p>But even this ideal has ceased to be satisfactory to the present -generation. And Bee’s spirits and heart were very low. She had -despatched a fiery letter to Betty, and with this all her anger had -faded away. She had no courage to do anything. She seemed to have come -to an end of all possibilities. She had no longer anyone to fall back -upon as a supporter and sympathiser—not even Betty. Even this closest -link of nature seemed to have been broken by that enemy.</p> - -<p>To have an enemy is not a very common experience in modern life. People -may do each other small harms and annoyances, but to most of us the -strenuous appeals and damnations of the Psalmist are quite beyond -experience. But Bee had come back to the primitive state. She had an -enemy who had succeeded in taking from her everything she cared for. -Aubrey her betrothed, Charlie, her father, her sister, one after the -other in quick succession. It was not yet a year and a half since she -first heard this woman’s name, and in that time all these losses had -happened. She was not even sure that her mother’s death was not the work -of the same subtle foe; indeed, she brought herself to believe that it -was at least accelerated by all the trouble and contention brought into -the family by her own misery and rebellion—all the work of that woman! -Why, why, had Bee been singled out for this fate? A little girl in an -English house, like other girls—no worse, no better. Why should she -alone in all England have this bitterness of an enemy to make her -desolate and break her heart?</p> - -<p>While she was thus turning over drearily those dismal thoughts, there -was a messenger approaching to point more sharply still the record of -these disasters and their cause. Bee had laid down her book in her lap; -her thoughts had strayed completely from it and gone back to her own -troubles, when the door of the drawing-room opened quietly and a servant -announced “Mrs. Leigh.” Mrs. Leigh! It is not an uncommon name. A Mrs. -Lee lived in the village, a Mrs. Grantham Lea was the clergyman’s wife -in the next parish. Bee drew her breath quickly and composed her looks, -but thought of no visitor that could make her heavy heart beat. Not even -when the lady came in, a more than middle-aged matron, of solid form and -good colour, dressed with the subdued fashionableness appropriate to her -age. It was not Mrs. Lee from the village, nor Mrs. Grantham Lea, -nor—— Yet Bee had seen her before. She rose up a little startled and -made a step or two forward.</p> - -<p>“You do not know me, Miss Kingsward? I cannot wonder at it, since we met -but once, and that in circumstances—— Don’t start nor fly, though I -see you have recognised me.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I did not think of flying. Will you—will you—sit down.”</p> - -<p>“You need not be afraid of me, my poor child,” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>Aubrey’s mother seated herself and looked with a kind yet troubled look -at the girl, who still stood up in the attitude in which she had risen -from her chair. “I scarcely saw you the other time,” she said. “It was -in the garden. You did not give me a good reception. I should like -much, sometime or other, if you would tell me why. I have never made out -why. But don’t be afraid; it is not on that subject I have come to you -now.”</p> - -<p>Bee seated herself. She kept her blue eyes, which seemed expanded and -larger than usual, but had none of the former indignant blaze in them, -fixed on the old lady’s face.</p> - -<p>“Your father is not here, the servant tells me—”</p> - -<p>“No—he is in town,” she answered, faltering, almost too much absorbed -by anticipation to reply.</p> - -<p>“And you are alone—nobody with you to stand by you?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, catching her breath, “I don’t know why you -should ask me such questions, or—or be sorry for me. I don’t need -anybody to be sorry for me.”</p> - -<p>“Poor little girl! We needn’t go into that question. I am sorry for any -girl who is motherless, who has to take her mother’s place. I would much -rather have spoken to your father had he been here.”</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Bee, “my father could say nothing. It is I who must -decide for myself.”</p> - -<p>She said this with an involuntary betrayal of her consciousness that -there could be but one subject between them, and it was not in the power -of Aubrey Leigh’s mother, however strongly aware she was of another -theme on which she had come to speak, not to note how different was -Bee’s reception of her from the other time, when the girl had fled from -her presence and would not even hear what she had to say. Bee’s eyes -were large and humid and full of an anxiety which was almost wistful. -She had the air of refusing to hear with her lips, but eagerly expecting -with her whole heart what was about to be said. And she looked so young, -so solitary, in her mother’s chair, with a mother’s work lying about, -the head of this silent house—that the heart of the elder woman was -deeply touched. If little Betty had been like a rose, Bee was almost as -white as the cluster of fragrant white narcissus that stood on the -table. Poor little girl, so subdued and changed from the little -passionate creature who would not hear a word, and whose indignation -was stronger than even the zeal of the mother who had come to plead her -son’s cause!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh drew a little nearer and took Bee’s hand. The girl did not -resist, but kept her eyes upon her steadily, watching, her mind in a -great turmoil, not knowing what to expect.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said the old lady, “don’t be alarmed. I have not come to -speak about Aubrey. I cannot help hoping that one day you will do him -justice; but, in the meantime, it is something else that has brought me -here. Miss Kingsward—your brother—”</p> - -<p>Bee’s hand, in this lady’s clasp, betrayed her in spite of herself. It -became limp and uninterested when she was assured that Aubrey was not in -question; and then, at her brother’s name, was snatched suddenly away.</p> - -<p>“My brother?” she cried, “Charlie!” Then, subduing herself, “What do you -know about him? Oh,” clasping her hands as new light seemed to break -upon her, “you have come to tell me some bad news?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not. My son found him some time ago, disheartened and unhappy -about leaving Oxford. He persuaded him to come and share his rooms. He -has been with him more or less all the time, which I hope may be a -comfort to you. And then he fell ill. My dear Aubrey has tried to see -your father, but in vain, and poor Charlie is not anxious, I fear, to -see his father. Yes, he has been ill, but not so seriously that we need -fear anything serious. He has shaken off the complaint, but he wants -rousing—he wants someone whom he loves. Aubrey sent for me a fortnight -ago. He has been well taken care of, there is nothing really wrong. But -we cannot persuade him to rouse himself. It is illness that is at the -bottom of it all. He would not have left you without news of him, he -would not shrink from his father if he were not ill. Bee, I will confess -to you that it is Aubrey who has sent me; but don’t be afraid, it is for -Charlie’s sake—only for Charlie’s sake. He thinks if you would but come -to him—if you would have the courage to come—to your brother, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“He—he thinks? Not Charlie—you don’t mean Charlie?” Bee cried.</p> - -<p>“Charlie does not seem to wish for anything. We cannot rouse him. We -think that the sight of someone he loves——”</p> - -<p>Bee was full of agitation. Her lips quivered; her hands trembled. “Oh, -me!” she said; “I am no one. It is not for his sister a boy cares. I do -not think I should do him any good. Oh, Charlie, Charlie! all this time -that we have been blaming him so, thinking him so cruel, he has been -lying ill! If I could do him any good!” she cried, wringing her hands.</p> - -<p>“The sight of you would do him good. It is not that he wants a nurse—I -have seen to that; but no nurse could rouse him as the sight of some of -his own people would. Do not question, my dear, but come—oh, come! He -thinks he is cut off from everybody, that his father will never see him, -that you must all have turned against him. Words will not convince him, -but to see you, that would do so. He would feel that he was not -forsaken.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, forsaken! How could he think it? He must know that we have been -breaking our hearts. It was he who forsook us all.”</p> - -<p>Bee had risen again, and stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, too much -shaken and agitated to keep still. Though she had thought herself so -independent, she had in reality never broken the strained band of -domestic subjugation. She had never so much as gone, though it was -little more than an hour’s journey, to London on her own authority. The -thought of taking such a step startled her. And that she should do this -on the word and in the company of Aubrey’s mother—Aubrey, for whom she -had once been ready to abandon everything, from whom she had been -violently separated, whom she had cast off, flung away from her without -hearing a word he had to say! How could she put herself in his way -again—go with his mother, accept his services? Bee had acted quickly on -the impulse of passion in all that had happened to her before. But she -had not known the conflict, the rending asunder of opposite emotions. In -the whirl of her thoughts her lover, whom she had cast off, came between -her and the brother whom he had succoured. It was to Aubrey’s house, to -his very dwelling where he was, that she must go if she went to -Charlie. And Charlie wanted her, or at least needed her, lying weak and -despairing, waiting for a sign from home. It was difficult to realise -her brother so, or to believe, indeed, that he could want her very much, -that there was any yearning in his heart towards his own flesh and -blood. But Mrs. Leigh thought so, and how could she refuse? How could -she refuse? The problem was too much for her. She looked into Mrs. -Leigh’s face with an appeal for help.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” her companion said, leaving a calm and cool hand upon Bee’s -arm, which trembled with nervous excitement, “If you are afraid of -meeting Aubrey, compose yourself. Aubrey would rather go to the end of -the world than give you any pain, or put himself in your way. We are -laying no trap for you—I should not have come if the case had not been -urgent. Never would I have come had it been a question of my son; I -would not beguile you even for his sake. It is for your brother, Bee; -not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey!”</p> - -<p>Not for Aubrey! Was that any comfort, was there any strength in that -assurance? At all events, these were the words that rang through Bee’s -head, as she made her hurried preparations. She had almost repeated them -aloud in the hasty explanations she made to Moss upstairs, who was now -at the head of the nursery, and to the housekeeper below. To neither of -these functionaries did it seem of any solemn importance that Bee should -go away for a day or two. There was no objection on their part to being -left at the head of affairs. And then Bee felt herself carried along by -the whirl of strange excitement and feeling which rather than the less -etherial methods of an express train seemed to sweep her through the air -of the darkening spring night by Mrs. Leigh’s side. A few hours before -she had felt herself the most helpless of dependent creatures, abandoned -by all, incapable of doing anything. And now, what was she doing? -Rushing into the heart of the conflict, assuming an individual part in -it, acting on her own responsibility. She could scarcely believe it was -herself who sat there by Mrs. Leigh’s side.</p> - -<p>But not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey! This kept ringing in her ears, like -the tolling of a bell, through all the other sounds. She sat in one -corner of the carriage, and listened to Mrs. Leigh’s explanations, and -to the clang of the engine and rush of the train, all mingled together -in bewildering confusion. But the other voice filled all space, echoing -through everything. Bee felt herself trembling on the edge of a crisis, -such as her life had never known. All the world seemed to be set against -her, her enemy, perhaps her father, and all the habitual authorities of -her young and subject life, now suddenly rising into rebellion. She -would have to do and say things which she would not have ventured so -much as to think of a little time ago; but whatever she might have to -encounter there was to be no renewal to Bee of her own story and -meaning. It was not for Aubrey that she was called or wanted—for the -succour of others, for sisterly help, for charity and kindness; but not -for her own love or life.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was to a house in one of the streets of Mayfair that Mrs. Leigh -conveyed her young companion; one of those small expensive places where -persons within the circle of what is called the world in London contrive -to live with as little comfort and the greatest expenditure possible. It -is dark and often dingy in Mayfair; nowhere is it more difficult to keep -furniture, or even human apparel, clean; the rooms are small and the -streets shabby; but it is one of the right places in which to live, not -so perfect as it was once, indeed, but still furnishing an unimpeachable -address.</p> - -<p>It had half put on the aspect of the season by this time; some of the -balconies were full of flowers, and the air of resuscitation which -comes to certain quarters of London after Easter, as if, indeed, they -too had risen from the dead, was vaguely visible. To be sure, little of -this was apparent in the dim lamplight when the two ladies arrived at -the door. Bee was hurried upstairs through the narrow passage, though -she had been very keenly aware that someone in the lower room had -momentarily lifted the blind to look out as they arrived—someone who -did not appear, who made no sound, who had nothing to do with her or her -life.</p> - -<p>The rooms, which are usually the drawing-rooms of such a house, were -turned evidently into the apartments of the sufferer. In the back room -which they entered first was a nurse who greeted the ladies in dumb -show, and whose white head-dress and apron had the strangest effect in -the semi-darkness. She said, half by gesture, half with whispered words -more visible than audible, “He is up—better—impatient—good -sign—discontented with everything. Is this the lady?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh answered in the same way, “His sister—shall I go with -her?—you?—alone?”</p> - -<p>“By herself,” said the nurse, laconic; and almost inaudible as this -conversation was, it occasioned a stirring and movement in the inner -room.</p> - -<p>“What a noise you make,” cried a querulous, unsteady voice, “Who’s -there—who’s there?”</p> - -<p>The nurse took Bee’s hat from her head, with a noiseless swift movement, -and relieved her of the little cloak she was wearing. She took her by -the arm and pushed her softly forward. “Nothing to worry. Soothe him,” -she breathed, holding up a curtain that Bee might pass. The room was but -badly lighted, a single lamp on a table almost extinguished by the -shade, a fire burning though the night was warm, and one of the long -windows open, letting in the atmosphere and sounds of the London street. -Bee stole in, an uncertain shadow into the shaded room, less eager than -frightened and over-awed by this sudden entrance into the presence of -sickness and misery. She was not accustomed to associate such things -with her brother. It did not seem anyone with whom she was acquainted -that she was about to see.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” the little cry and movement she made, falling down on her -knees beside him, raised a pale, unhappy face, half covered with the -down of an irregular fledgling beard from the pillow.</p> - -<p>“Hallo!” he said, and then in a tone of disappointment and disdain, -“You!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, Charlie dear! You have been ill and we never knew.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know now? They knew I never wanted you to know,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie—who ought to know but your own people? We have been -wretched, thinking all sorts of dreadful things—but not this.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” he said, “my own people might be trusted never to think the -right thing. Now you do know you may as well take yourself off. I don’t -want you—or anybody,” he added, with an impatient sigh.</p> - -<p>“Charlie—oh, please let me stay with you. Who should be with you but -your sister? And I know—a great deal about nursing. Mamma——”</p> - -<p>“I say—hold your tongue, can’t you? Who wants you to talk—of anything -of that sort?”</p> - -<p>Bee heard a slight stir in the curtains, and looking back hastily as she -dried her streaming eyes saw the laconic nurse making signs to her. The -sight of the stranger was more effectual even than her signs, and -restored Bee’s self-command at once.</p> - -<p>“Why did they bring you here?” said Charlie. “I didn’t want you; they -know what I want, well enough.”</p> - -<p>“What is it you want, oh, Charlie dear? Papa—and all of us—will do -anything in the world you want.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” he said, and his weakened and irregular voice ran through the -gamut from a high feeble tone of irritation to the quaver of that -self-pity which is so strong in all youthful trouble. “Yes, he would be -pleased to get me out of the way, and be done with me now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie! You know how wrong that is. Papa has been—miserable—”</p> - -<p>Charlie uttered a feeble laugh. He put his hand upon his chin, stroking -down the irregular tufts of hair; even in his low state the poor boy had -a certain pride in what he believed to be his beard.</p> - -<p>“Not much,” he said. “I daresay you’ve made a fuss—Betty and you. The -governor will crack up Arthur for the F. O. and let me drop like a -stone.”</p> - -<p>“No, Charlie, no. He has no such thought—he has taken such trouble not -to let it be known. He would not advertise or anything.”</p> - -<p>“Advertise!” A sudden hot flush came over the gaunt face. “For me!” It -did not seem that such a thought had ever occurred to the young man. -“Like the fellows in the newspapers that steal their master’s -money—‘All is arranged and you can return to your situation.’ By -George!”</p> - -<p>There was again a faint rustle in the curtains. Bee sprang up with her -natural impatience, and went straight to the spot whence this sound had -come.</p> - -<p>“If I am not to speak to my brother alone and in freedom, I will not -speak to him at all,” she said.</p> - -<p>The laconic nurse remonstrated violently with her lips and eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t excite him. Don’t disturb him. He’ll not sleep all night,” she -managed to convey, with much arching of the eyebrows and mouth, then -disappeared silently out of the bedroom behind.</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” said Charlie, sharply. He moved on his sofa, and turned -his head round with difficulty. “Are there more of you to come?”</p> - -<p>There seemed a kind of hope and expectation in the question, but when -Bee answered with despondency, “There’s only me, Charlie,” he broke out -harshly:</p> - -<p>“I don’t want you—I want none of you; I told them so. You can go and -tell my father, as soon as they let me get out I’m going off to New -Zealand or somewhere—the furthest-off place I can get to.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” cried Bee, taking every word as the sincerest utterance -of a fixed intention, “what could you do there?”</p> - -<p>“Die, I suppose,” he said, with again that quaver of self-compassion in -his voice, “or go to the dogs, which will be easy enough. You may say, -why didn’t I die here and be done with it? I don’t know—I’m sure I -wanted to. It was that doctor fellow, and that woman that talks with her -eyebrows, and that confounded cad, Leigh—they wouldn’t let me. And -I’ve got so weak; if you don’t go away this moment I’ll cry like a -dashed baby!” with a more piteous quaver than ever in the remnant of his -once manly voice.</p> - -<p>All that Bee could do was to throw her arms round his neck and draw his -head upon her shoulder, which he resisted fiercely for a moment, then -yielded to in the abandonment of his weakness. Poor Charlie felt, -perhaps, a momentary sweetness in the relaxation of all the bonds of -self-control, and all the well-meaning attempts to keep him from -injuring himself by emotion; the unexpected outburst did him good, -partly because it was a breach of all the discipline of the sick room. -Presently he came to himself and pushed Bee away.</p> - -<p>“What do you come bothering about?” he said; “you ought to have left me -alone. I’ve made my bed, and I’ve got to lie on it. I don’t suppose that -anyone has taken the trouble to—ask about me?” he added, after a little -while, in what was intended for a careless tone.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, everyone who has known; but papa would let nobody know: -except at Oxford. We—went to Oxford——”</p> - -<p>He got up on his pillow with his eyes shining out of their hollow -sockets, his long limbs coming to the ground with a faint thump. Poor -Charlie was young enough to have grown during his illness, and those -gaunt limbs seemed unreasonably long.</p> - -<p>“You went to Oxford!” he said, “and you saw—”</p> - -<p>“Dear Charlie, they will say I am exciting you—doing you harm——”</p> - -<p>“You saw?” he cried, bringing down his fist upon the table with a blow -that made the very floor shake.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Bee, trembling, “we saw—or rather papa saw——”</p> - -<p>He pushed up the shade of the lamp with his long bony fingers, and fixed -his eyes, bright with fever, on her face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, don’t look at me so!—the lady whom you used to talk to me -about—whom I saw in the academy——”</p> - -<p>“Yes?”—he grasped her hand across the table with a momentary hot -pressure.</p> - -<p>“She came and saw papa in the hotel. She told him about you, and that -you had—oh, Charlie, and she so old—as old as——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue!” he cried, violently, and then with a long-drawn -breath, “What more? She told him—and he was rude, I suppose. Confound -him! Confound—confound them all!”</p> - -<p>“I will not say another word unless you are quiet,” said Bee, her spirit -rising; “put up your feet on the sofa and be quiet, and remember all the -risk you are running—or I will not say another word.”</p> - -<p>He obeyed her with murmurs of complaint, but no longer with the languid -gloom of his first accost. Hope seemed to have come into his heart. He -subdued himself, lay back among his pillows, obeyed her in all she -stipulated. The light from underneath the raised shade played on his -face and gave it a tinge of colour, though it showed more clearly the -emaciation of the outlines and the aspect of neglect, rather than, as -poor Charlie hoped, of enhanced manly dignity, conveyed by the irregular -sick man’s growth of the infant beard.</p> - -<p>“Papa was not rude,” said Bee, “he is never rude; he is a gentleman. -Worse than that—”</p> - -<p>“Worse—than what?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot understand you at all, you and—the rest,” cried the girl; -“one after another you give in to her, you admire her, you do what she -tells you—that woman who has harmed me all she can, and you all she -can, and now—Charlie!” Bee stopped with astonishment and indignation. -Her brother had raised himself up again, and aimed a furious but futile -blow at her in the air. It did not touch her, but the indignity was no -less on that account.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he cried, again bringing down that hand which could not reach -her, on the table, “How dare you speak of one you’re not worthy to name? -Ah! I might have known she wouldn’t desert me. It is she who has kept -the way open, and subdued my father, and——” An ineffable look of -happiness came upon the worn and gaunt countenance, his eyes softened, -his voice fell. “I might have known!” he said to himself, “I might have -known!”</p> - -<p>And what could Bee say? Though she did not believe in—though she hated -and feared with a child’s intensity of terror the woman who had so often -crossed her path—she could not contradict her brother’s faith, though -she considered it an infatuation, a folly beyond belief; it seemed, -after all, in a manner true that this woman had not deserted him. She -had subdued his father’s displeasure somehow, made everything easier. -Bee looked at him, the victim of those wiles, yet nevertheless indebted -to them, with the same exasperation which her father’s subjugation had -caused her. What could she say, what could she do, to reveal to them -that enchantress in her true colours? But Bee knew that she could do -nothing, and there began to rise in her heart a dreadful question, Was -it so sure that she herself was right? Was this woman, indeed, an evil -Fate, or was she, was she——? And the first story of all, the story of -Aubrey, was it perhaps true?</p> - -<p>The nurse came in noiselessly, hurrying, while Bee’s mind ran through -those thoughts—evidently with the conviction that she would find the -patient worse. But Charlie was not worse. He turned his face towards -his attendant, still with something of that dreamy rapture in it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may speak out,” he said; “I don’t mind noises to-night. Supper? -Yes, I’ll take some supper. Bring me a beefsteak or something -substantial. I’m going to get well at once.”</p> - -<p>Nurse nodded at Bee, with much uplifting of her eyelids. “Put no faith -in you,” she said, working the machinery of her lips; “was wrong; done -him no end of good. Beefsteak; not exactly; but soon, soon, if you’re -good.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bee</span> saw no more of Charlie that night. When she came out of his room, -where there was a certain meaning in her presence, she seemed to pass -into the region of dreams. She was taken upstairs to refresh herself and -rest, into the smaller of two bedrooms which were over Charlie’s room, -the other of which was occupied by Mrs. Leigh. And she was taken -downstairs to dine with that lady <i>tête-à-tête</i> at the small shining -table. There was something about the little house altogether, a certain -conciseness, an absence of drapery, and of the small elegant litter -which is so general nowadays, which gave it a masculine character—or, -at least, Bee, not accustomed to æsthetic young men, accustomed rather -to big boys and their scorn of the decorative arts, thought so with a -curious flutter of her being. This perhaps was partly because the -ornamental part of the house was devoted to Charlie, and the little -dining-room below seemed the sole room to live in. It had one or two -portraits hung on the walls, pictures almost too much for its small -dimensions. The still smaller room behind was clothed with books, and -had for its only ornament a small portrait of Mrs. Leigh over the -mantel-piece. Whose rooms were these? Who had furnished them so gravely, -and left behind an impression of serious character which almost chilled -the heart of Bee? He was nowhere visible, nor any trace of him. No -allusion was made as to an absent master of the house, and yet it bore -an air so individual that Bee’s sensitive being was moved by it, with -all the might of something stranger than imagination. She stood -trembling among the books, looking at the mother’s portrait over the -mantel-piece, feeling as if the very mantel-shelf on which she rested -her arm was warm with the touch of his. But not a word was said, not an -allusion made to Aubrey.</p> - -<p>What had she to do with Aubrey? Nothing—less than with any other man in -the world—any stranger to whom she could speak with freedom, -interchanging the common coin of ordinary intercourse. He was the only -man in the world whom she must not talk of, must not see—the only one -of whose presence it was necessary to obliterate every sign, and never -to utter the name where she was. Poor Bee! Yet she felt him near, his -presence suggested by everything, his name always latent in the air. She -slept and waked in that strange atmosphere as in a dream. In Aubrey’s -house, yet with Aubrey obliterated—the one person in existence with -whom she had nothing, nothing to do.</p> - -<p>It was late before she was allowed to see her brother next day, and Bee, -in the meantime, left to her own devices, had not known what to do. She -had taken pen and paper two or three times to let her father know that -Charlie was found, but her mind revolted, somehow, from making that -intimation. What would happen when he knew? He would come here -immediately; he would probably attempt to remove Charlie; he would -certainly order Bee away at once from a place so unsuitable for her. It -was unsuitable for her, and yet—She scarcely saw even Mrs. Leigh after -breakfast, but was left to herself, with the door open into that -sanctuary which was Aubrey’s, with all his books and the newspapers laid -out upon the table. Bee sat in the dining-room and looked into that -other secluded place. In the light of day she dared not go into it. It -seemed like thrusting herself into his presence who had no thought of -her, who did not want her. Oh, not for Aubrey! Aubrey would not for the -world disturb her, or bring any embarrassment into her mind. Aubrey -would rather disappear from his own house, as if he had never existed, -than remind her that he did exist, and perhaps sometimes thought of her -still. Did he ever think of her? Bee knew that it would be wrong and -unlike Aubrey if he kept in these rooms the poor little photograph of -her almost childish face which he had once prized so much. It would have -been indelicate, unlike a gentleman; and yet she made a hasty and -furtive search everywhere to see if, perhaps, it might be somewhere, in -some book or little frame. She would have been angry had she found it, -and indignant; yet she felt a certain desolate sense of being altogether -out of the question, steal into her heart, when she did not find it—in -the inconsistencies of which the heart is full.</p> - -<p>It was mid-day when she was called upstairs, to find Charlie established -in the room which should have been the drawing-room, and round which she -threw another wistful look as she came into it in full daylight. Oh, not -a woman’s room in any way, with none of those little photograph frames -about which strew a woman’s table—not one, and consequently none of -Bee. She took this in at the first glance, as she made the three or four -little steps between the door and Charlie’s couch. He was more -hollow-eyed and worn in the daylight than he had been even on the night -before, his appearance entirely changed from that of the commonplace -young Oxford man to an eager, anxious being, with all the cares of a -troubled soul concentrated in his eyes. Mrs. Leigh sat near him, and -the nurse was busy with cushions and pillows arranging his couch.</p> - -<p>“My dear, you will be thankful to hear that the doctor gives a very good -report to-day. He says that, though he would not have sanctioned it, my -remedy has done wonders. You are my remedy, Bee. I am proud of so -successful an idea—though, to be sure, it was a very simple one. Now -you must go on and complete the cure, and I give you <i>carte blanche</i>. -Ask anyone here, anyone you please, so long as it is not too much for -Charlie. He may see one or two people if nurse sanctions it. I am going -out myself for the day. I shall not return till late in the afternoon, -and you are mistress in the meantime—absolute mistress,” said Mrs. -Leigh, kissing her. Bee felt that Aubrey’s mother would not even meet -her eyes lest she should throw too much meaning into these words. Oh, -there was no meaning in them, except so far as Charlie was concerned.</p> - -<p>And then she was left alone with her brother, the most natural, the only -suitable arrangement. Nurse gave the last pat to his cushions, the last -twist to the coverlet, which was over his gaunt limbs, appealed to him -the last time in dumb show whether he wanted anything, and then -withdrew. It was most natural that his sister, whose appearance had done -him so much good, should be left with him as his nurse; but she was -frightened, and Charlie self-absorbed, and it was some time before -either found a word to say. At last he said, “Bee!” calling her -attention, and then was silent again for some time, speaking no more.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Charlie!” There was a flutter in Bee’s voice as in her heart.</p> - -<p>“I say, I wasn’t, perhaps, very nice to you last night; I couldn’t bear -to be brought back; but they say I’m twice as well since you came. So I -am. I’ve got something to keep me up. Bee, look here. Am I dreadful to -look at? I know I haven’t an ounce of flesh left on my bones, but some -don’t mind that; and then, my beard. I’ve heard it said that a beard -that never was shaved was—was—an embellishment, don’t you know. Do you -think I’m dreadful to look at, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie,” said the girl, from the depths of her heart, “what does -it matter how you look? The more ill you look the more need you have for -your own people about you, who never would think twice of that.”</p> - -<p>Charlie’s gaunt countenance was distorted with a grin of rage and -annoyance. “I wish you’d shut up about my own people. The governor, -perhaps, with his grand air, or Betty, as sharp as a needle—as if I -wanted them!—or to be told that they would put up with me.”</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” said Bee, trembling, “I don’t want to vex you, you are a -little—but couldn’t you have a barber to come, and perhaps he could -take it off.”</p> - -<p>There came a flash of fire out of Charlie’s eyes; he put up his hand to -his face, as if to protect that beard in which he at least believed—“I -might have known,” he said, “that you were the last person! A fellow’s -sister is always like that: just as we never think anything of a girl’s -looks in our own families. Well, you’ve given your opinion on that -subject. And you think that people who care for me wouldn’t think twice -of that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Bee, clasping her hands, “how should they? But only feel -for you far, far more.”</p> - -<p>Charlie took down his hand from his young beard. He looked at her with -his hollow eyes full of anxiety, yet with a certain complacence. -“Interesting?”—he said, “is that what you meant to say?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” cried Bee, her eyes full of pity, “for they can see what you -have gone through, and how much you have been suffering,—if there was -any need of making you more interesting to us.”</p> - -<p>Charlie stroked down his little tufts of wool for some time without -speaking, and then he said in a caressing tone unusual to him, “I want -you to do me a favour, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Anything—anything, whatever you wish, Charlie.”</p> - -<p>“There is just one thing I wish, and one person I want to see. Sit down -and write a note—you need not do more than say where I am,” said -Charlie, speaking quickly. “Say I am here, and have been very ill, but -that the hope she’d come, and to hear that she had forgiven me, was like -new life. Well! what is the meaning of your ‘anything, anything,’ if -you break down at the first thing I ask you? Look here, Bee, if you wish -me to live and get well you’ll do what I say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, how can I?—how can I?—when you know what I -feel—about——”</p> - -<p>“What you feel—about? Who cares what you feel? You think perhaps it was -you that did me all that good last night. That’s all conceit, like the -nonsense in novels, where a woman near your bed when you’re ill makes -all the difference. Girls,” said Charlie, “are puffed up with that folly -and believe anything. You know I didn’t want you. It was what you told -me about <i>her</i> that did me good. And your humbug, sitting there crying, -‘anything, anything!’ Well, here’s something! You need not write a -regular letter, if you don’t like it. Put where I am—Charlie Kingsward -very ill; will you come and see him? A telegram would do, and it would -be quicker; send a telegram,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!”</p> - -<p>“Give me the paper and pencil—I’m shaky, but I can do that much -myself——”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, I’ll do it rather than vex you; but I don’t know where to send -it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can tell you that—Avondale, near the Parks, Oxford.”</p> - -<p>“She is not there now—she is in London,” said Bee, in a low tone.</p> - -<p>“In London?” Again the long, gaunt limbs came to the ground with a -thump. “Bee, if you could get me a hansom perhaps I could go.”</p> - -<p>The nurse at this moment came in noiselessly, and Charlie shrank before -her. She put him back on the sofa with a swift movement. “If you go on -like this I’ll take the young lady away,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not go on—I’ll be as meek as Moses; but, nurse, tell her she -mustn’t contradict a man in my state. She must do what I say.”</p> - -<p>Nurse turned her back upon the patient, and made the usual grimaces; -“Humour him,” her lips and eyebrows said.</p> - -<p>“Charlie, papa knows the address, and Betty—and I ought, oh, I ought to -let them know at once that you are here.”</p> - -<p>“Betty!” he said, with a grimace, “what does that little thing know?”</p> - -<p>“She knows—better than you think I do; and papa—— Papa is never happy -but when he is with that lady. He goes to see her every day; she writes -to him and he writes to her; they go out together,” cried Bee, thinking -of that invitation to Portman Square which had seemed the last insult -which she could be called on to bear.</p> - -<p>Charlie smiled—the same smile of ineffable self-complacence and -confidence which had replaced in a moment the gloom of the previous -night; and then he grew grave. He was not such a fool, he said to -himself, as to be jealous of his own father; but still he grudged that -anyone but himself should have her company. He remembered what it was to -go to see her every day, to write to her, to have her letters, to be -privileged to give her his arm now and then, to escort her here or -there. If it had been another fellow! But a man’s father—the governor! -He was not a rival. Charlie imagined to himself the conversations with -him for their subject, and how, perhaps for the first time, the governor -would learn to do him justice, seeing him through Laura’s eyes. It was -true that she had rejected him, had almost laughed at him, had sent him -away so completely broken down and miserable that he had not cared what -became of him. But hope had sprung within him, all the more wildly from -that downfall. It was like her to go to the old gentleman (it was thus -he considered his father) to explain everything, to set him right. She -would not have done so if her heart had not relented—her heart was so -kind. She must have felt what it was to drive a man to despair—and now -she was working for him, soothing down the governor, bringing everything -back.</p> - -<p>“Eh?” he said, vaguely, some time after; he had in the meantime heard -Bee’s voice going on vaguely addressing somebody, in the air, “are you -speaking to me?”</p> - -<p>“There is no one else to speak to,” cried Bee, almost angrily. And then -she said, “Charlie—how can you ask her to come here?”</p> - -<p>“Why not here? She’ll go anywhere to do a kind thing.”</p> - -<p>“But not to this house—not here, not here!”</p> - -<p>“Why not, I should like to know—what’s here?” Then Charlie stared at -her for a moment with his hollow eyes, and broke into a low, feeble -laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” he said, “I know what you’ve got in your head—because of that -confounded cad, Aubrey Leigh? That is just why she will come, to show -what a lie all that was—as if she ever would have looked twice at a -fellow like Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“He seems to have saved your life,” said Bee, confused, not knowing what -to think.</p> - -<p>“You mean he gave me house-room when I was ill, and sent for a doctor. -Why, any shop-keeper would have done that. And now,” said Charlie, with -a grin, “he shall be fully paid back.”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Betty Kingsward</span> lived in what was to her a whirl of pleasure at Portman -Square, where everybody was fond of her, and all manner of -entertainments were devised for her pleasure. And her correspondence was -not usually of an exciting character. Her morning letters, when she had -any, were placed by her plate on the breakfast-table. If any came by -other posts, she got them when she had a spare moment to look for them, -and she had scarcely a spare moment at this very lively and very happy -moment of her young career. Besides, that particular evening when Bee’s -note arrived was a very important one to Betty. It was the evening on -which Miss Lance was to dine with the Lyons. And it was not a mere -quiet family dinner, but a party—a thing which in her newness and -inexperience still excited the little girl, who was not to say properly -“out,” in consequence of her mourning; still wearing black ribbons with -her white frocks, and only allowed to accept invitations which were -“quiet.” A dinner of twenty people is not exactly an entertainment for a -girl of her years, but Betty’s excitement in the <i>debût</i> of Miss Lance -was so great that no ball could have occupied her more. There was an -unusual interest about it in the whole house, even Mrs. Lyon’s maid, the -most staid of confidential persons, had begged Betty to point out to her -over the baluster “the lady, Miss Betty, that is coming with your papa.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she’s not coming with papa,” Betty had cried, with a laugh at -Hobbs’ mistake, “she is only a great, great friend, Hobbs. You will -easily know her, for there is nobody else so handsome.”</p> - -<p>“Handsome is as handsome does,” said the woman, and she patted Betty on -the shoulder under pretence of arranging her ribbon.</p> - -<p>Betty had not the least idea why Hobbs looked at her with such -compassionate eyes.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, did come into the room, to Betty’s surprise, -closely followed by Colonel Kingsward, as if they had arrived together. -She was like a picture, in her black satin and lace, dressed not too -young but rather too old for her age, as Mrs. Lyon pointed out, who was -as much excited about her new guest as Betty herself; and the unknown -lady had the greatest possible success in a party which consisted -chiefly, as Betty did not remark, of old friends of Colonel Kingsward, -with whom she had been acquainted all her life. Betty did not remark it, -but Gerald Lyon did, who was more than ever her comrade and companion in -this elderly company.</p> - -<p>“Why all these old fogies?” he had asked irreverently, as the gentlemen -with stars on their coats and the ladies in diamonds came in.</p> - -<p>Betty perceived that it was an unusually solemn party, but thought no -more of it. It was the evening of the first levee, and that, perhaps, -was the reason why the old gentlemen wore their orders. Old gentlemen! -They were the flower of the British army. Generals This and That, heads -of departments; impossible to imagine more grand people—in the flower -of their age, like Colonel Kingsward. But eighteen has its own ideas -very clearly marked on that subject. Betty and Gerald stood by, lighting -up one corner with a blaze of undeniable youth, to see them come in. The -young pair were like flowers in comparison with the substantial size and -well worn complexions of their seniors, and they were the only little -nobodies, the sole representatives of undistinguished and ordinary -humanity round the table. They were not by any means daunted by that. On -the contrary, they felt themselves, as it were, soaring over the heads -of all those limited persons who had attained, spurning the level -heights of realisation. They did not in the least know what was to -become of them in life, but naturally they made light of the others who -did know, who had done all they were likely to do, and had no more to -look to. The dignity of accomplished success filled the young ones with -impulses of laughter; their inferiority gave them an elevation over all -the grizzled heads; they felt themselves, nobodies, to be almost -ludicrously, dizzily above the heads of the rest. Only one of the -company seemed to see this, however; to cast them an occasional look, -even to make them the confidants of an occasional smile, a raising of -the eyebrows, a sort of unspoken comment on the fine company, which made -Betty still more lively in her criticisms. But this made almost a -quarrel between the two.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish we were nearer to Miss Lance, to hear what she thinks of it -all,” Betty said.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think what you see in that woman,” cried Gerald. “I, for one, -have no desire to know her opinion.”</p> - -<p>Betty turned her little shoulder upon him with a glance of flame, that -almost set the young man on fire.</p> - -<p>“You prejudiced, cynical, uncharitable, malicious, odious boy!” And they -did not say another word to each other for five minutes by the clock.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, there was no doubt, had a distinguished success. -She captivated the gentlemen who were next to her at table, and, what -was perhaps more difficult, she made a favourable impression upon the -ladies in the drawing-room. Her aspect there, indeed, was of the most -attractive kind. She drew Betty’s arm within her own, and said with a -laugh, “You and I are the girls, little Betty, among all these grand -married ladies;” and then she added, “Isn’t it a little absurd that we -shouldn’t have some title to ourselves, we old maids?—for Miss means -eighteen, and it’s hard that it should mean forty-two. Fancy the -disappointment of hearing this juvenile title and then finding that it -means a middle-aged woman.”</p> - -<p>She laughed so freely that some of the other ladies laughed too. The -attention of all was directed towards the new comer, which Betty thought -very natural, she was so much the handsomest of them all.</p> - -<p>“You mean the disappointment of a gentleman?” said one of the guests.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, of ladies too. Don’t you think women are just as fond of youth -as men are, and as much disgusted with an elderly face veiling itself -in false pretences? Oh, more! We think more of beauty than the men do,” -said Miss Lance, raising her fine head as if to expose its features to -the fire of all the glances bent upon her.</p> - -<p>There was a little chorus of cries, “Oh, no, no,” and arguments against -so novel a view.</p> - -<p>But Miss Lance did not quail; her own beauty was done full justice to. -She was so placed that more than one mirror in the old-fashioned room -reflected her graceful and not unstudied pose.</p> - -<p>“I know it isn’t a usual view,” she said, “but if you’ll think of it a -little you’ll find it’s true. The common thing is to talk about women -being jealous of each other. If we are it is because we are always the -first to find out a beautiful face—and usually we much exaggerate its -power.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” said Mrs. Lyon in her quavering voice, “I almost think -Miss Lance is right? Mr. Lyon instantly says ‘Humph!’ when I point out a -pretty person to him. And Gerald tells me, ‘You think every girl pretty, -aunt.’ ”</p> - -<p>“That is because there is one little girl that he thinks the most pretty -of all,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of soft maternal coo in Betty’s -ear.</p> - -<p>The subject was taken up and tossed about from one to another, while she -who had originated it drew back a little, listening with an air of much -attention, turning her head to each speaker, an attitude which was most -effective. It will probably be thought the greatest waste of effort for -a woman thus to exhibit what the newspapers call her personal advantages -to a group of her own sex; but Miss Lance was a very clever woman, and -she knew what she was about. After a time, when the first fervour of the -argument was over, she returned to her first theme as to the appropriate -title that ought to be invented for old maids.</p> - -<p>“I have thought of it a great deal,” she said. “I should have called -myself Mrs. Laura Lance, to discriminate—but for the American custom of -calling all married ladies so, which is absurd.”</p> - -<p>“I have a friend in New York who writes to me as Mrs. Mary Lyon,” said -the mistress of the house.</p> - -<p>“Yes, which is ridiculous, you know; for you are not Mrs. Mary Lyon, -dear lady. You are Mrs. Francis Lyon, if it is necessary to have a -Christian name, for Lyon is your husband’s name, not yours. You are Mrs. -Mary Howard by rights—if in such a matter there are any rights.”</p> - -<p>“What!” cried old Mr. Lyon, coming in after the long array of gentlemen, -“are you going to divorce my wife from me, or give her another name, or -what are you going to do? We thought it was we only who could change the -ladies’ names, Kingsward, eh?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had placed himself immediately in front of Miss Lance, -and Betty, looking on all unsuspicious, saw a glance pass between -them—or rather, she saw Miss Lance look up into her father’s face. -Betty did not know in the least what that look meant, but it gave her a -little shock as if she had touched an electric battery. It meant -something more than to Betty’s consciousness had ever been put into -words. She turned her eyes away for a moment to escape the curious -thrill that ran through her, and in that moment met Gerald Lyon’s eyes, -full of something malicious, mocking, disagreeable, which made Betty -very angry. But she could not explain to herself what all these looks -meant.</p> - -<p>This curious sensation somehow spoiled the rest of the evening for -Betty. Everybody it seemed to her after this meant something—something -more than they said. They looked at her father, they looked at Miss -Lance, they looked even at Betty’s little self, embracing all three, -sometimes in one comprehensive glance. And all kinds of significant -little speeches were made as the company went away. “I am so glad to -have seen her,” one lady said in an undertone to Mrs. Lyon. “One -regrets, of course, but one is thankful it is no worse.” “I think,” said -another, “it will do very well—I think it will do very well; thank you -for the opportunity.” And “Charming, my dear Mrs. Lyon, charming,” said -another. They all spoke low and in the most confidential tone. What was -it they were all so interested about?</p> - -<p>The last of the party to go were Miss Lance and Colonel Kingsward. They -seemed to go away together as they had seemed to come together.</p> - -<p>“Your father is so kind as to see me home,” Miss Lance said, by way of -explanation. “I am not a grand lady with a carriage. I am old enough to -walk home by myself, and I always do it, but as Colonel Kingsward is so -kind, of course I like company best.”</p> - -<p>She too had a private word with Mrs. Lyon, at the head of the stairs. -Betty did not want to listen, but she heard by instinct the repeated -“Thank you, thank you! How can I ever express how much I thank you?” -Betty was so bewildered that she could not think. She paid no attention -to her father, who put his hands on her shoulders when he said -“Good-night,” and said, “Betty, I’ll see you to-morrow.” Oh, of course, -she should see him to-morrow—or not, as circumstances might ordain. -What did it matter? She was not anxious to see her father to-morrow, it -could not be of the least importance whether they met or not; but what -Betty would really have liked would have been to find out what all these -little whisperings could mean.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lyon came up to her when the last, to wit, Colonel Kingsward -following Miss Lance, had disappeared, and put her arms round the little -girl. “You are looking a little tired,” she said, “just this last hour. -I did not think they would stay so late. It is all Miss Lance, I -believe, setting us on to argue with her metaphysics. Well, everybody -likes her very much, which will please you, my dear, as you are so fond -of her. And now, Betty, you must run off to bed. There’s hardly time for -your beauty sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Lyon,” said Betty, very curious, “was it to meet Miss Lance that -all those grand people came?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you call grand people. They are all great friends of -ours and also of your father’s, and I think you know them every one. And -they all know each other.”</p> - -<p>“Except Miss Lance,” said Gerald, who was always disagreeable—always, -when anyone mentioned Miss Lance’s name.</p> - -<p>“I know her, certainly, and better than any of them! And there is nobody -so delightful,” Betty cried, with fervour, partly because she believed -what she said, and partly to be disagreeable in her turn to him.</p> - -<p>“And so they all seemed to think,” said old Mr. Lyon, “though I’m not so -fond of new people as the rest of you. Lay hands suddenly on no man is -what I say.”</p> - -<p>“And I say the same as my uncle,” said Gerald, “and it’s still more true -of a woman than a man.”</p> - -<p>“You are such an experienced person,” said the old lady; “they know so -much better than we do, Betty. But never you mind, for your friend has -made an excellent impression upon all these people—the most -tremendously respectable people,” Mrs. Lyon said, “none of your artists -and light-minded persons! Make yourself comfortable with that thought, -and good night, my little Betty. You must not stay up so late another -night.”</p> - -<p>What nonsense that was of staying up late, when it was not yet twelve -o’clock! But Betty went off to her room with a little confusion and -bewilderment of mind, happy on the whole, but feeling as if she had -something to think about when she should be alone. What was it she had -to think about? She could not think what it was when she sat down alone -to study her problem. There was no problem, and what the departing -guests had said to Mrs. Lyon was quite simple, and referred to something -that was their own business, that had nothing to do with Betty. How -could it have anything to do with Betty?</p> - -<p>Around the corner of the Park, Bee, too, was sitting alone and thinking -at the same time, and the two sets of thoughts, neither very clear, -revolved round the same circle. But neither of the sisters knew, -concerning this problem, whereabouts the other was.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> yet all this time there lay upon Betty’s table, concealed under the -pretty laced handkerchiefs which she had pulled out of their sachet to -choose one for the party, Bee’s little tremulous letter, expressing a -state of mind more agitated than that of Betty, and full of wonderings -and trouble. It was found there by the maid who put things in order next -morning, when she called the young visitor.</p> - -<p>“Here’s a letter that came last night, and you have never opened it,” -said the maid, half reproachfully. She, at least, she was anxious to -note, had not been to blame.</p> - -<p>Betty took it with great <i>sang froid</i>. She saw by the writing it was -only Bee’s—and Bee’s news was never imperative. There could not be -much to disclose to her of the state of affairs at Kingswarden that was -new, since the night before last.</p> - -<p>But the result was that Betty went downstairs in her hat and gloves, and -that Mr. Lyon and Gerald, who were both sitting down to that substantial -breakfast which is the first symbol of good health and a good conscience -in England, had much ado to detain her long enough to share that meal.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lyon did not come downstairs in the morning, so that they used the -argument of helplessness, professing themselves unable to pour out their -own tea.</p> - -<p>“And what business can Betty have of such importance that she must run -out without her breakfast?” said the old gentleman.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is news I have heard which I must take at once to papa!”</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen looked at each other, and Mr. Lyon shook his big, old -head.</p> - -<p>“I would not trouble your papa, my dear, with anything you may have -heard. Depend upon it, he will let you know anything he wishes you to -know—in his own time.”</p> - -<p>“But it is news—news,” said Betty; “news about Charlie!”</p> - -<p>Then she remembered that very little had been said even to the Lyons -about Charlie, and stopped with embarrassment, and her friends could not -but believe that this was a hasty expedient to conceal from them that -she had heard something—some flying rumour which had set her little -impetuous being on fire. When she had escaped from their sympathetic -looks and Gerald’s magnanimous proposal to accompany her—without so -much as an egg to fortify him for the labours of the day!—Betty set -out, crossing the Park in the early glory of the morning, which feels at -nine o’clock what six o’clock feels in the country, to carry the news to -her father.</p> - -<p>Charlie found, and ill; and demanding to see Miss Lance, his health and -recovery depending upon whether he should see her or not! Betty’s first -instinct had been to hasten at once to George Street, Hanover Square, -but then she remembered that papa presumably was the one who was most -anxious about Charlie and had the best right to know, and it was perhaps -better not to explain to the friends in Portman Square why Miss Lance -should go to Charlie. Indeed, when she had set out, a great many -questions occurred to Betty, circulating through her lively little mind -without any possibility of an answer to them. Why should Charlie be so -anxious to see Miss Lance? Why had he been so long there, ill, and -nobody come to tell his people of it? And what was Bee doing in Curzon -Street, in Aubrey Leigh’s house, which was the last house in the world -where she had any right to be? But she walked so fast, and the sunny air -with all its movement and lightness so carried her on and filled her -with pleasant sounds and images, that these thoughts, blowing like the -wind through her little intelligence, had not much effect on Betty -now—though there was incipient trouble in them, as even she could see.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was seated at his breakfast when his little girl burst -in upon him in all the freshness of the morning. Her youth and her -bloom, and her white frock, notwithstanding its black accoutrements, -made a great show in the dark-coloured, solemn, official-looking room, -with its Turkey carpets and morocco chairs. The Colonel was evidently -startled by the sight of her. He said, “Well?” in that tone of -self-defence, and almost defiance, with which a man prepares for being -called upon to give an account of himself; as if anything so absurd -could be possible as that Betty, little Betty, could call upon her -father to give an account of himself! But then it is very true that when -there is something to be accounted for, the strongest feel how -“conscience doth make cowards of us all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, breathless, “Papa—Charlie! Bee has found Charlie, and -he’s been very ill—typhoid fever; he’s getting better, and he’s in -London, and she’s with him; and he wants but to see Miss Lance. Oh, -papa, that’s what I came about chiefly—he wants to see Miss Lance.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward’s face changed many times during this breathless -deliverance. He said first, “He’s at Mackinnon’s, I know;” then, “In -London!” with no pleasure at all in his tone; and finally, “Miss Lance!” -angrily, his face covered with a dark glow.</p> - -<p>“What is all this?” he cried, when she stopped for want of breath. -“Charlie—in town? You must be out of your senses. Why, he is in -Scotland. I heard from—, eh? Well, I don’t know that I had any letter, -but—. And ill—and Bee with him? What is the meaning of all this? Are -you both mad, or in a conspiracy to make yourselves disagreeable to me?”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Betty, very ready to take up the challenge; but on the -whole the news was too important to justify a combat of self-defence. -She produced Bee’s note out of its envelope, and placed it before him, -running on with a report of it while the Colonel groped for his eyeglass -and arranged it upon his nose.</p> - -<p>“A lady came and fetched her,” cried Betty, hurriedly, to forestall the -reading, “and brought her up to town and took her to him—oh, so -bad—where he had been for weeks; and she told him you had been to -Oxford, and something about Miss Lance; and he wants to see Miss Lance, -and calls and calls for her, and won’t be satisfied. Oh, papa!”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had arranged his <i>pince-nez</i> very carefully; he had -taken up Bee’s note, and went over it word by word while Betty made her -breathless report. When he came to the first mention of Miss Lance he -struck his hand upon the table like any other man in a passion, making -all the cups and plates ring.</p> - -<p>“The little fool!” he said, “the little fool! What right had she to -bring in that name? It was this that called forth Betty’s exclamation, -but no more was said by either till he read it out to the end. Then he -flung the letter from him, and getting up, paced about the room in rage -and dismay.</p> - -<p>“A long illness,” said the Colonel, “was perhaps the best thing that -could have happened to him to sweep all that had passed before out of -his mind; and here does this infernal little idiot, this little demon -full of spite and malice, get at the boy at his worst moment and bring -everything back. What right had she, the spiteful, envious little fool, -to bring in the name of a lady—of a lady to whom you all owe the -greatest respect?”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Betty, overwhelmed, “Bee couldn’t have meant any harm.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was out of himself and he uttered words which -terrified his daughter, and which need not be recorded against him—for -he certainly did not in cold blood wish Bee to fall under any celestial -malediction. He stormed about the room, saying much that Betty could not -understand; that it was just the thing of all others that should not -have happened, and the time of all others; that if it had been a little -later, or even a little earlier, it would not have mattered; that it was -enough to overturn every arrangement, increase every difficulty. He was -not at all a man to give way to his feelings so. His children, indeed, -until very lately, had never seen him excited at all, and it was an -astonishment beyond description to little Betty to be a spectator of -this scene. Indeed, Colonel Kingsward awoke presently to a sense of the -self-exposure he had been making, and calmed down, or, at least, -controlled himself, upon which Betty ventured to ask him very humbly -what he thought she had better do.</p> - -<p>“May I go to Miss Lance and tell her? She is not angry now, nor unhappy -about him like—like <i>us</i>,” said Betty, putting the best face upon it -with instinctive capacity, “and she might know what to do. She is so -very kind and understanding, don’t you know, papa?—and she would know -what to do.”</p> - -<p>For the first time Colonel Kingsward gave his agitated little visitor a -smile. “You seem to have some understanding, too, for a little girl,” he -said, “and it looks as if you would be worthy of my confidence, Betty. -When I see you this afternoon I shall, perhaps, have something to tell -you that——”</p> - -<p>There came over Colonel Kingsward’s fine countenance a smile, a -consciousness, which filled Betty with amaze. She had seen her father -look handsome, commanding, very serious. She had seen him wear an air -which the girls in their profanity had been used in their mother’s happy -days to call that of the <i>père noble</i>. She had seen him angry, even in a -passion, as to-day. She had heard him, alas! blaspheme, which had been -very terrible to Betty. But she had never, she acknowledged to herself, -seen him look <i>silly</i> before. Silly, in a girl’s phraseology, was what -he looked now, with that fatuity which is almost solely to be attributed -to one cause; but of this Betty was not aware. It came over his -countenance, and for a moment Colonel Kingsward let himself go on the -flood of complacent consciousness, which healed all his wounds. Then he -suddenly braced himself up and turned to Betty again.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” he said, in his most fatherly tone, for it seemed to the man -in this crisis of his life that even little Betty’s support was -something to hold by, “my dear child, your instinct is right. Go to Miss -Lance and tell her how things are. Don’t take this odious letter, -however,” he said, seizing Bee’s note and tearing it across with -indignant vehemence, “with all its prejudices and assumptions. Tell her -in your own words; and where they are—and—— Where are they, by the -way?” he said, groping for the fragments of the letter in his -waste-paper basket. “I hope you noted the address.”</p> - -<p>He had not then, it was evident, noted the address, nor the name of Mrs. -Leigh, nor in whose house Charlie was. Betty’s heart beat high with the -question whether she should call his attention to these additional -facts, but her courage failed her. He had cooled down, he was himself -again: and after a moment he added, “I will write a little note which -you can take,” with once more the smile that Betty thought silly -floating across his face. She was standing close by the writing-table, -and Betty was not aware that there was any harm in the natural glimpse -which her keen eyes took, before she was conscious of it, of the note he -was writing. It was not like a common note. It did not begin “Dear Miss -Lance,” as would have been natural. In short, it had no beginning at -all, nor any signature—or rather it was signed only with his initial -“F.” How very extraordinary that papa should sign “F.” and should not -put any beginning to his letter. A kind of wondering consternation -enveloped the little girl. But still she did not in the least understand -what it meant.</p> - -<p>Betty walked away along Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and by the edge of the -Park to George Street, Hanover Square. It is not according to the -present fashion that a girl should shrink from walking along through -those busy London streets, where nobody is in search of adventures, at -least at that hour of the morning. Her white morning frock and her black -ribbons, and her early bloom, like the morning, though delightful to -behold, did not make all the passers by stand and stare as the movements -of a pretty girl used to do, if we are to credit the novels, in the -beginning of the century. People, perhaps, have too much to do nowadays -to give to that not unusual sight the attention which the dandies and -the macaroni bestowed upon it, and Betty was so evidently bent on her -own little business, whatever it was, that nothing naturally occurred to -detain her.</p> - -<p>It was so unusual for her to have a grave piece of business in hand that -she was a little elated by it, even though so sorry for Charlie who was -so ill, and for Bee who was so perturbed about everything. Betty herself -was not perturbed; she was full of the pleasure of the morning and the -long, interesting walk, and the sense of her own importance as a -messenger. If there did occasionally float across her mind the idea -that her father’s demeanour was strange, or that it was odd that he -should have signed his note to Miss Lance with an F., it was merely a -momentary idea and she did not question it or detain it. And poor -Charlie! Ill—not able to get out this fine weather; but he was getting -better, so that there was really nothing to be troubled about.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance was up, but had not yet appeared when Betty was shown into -her little drawing-room. She was not an early riser. It was one of her -vices, she frankly allowed. Betty had to wait, and had time to admire -all her friend’s knick-knacks, of which there were many, before she came -in, which she did at last, with her arms put out to take Betty -maternally to her bosom. She looked in the girl’s face with a very -intent glance before she took her into this embrace.</p> - -<p>“My little Betty, so early,” she said, and kissed the girl, and then -looked at her again, as if in expectation of something; but as Betty -could not think of anything that Miss Lance would be expecting from her, -she remained unconscious of any special meaning in this look.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am early,” she said; “it is because I have something to tell -you, and something to ask of you, too.”</p> - -<p>“Tell, my dear little girl, and ask. You may be sure I shall be at your -service. But what is this in your hand—a note for me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a note for you, but may I tell you first what it is about?” -Betty went on quickly with her story, though Miss Lance, without waiting -for it, took the note and opened it. “Miss Lance, Charlie is found; he -has been very ill, and he wants to see you.”</p> - -<p>“To see me?” Miss Lance looked with eyes of sympathy, yet great -innocence, as if at an impossible proposal, at the breathless girl so -anxious to get it out. “But, Betty, if he is with your friends, the -Mackinnons, in Scotland—?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Lance, I told you he was not there, don’t you remember? He has -never been anywhere all this time. He has had typhoid fever, and on -Thursday Bee was sent for, and found him still ill, but mending. And -when he heard you were in town he would give her no peace till she wrote -and asked you to come and see him. And she did not know your address so -she wrote to me. I went to tell papa first, and then I came on here. Oh, -will you come and see Charlie? Bee said he wanted to get into a hansom -and come to you as soon as he heard you were here.”</p> - -<p>“What induced them to talk of me, and why did she tell him I was here?” -Miss Lance cried, with a momentary cloud upon her face, such as Betty -had never seen there before. She sat down suddenly in a chair, with a -pat of her foot upon the carpet, which was almost a stamp of impatience, -and then she read Colonel Kingsward’s note for the second time, with her -brows drawn together and a blackness about her eyes which filled Betty -with alarm and dismay. She looked up, however, next minute with her -countenance cleared. “Your father says I am to use my own discretion,” -she said, with a half laugh; “that is not much help to me, is it, in -deciding what is best to do? So he has been ill—and not in Scotland at -all?”</p> - -<p>“I told you he was not in Scotland,” cried Betty, a little impatient in -her turn. “Oh, Miss Lance, he has been ill, he is still ill, and won’t -you come and see him when he wants you so? Oh, come and see him, please! -He looks so ill and wretched, Bee says, and weak, and cannot get back -his strength; and he thinks if he could see you——”</p> - -<p>“Poor boy—silly boy!” said Miss Lance; “why does he think it will do -him good to see me? I doubt if it would do him any good; and your father -says I am to use my discretion. I would do anything for any of you, -Betty, but perhaps I should do him harm instead of good. Have you got -your sister’s letter?”</p> - -<p>“I left it with papa—that is, he threw it into the waste paper basket,” -said the too truthful Betty, growing red.</p> - -<p>“I understand,” said Miss Lance, “it was not a letter to show me. Bee -has her prejudices, and perhaps she is right. I cannot expect that all -the family should be as nice to me as you. Have they taken him to -Kingswarden? Or where is he, poor boy?”</p> - -<p>“He is at No. 1000, Curzon Street,” Betty said.</p> - -<p>“What!” said Miss Lance. “Where?” Her brow curved over her eyes, her -face grew dark as if the light had gone out of the morning, and she -spoke the two monosyllables in a sharp imperative tone, so that they -seemed to cut like a knife.</p> - -<p>“At No. 1000; Curzon Street,” Betty repeated with great alarm, not -knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance rose quickly, as if there had been something that stung her -in the innocent words. She looked as if she were about to pace the room -from end to end, as Colonel Kingsward did when he was disturbed. But -either she did not mean this, or she restrained herself, for what she -did was to walk to her writing-table and put Colonel Kingsward’s note -away in a drawer, and then she went to the window and looked out, and -said it was a fine morning but dusty for walking—and then she returned -to her chair and sat down again and looked at Betty. She was pale, and -there were lines in her face that had not been there before. Her eyes -were almost piteous as she looked at the surprised girl.</p> - -<p>“I am in a very strait place,” she said, “and I don’t know what to do.” -Something like moisture seemed to come up into her eyes. “This is always -how it happens to me,” she said, “just at the moment, just at the -moment! What am I to do?”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bee</span> had passed the whole day with Charlie, the Friday of the dinner -party at Portman Square. She had resisted as long as she could writing -the letter which had brought so much excitement to Betty, and the -passion with which he had insisted upon this—the struggle between them, -the vehemence with which he had declared that he cared for nothing in -the world but to see Laura once again, to thank her for having pleaded -for him with his father, to ask her forgiveness for his follies—had -been bad for Charlie, who lay for the rest of the day upon the sofa, -tossing from him one after the other the novels that were provided for -his amusement, declaring them to be “rot” or “rubbish,” growling at his -sister when she continued to speak to him, and reducing poor Bee to that -state of wounded imbecility which is the lot of those who endeavour to -please an unpleasable invalid, with the conviction that all the time -they are doing more harm than good.</p> - -<p>Bee was not maladroit by nature, and she had the warmest desire to be -serviceable to her brother, but it appeared that she always did the -wrong thing, not only in the eyes of Charlie, but in those of the nurse, -who came in from time to time with swift movements, bringing -subordination and quiet where there had been nothing but irritation and -resistance. And in this house, where she had been brought entirely for -the service of Charlie, Bee did not know what to do. She was afraid to -leave the rooms that had been given up to him lest she should meet -someone on the stairs, or be seen only to be avoided, as if her presence -there was that of a ghost or an enemy. Poor Bee—wearing out the long -hours of the spring afternoon with poor attempts to be useful to the -invalid, to watch his looks—which he resented by frequent adjurations -not to watch him as a cat watches a mouse—to anticipate his -wishes—which immediately became the last thing in the world he wanted -as soon as she found out the drink or got the paper for which he was -looking, heard or thought she heard steps coming to the street door, -subdued voices in the hall, comings and goings half stealthily, noises -subdued lest she should hear. What did it matter whether she heard or -not? Why should the master of the house be banished that she, so -ineffectual as she had proved, should be brought to her brother’s side? -She had not done, and could not do, any good to Charlie. All that she -had done had been to remind him of Miss Lance, to be the medium of -calling that disastrous person, who had done all the harm, back into -Charlie’s life—nay, of bringing her back to this house, the inmates of -which she had already harmed to the utmost of her power.</p> - -<p>That was all that had been done by Bee, and now her presence kept at a -distance the one individual in the world who had the best right to be -here. He came almost secretly, she felt sure, to the door in the dusk -to inquire after his patient, or to get his letters; or stole in, -subduing his step, that she might not be disturbed.</p> - -<p>Poor Bee! It was very bitter to her to think that Aubrey Leigh should -leave his own house because she was there. Sometimes she wondered -whether it was some remnant of old, almost-extinguished feeling in his -breast which had made him think that the sight of Bee would do Charlie -good—the sight of Bee, for which her brother did not care at all, not -at all; which was an annoyance and a fatigue to him, except when she had -betrayed what was the last thing in the world she should have betrayed, -the possibility of seeing again that woman who had harmed them all. If -Aubrey had thought so, with some remnant of the old romance, how -mistaken he had been! And it was intolerable for the girl to think that -for the sake of this unsuccessful experiment he had been sent away from -his own house. She placed herself in the corner of the room in which -Charlie (to whom she was supposed to do good and bring pleasure) could -see her least, and bitterness filled her heart. There were times in -which she thought of stealing away, leaving a word for Mrs. Leigh to the -effect that she was doing Charlie no good, and that Betty, who would -come to-morrow, might perhaps be of more use—and returning forlorn to -Kingswarden to renew the life, where perhaps nobody wanted her very -much, but where, at least, there were so many things which she and no -one else was there to do.</p> - -<p>She was still in this depressed state when Mrs. Leigh (who had evidently -gone away that the brother and sister might be alone and happy together) -came back, looking into Charlie’s room to ask how he was on her way -upstairs to dress for dinner.</p> - -<p>“Better,” the nurse said, with her eyebrows. “Peevish—young lady -mustn’t cross him—must be humoured—things not gone quite so well -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“You will tell me about it at dinner,” said Mrs. Leigh, and Bee went -downstairs with a heavy heart to be questioned. Aubrey’s mother looked -cheerful enough; she did not seem to be unhappy about his absence or to -dislike the society of the girl who had driven him away. And she was -very considerate even in her questions about the patient.</p> - -<p>“We must expect these fluctuations,” she said; “you must not be cast -down if you are not quite so triumphantly successful to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Leigh, I am deceiving you. I have never been successful at -all. He did not want me—he doesn’t care for me, and to stay here is -dreadful, upsetting the house—doing no good.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, this is a strange statement to make, and you must not expect -me to believe you in the face of facts. He was much better after seeing -you last night.”</p> - -<p>“Doing no good,” said Bee, shaking her head, “but harm, oh, real harm! -It was not I that did him good, it was telling him of someone, of a -lady. Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how am I to tell you?”</p> - -<p>“My dear child, anything that you yourself know can surely be told to -me. We were afraid that something about a woman was at the bottom of it, -but then that is always the thing that is said, and typhoid, you know, -means bad drains and not a troubled mind—though the one may make you -susceptible to the other. Don’t be so distressed, my dear. It seems more -to your inexperience than it is in reality. He will get over that.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, very pale, “he has made me write to ask her to -come and see him here.”</p> - -<p>It was now Mrs. Leigh’s turn to change colour. She grew red, looking -astonished in the girl’s despairing face.</p> - -<p>“A woman to come and see him, here! But your brother would never insult -the house and you—— I am talking nonsense,” she said, suddenly -stopping herself, “and misconstruing him altogether. It is some lady who -has jilted him—or something of that kind.”</p> - -<p>Bee had not understood what Mrs. Leigh’s first idea was, and she did not -see any cause for relief in the second.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what she did to him, or what she has done to them all,” -the girl said, mournfully. “They are all the same. Papa, even, who does -not care very much for ladies, generally—— But Charlie, poor Charlie! -Oh, I believe he is in love with her still, though she is twice as old -as he is and has almost broken his heart.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Leigh, “this must be something very different to -what we thought. We thought he had got into some very dreadful trouble -about a—an altogether inferior person. But as it seems to be a lady, -and one that is known to the family, and who can be asked to come -here—if you can tell me a little more clearly what the story is, I -shall be more able to give you my advice.”</p> - -<p>Bee looked at her questioner helpless, half distracted, not knowing how -to speak, and yet the story must be told. She had written that fatal -invitation, and it could not be concealed who this possible visitor was. -She began with a great deal of hesitation to talk of the lady whom -Charlie had raved about at Oxford, and how he was to work to please her; -and how he did not work, but failed in every way, and fled from Oxford; -and how her father went to inquire into the story; and how the lady had -come to Colonel Kingsward at the hotel, to explain to him, to excuse -Charlie, to beg his father to forgive him.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear, she can’t be so very bad,” said Mrs. Leigh, soothingly. -“You must not judge her hardly; if she thought she had been to blame in -the matter, that was really the right thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“And since then,” resumed Bee, “I think papa has thought of nobody else; -he writes to her and tells her everything. He goes to see her; he -forgets about Charlie and all of us; he has taken Betty there, and Betty -adores her too. And to-night,” cried Bee, the angry tears coming into -her eyes, “she is dining in Portman Square, dining with the Lyons as a -great friend of ours—in Portman Square.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh drew Bee to her and gave her a kiss of consolation. I think -it was partly that the girl in her misery should not see the smile, -which Mrs. Leigh, thinking that she now saw through this not uncommon -mystery, could not otherwise conceal.</p> - -<p>“My poor child,” she said, “my dear girl! This is hard upon you since -you dislike her so much, but I am afraid it is quite natural, and a -thing that could not have been guarded against. And then you must -consider that your father may probably be a better judge than yourself. -I don’t see any harm this lady has done, except that perhaps it is not -quite good taste to make herself so agreeable both to the father and -son; but perhaps in Charlie’s case that was not her fault. And I see no -reason, my dear—really and sincerely as your friend, Bee—why you -should be so prejudiced against a poor woman whose only fault is that -everybody else likes her. Now isn’t it a little unreasonable when you -think of it calmly yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Leigh!” Bee cried. The situation was so intolerable, the -passion of injury and misconception so strong in her that she could only -gasp in insupportable anger and dismay.</p> - -<p>“Bee! Bee! this feeling is natural but you must not let it carry you -away. Have you seen her? Let me come in when she is here and give my -opinion.”</p> - -<p>“I have seen her three times,” said Bee, solemnly, “once at the Baths, -and once at the Academy, and once at Oxford;” and then once more -excitement mastered the girl. “Oh, when you know who she is! Don’t -smile, don’t smile, but listen! She is Miss Lance.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Lance!” Mrs. Leigh repeated the name with surprise, looking into -Bee’s face. “You must compose yourself,” she said, “you must compose -yourself. Miss——? My dear, you have got over excited, you have mixed -things up.”</p> - -<p>“No, I am not over-excited! I am telling you only the truth. It is Miss -Lance, and they all believe in her as if she were an angel, and she is -coming here.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh was very much startled, but yet she would not believe her -ears. She had heard Charlie delirious in his fever not so long ago. Her -mind gave a little leap to the alarming thought that there might be -madness in the family, and that Bee had been seized like her brother. -That what she said was actual fact seemed to her too impossible to be -true. She soothed the excited girl with all her power. “Whoever it is, -my dear, you shall not take any harm. There is nothing to be frightened -about. I will take care of you, whoever it is.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think you believe me,” said Bee. “I am not out of my mind, as -you think. It is Miss Lance—Miss Laura Lance—the same, the very same, -that—and I have written, and she will be coming here.”</p> - -<p>“This is very strange,” said Mrs. Leigh. “It does not seem possible to -believe it. The same—who came between Aubrey and you? Oh, I never meant -to name him, I was never to name him; but how can I help it? Laura, who -was the trouble of his house—who would not leave him—who went to your -father? And now your father! I cannot understand it. I cannot believe -that it is true.”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Bee. “But, Mrs. Leigh, you forget that no one cared -then, except myself; they have forgotten all that now, they have -forgotten what happened. It was only my business, it was not their -business. All that has gone from papa; he remembers nothing about it. -And she is a witch, she is a magician, she is a devil—oh, please -forgive me, forgive me—I don’t know what I am saying. It has all been -growing, one thing after another—first me—and then Charlie—and then -papa—and then Betty. And now, after bringing him almost to death and -destruction, here is Charlie, in this house, calling for her, raging -with me till I wrote to call her—me!” cried Bee, with a sort of -indignant eloquence. “Me! Could it go further than that? Could anything -be more than that? Me!—and in this house.”</p> - -<p>“My dear child,” said Mrs. Leigh, “I don’t wonder, I don’t wonder—it is -like something in a tragedy. Oh, Bee! Forgive me for what is first in my -thoughts. Was she the reason, the only reason, for your breach with my -poor Aubrey? For at first you stood by him—and then you turned upon -him.”</p> - -<p>“Do not ask me any more questions, please. I am not able to answer -anything. Isn’t it enough that all these things have happened through -this woman, and that she is coming here?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh made no further question. She saw that the girl’s excitement -was almost beyond her control, and that her young mind was strained to -its utmost. She said, half to herself, “I must think. I cannot tell in a -moment what to do. I must send for Aubrey. It is his duty and mine to -let it go no further. You must try to compose yourself, my dear, and -trust us. Oh, Bee,” there were tears in her eyes as she came up to the -girl and kissed her, “if you could but have trusted us—in all things! -I don’t think you ever would have repented.”</p> - -<p>But Bee did not make any response. Her hands were cold and her head hot. -She was wrapt in a strange passion and confusion of human chaos and -bewilderment—everything gone wrong—all the elements of life twisted -the perverse way; nothing open, nothing clear. She was incapable of any -simple, unmingled feeling in that confusion and medley of everything -going wrong.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, a little disappointed, went into the inner room, the little -library, to write a letter—no doubt to consult or summon her son—from -which she was interrupted a few minutes later by a faint call, and Bee’s -white face in the doorway.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh, papa will come to-morrow, and he will take us away; at -least he will take me away. I—I shan’t be any longer in anyone’s way. -Oh, don’t keep him apart from you—don’t send anyone out of the house -because of me!”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> was a great deal of commotion next morning in the house in -Mayfair.</p> - -<p>Bee was startled by having a tray brought to her bedroom with her -breakfast when she was almost ready to go downstairs. “Mrs. Leigh -thought, Miss, as you had been so tired last night, you might like to -rest a little longer,” said the maid; and Bee divined with a sharp pang -through all the trouble and confusion of her mind that she was not -wanted—that probably Aubrey was coming to consult with his mother what -was to be done. It may be imagined with what scrupulousness she kept -within her room, her pride all up in arms though her heart she thought -was broken. Though the precaution was so natural, though it was taken at -what was supposed to be her desire, at what was really her desire—the -only one she would have expressed—yet she resented it, in the -contradiction and ferment of her being. If Mrs. Leigh supposed that she -wanted to see Aubrey! He was nothing to her, he had no part in her life. -When she had been brought here, against her will, it had been expressly -explained that it was not for Aubrey, that he would rather go away to -the end of the world than disturb her. And she had herself appealed to -his mother—her last action on the previous night—to bring him back, -not to banish him on account of the girl who was nothing to him, and -whose part it was, not his, to go away. All this, however, did not make -it seem less keen a wound to Bee that she should be, so to speak, -imprisoned in her own room, because Aubrey was expected downstairs. She -had never, she declared to herself vehemently, felt at ease under the -roof that was his; nothing but Charlie’s supposed want of her would have -induced her to subject herself to the chances of meeting him, and the -still more appalling chance of being supposed to wish to meet him. And -now this insult of imprisonment in her bedroom, lest she should by any -chance come under his observation, offend his eye!—Bee was -contradictory enough at all times, a rosebud set about with wilful -thorns; but everything was in tumult about her, and all her conditions -nothing but contradictions now.</p> - -<p>Thus it happened that while Betty was setting out with much excitement, -but that all pleasurable, walking lightly among undiscovered dangers, -Bee was suddenly arrested, as she felt, imprisoned in the little room -looking out upon roofs and backs of houses, thrust aside into a corner -that she might not be seen or her presence known—imperceptibly the -force of the description grew as she went on piling up agony upon agony. -It was some time before, in the commotion of her feelings, she could -bring herself to swallow her tea, and then she walked about the room, -gazed out of the window from which, as it was at the back of the house, -she saw nothing, and found the position more and more intolerable every -minute. A prisoner! she who had been brought here against her will, on -pretence that her presence might save her brother’s life, or something -equally grandiose and impossible—save her brother’s life, bring him -back from despair by the sight of some one that he loved. These were the -sort of words that Mrs. Leigh had said. As if it mattered to Charlie one -way or the other what Bee might think or do! As if he were to be -consoled by her, or stimulated, or brought back to life! She had -affected him involuntarily, undesirably, by her betrayal of the vicinity -of that woman, that witch, who had warped his heart and being. But as -for influencing in her own person her brother’s mind or life, Bee knew -she was as little capable as baby, the little tyrant of the nursery. Oh! -how foolish she had been to come at all, to yield to what was said, the -flattering suggestion that she could do so much, when she knew all along -in her inmost consciousness that she could do nothing! The only thing -for her to do now was to go back to the dull life of which in her -impatient foolishness she had grown so weary, the dull life in which she -was indeed of some use after all, where it was clearly her duty to get -the upper hand of baby, to preserve the discipline of the nursery, to -train the little ones, and keep the big boys in order. These were the -elder sister’s duties, with which nobody could interfere—not any -ridiculous, sentimental, exaggerated idea, as Charlie had said, of what -a woman’s ministrations could do. “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease!” -that sort of foolish, foolish, intolerable, ludicrous kind of thing, -which it used to be considered right to say, though people knew better -now. Bee felt bitterly that to say of her that she was a ministering -angel would be irony, contumely, the sort of thing people said when they -laughed at women and their old-fashioned sham pretences. She had never -made any such pretence. She had said from the beginning that Charlie -would care for none of her ministrations. She had been brought here -against her judgment, against her will, and now she was shut up as in a -prison in order that Aubrey might not be embarrassed by the sight of -her! As if she had wished to see Aubrey! As if it had not been on the -assurance that she was not to see Aubrey that she had been beguiled -here!</p> - -<p>When a message came to her that she was to go to her brother, Bee did -not know what to do. It seemed to her that Aubrey might be lurking -somewhere on the stairs, that he might be behind Charlie’s sofa, or -lying in wait on the other side of the curtain, notwithstanding her -offence at the quite contradictory idea that she was imprisoned in her -room to be kept out of his way. These two things were entirely contrary -from each other, yet it was quite possible to entertain and be disturbed -by both in the tumult and confusion of a perverse young mind. She -stepped out of her room as if she were about to fall into an ambush, -notwithstanding that she had been thrilling in every irritated nerve -with the idea of being imprisoned there.</p> - -<p>Charlie had insisted on getting up much earlier than usual. He had not -waited for the doctor’s visit. He was better; well, he said, stimulated -into nervous strength and capability, though his gaunt limbs tottered -under him and his thin hand trembled. When he got into his sitting-room -he flung away all his cushions and wrappings as soon as his nurse left -him and went to the mirror over the mantel-piece and gazed at himself in -the glass, smoothing down and stroking into their right place those -irregular soft tufts growing here and there upon his chin, which he -thought were the beginnings of a beard.</p> - -<p>Would she think it was a beard, that sign of manhood? They were too -downy, fluffy, unenergetic, a foolish kind of growth, like a colt’s, -some long, some short, yet Charlie could not help being proud of them. -He felt that they would come to something in time, and remembered that -he had often heard it said that a beard which never had been shaved -became the finest—in time. Would she think so? or would she laugh and -tell him that this would not do, that he must get himself shaved?</p> - -<p>He would not mind that she should laugh. She might do anything, all she -did was delightful to poor Charlie, and there would be a compliment even -in being told that he must get shaved. Charlie had stroked his upper lip -occasionally with a razor, but it had never been necessary to suggest to -him that he should get shaved before.</p> - -<p>He had to be put back upon his sofa when nurse re-appeared, but he only -remained there for the time, promising no permanent obedience. When -Laura came he certainly should not receive her there.</p> - -<p>“When did your letter go? When would Betty receive it?” he said, when -Bee, breathless and pale, at last, under nurse’s escort, was brought -downstairs.</p> - -<p>“She must have got it last night. But there was a dinner party,” said -Bee, after a pause, “last night at Portman Square.”</p> - -<p>“What do I care for their dinner parties? I suppose the postman would go -all the same.”</p> - -<p>“But Betty could not do anything till this morning.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Charlie, “I suppose not. She would be too much taken up with -her ridiculous dress and what she was to wear”—the knowledge of a young -man who had sisters, pierced through even his indignation—“or with some -nonsense about Gerald Lyon—that fellow! And to think,” he said, in an -outburst of high, moral indignation “that one’s fate should be at the -mercy of a little thing like Betty, or what she might say or do!”</p> - -<p>“Betty is not so much younger than we are; to be sure,” said Bee, with -reflective sadness, “she has never had anything to make her think of all -the troubles that are in the world.”</p> - -<p>Charlie turned upon her with scorn.</p> - -<p>“And what have you had to make you think, and what do you suppose you -know? A girl, always protected by everybody, kept out of the battle, -never allowed to feel the air on your cheek! I must tell you, Bee, that -your setting yourself up for knowing things is the most ridiculous -exhibition in the world.”</p> - -<p>Bee’s wounded soul could not find any words. She kept out of the battle! -She setting up for knowing things! And what was his knowledge in -comparison with hers? He had but been deluded like the rest by a woman -whom Bee had always seen through, and never, never put any faith in; -whereas she had lost what was most dear, all her individual hopes and -prospects, and been obliged to sacrifice what she knew would be the only -love of her life.</p> - -<p>She looked at Charlie with eyes that were full of unutterable things. -He was reckless with hope and expectation, self-deceived, thinking that -all was coming right again; whereas Bee knew that things would never -more be right with her. And yet he presumed to say that she knew -nothing, and that to think she had suffered was a mere pretence! “How -little, how little,” Bee thought, “other people know.”</p> - -<p>The house seemed full that morning of sounds and commotions, unlike -ordinary times. There were sounds of ringing bells, of doors opened and -shut, of voices downstairs. Once both Charlie and Bee held their breath, -thinking the moment had come, for a carriage stopped at the door, there -was the sound of a noisy summons, and then steps coming upstairs.</p> - -<p>Alas! it was nothing but the doctor, who came in, ushered by nurse, but -not until she had held a private conference with him, keeping them both -in the most tremendous suspense in the bedroom. It is true this was a -thing which happened every morning, but they had both forgotten that in -the tension of highly-wrought feeling.</p> - -<p>And when the doctor came he shook his head. “There has been too much -going on here,” he said. “You have been doing too much or talking too -much. Miss Kingsward, you helped us greatly with our patient yesterday, -but I am afraid you have been going too far, you have hurried him too -much. We dare not press recovery at railway speed after so serious an -illness as this.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have not wished to do so,” said Bee. “It is some friends that we -are expecting.”</p> - -<p>“Friends? I never said he was to see friends,” the doctor said.</p> - -<p>“Come doctor,” said Charlie, “you must not be too hard upon me. -It’s—it’s my father and sister that are coming.”</p> - -<p>“Your father and sister are different, but not too much even of them. -Recollect, nurse, what I say, not too much even of the nearest and -dearest. The machinery has been too much out of gear to come round all -in a moment. And, Miss Kingsward, you are pale, too. You had better go -out a little and take the air. There must not be too much conversation, -not too much reading either. I must have quiet, perfect quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Am I to do nothing but think?” said Charlie. “Is that the best thing -for a fellow to do that has missed his schools and lost his time?”</p> - -<p>“Be thankful that you are at a time of life when the loss of a few weeks -doesn’t matter, and don’t think,” said the doctor, “or we shall have to -stop even the father and sister, and send you to bed again. Be -reasonable, be reasonable. A few days’ quiet and you will be out of my -hands.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, then you have given up seeing anyone else,” said Bee, with -a cry of relief as the doctor, attended by the nurse, went downstairs.</p> - -<p>“I have done nothing of the kind,” he cried, jumping up from the sofa -and going to the window. “And you had better tell that woman to go out -for a walk and that you will look after me. Do you think when Laura -comes that I will not see her if fifty doctors were to interfere? But if -you want to save me a little you will send that woman out of the way. It -is the worry and being contradicted that does me harm.”</p> - -<p>“How can I, Charlie—oh, how can I, in the face of what the doctor -said?”</p> - -<p>He turned back upon her flaming with feverish rage and excitement.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t I’ll go out. I’ll have a cab called, and get away from -this prison,” he cried. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I shall -see her if I die for it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Bee to herself, trembling, “she will not come. Oh! -perhaps she will not come!” But she felt that this was a very forlorn -hope, and when the nurse came back the poor girl, faltering and ill at -ease, obeyed the peremptory signs and frowns of Charlie, once more -established on the sofa and seeming to take no part in the negotiation.</p> - -<p>“Nurse, I have been thinking,” said Bee, with that talent for the -circumstantial which women have, even when acting against their will, -“that you have far more need of a walk and a little fresh air than I -have, who have only been here for a day, and that if you will tell me -exactly what to do, I could take care of him while you go out a little.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t think of leaving him,” said nurse, with her eyebrows working -as usual and a mocking smile about her lips. “Too much talk; doctor not -pleased.”</p> - -<p>“But if I promise not to talk? I shall not talk. You don’t want to talk, -do you, Charlie?”</p> - -<p>Charlie launched a missile at her in his ingratitude, over his shoulder. -“Not with you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You hear?” cried Bee, now intent upon gaining her point, and terrified -lest other visitors might arrive before this matter were decided; “we -shall not talk, and I will do all you tell me. Oh, only tell me what I -am to do.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing to do,” said the nurse, “not for the next hour; nothing, but -keep him quiet. Well, if you think you can undertake that, just for half -an hour—”</p> - -<p>“I will—I will—for as long as you please,” cried Bee. It was better, -indeed, if there must be this interview with Laura, that there should be -as few spectators as possible. She hurried the woman away with -eagerness, though she had been alarmed at the first suggestion. But when -she was alone with him, and nobody to stand by her, thinking at every -sound she heard that this was the dreaded arrival, Bee crept close to -him with a sudden panic of terror and dismay.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, don’t listen to her, don’t believe her; oh, don’t be led -astray by her again! I have done what you told me, but I oughtn’t to -have done it. Oh, Charlie, stand fast, whatever she says, and don’t be -led astray by her again.”</p> - -<p>The only sign of Charlie’s gratitude that Bee received was to be hastily -pushed away by his shoulder. “You little fool, what do you know about -it?” her brother said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX" id="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">But</span> the nurse went out for her walk and came in again and nothing -happened, and Charlie had his invalid dinner, which in his excitement he -could not eat, and Bee was called downstairs to luncheon, and yet nobody -came. The luncheon was a terrible ordeal for Bee. She attempted to eat, -with an eye on the window, to watch for the arrival of the visitors, and -an ear upon the subdued sounds of the house, through which she seemed to -hear the distant step, the distant voice of someone whose presence was -not acknowledged. She repeated with eagerness her little speech of the -night before. “Something must have detained papa,” she said, “I cannot -understand it, but he is sure to come, and he will take me away.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want you to be taken away, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I should -not let you go if I could help it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I must, I must,” said Bee, trembling and agitated. She could -not eat anything, any more than Charlie, and when the nurse came -downstairs, indignantly carrying the tray from which scarcely anything -had been taken, Bee could make no reply to her remonstrances. “The young -lady had better not come upstairs again,” said nurse; “she has done him -more harm than good, he will have a relapse if we don’t mind. It is as -much as my character is worth.” She talked like other people when there -was no patient present, and she was genuinely afraid.</p> - -<p>“What are we to do?” said Mrs. Leigh. “If this lady comes he ought not -to see her! But perhaps she will not come.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I have hoped,” said Bee, “but if she doesn’t come he will -go out, he will get to her somehow; he will kill himself with -struggling——”</p> - -<p>At the suggestion of going out the nurse gave a shriek and thrust her -tray into the servant’s hands who was waiting. “He will have to kill me -first,” she said, rushing away.</p> - -<p>And immediately upon this scene came Betty, fresh and shining in her -white frock, with a smile like a little sunbeam, who announced at once -that Miss Lance was coming.</p> - -<p>“How is Charlie?” said Betty. “Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how good you have been! -Papa is coming himself to thank you. What a trouble it must have been to -have him ill here all the time. Mrs. Lyon, whom I am staying with, -thinks it so wonderful of you—so kind, so kind! And Bee, <i>she</i> is -coming, though it is rather a hard thing for her to do. She says you -will not like to see her, Mrs. Leigh, and that it will be an intrusion -upon you; but I said when you had been so good to poor Charlie all -along, you would not be angry that she should come who is such a -friend.”</p> - -<p>“Any friend, of course, of Colonel Kingsward’s——” Mrs. Leigh said -stiffly, while little Betty stared. She thought they all looked very -strange; the old lady so stiff, and Bee turning red and turning white, -and a general air as if something had gone wrong.</p> - -<p>“Is Charlie worse?” she said, with an anxious look.</p> - -<p>And then Bee was suddenly called upstairs. “Can’t manage him any -longer,” the nurse said on the landing. “I wash my hands of it. Your -fault if he has a relapse.”</p> - -<p>“Who is that?” said Charlie, from within, “Who is it? I will see her! -Nobody shall interfere, no one—doctor, or nurse, or—the devil himself. -Bee!”</p> - -<p>“It is only Betty,” said Bee, upon which Charlie ceased his raging and -flung himself again on his sofa.</p> - -<p>“You want to torment me; you want to wear me out; you want to kill me,” -he said, with tears of keen disappointment in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” said Bee, “she is coming. Betty is here to say so; she is -coming in about an hour or so. If you will eat your dinner and lie quite -quiet and compose yourself you will be allowed to see her, and nurse -will not object.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Kingsward, don’t answer for me. It is as much as his life is -worth.”</p> - -<p>“But not unless you eat your dinner and keep perfectly quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Give us that old dinner,” said Charlie, with a loud, unsteady laugh, -and the tray was brought back and he performed his duty upon the -half-cold dishes with an expedition and exuberance that gave nurse new -apprehensions.</p> - -<p>“He’ll have indigestion,” she said, “if he gobbles like that,” speaking -once more inaudibly over Charlie’s shoulder. But afterwards all was -quiet till the fated moment came.</p> - -<p>I do not think if these girls had known the feelings that were within -Miss Lance’s breast that they would have been able to retain their -respective feelings towards her—Betty of adoration or Bee of hostility. -She had lived a life of adventure, and she had come already on various -occasions to the very eve of such a settled condition of life as would -have made further adventure unnecessary and impossible—but something -had always come in the way. Something so often comes in the way of such -a career. The stolid people who are incapable of any skilful -combinations go on and prosper, while those who have wasted so much -cleverness or much wit, so much trouble—and disturbed the lives of -others and risked their own—fail just at the moment of success. I am -sometimes very sorry for the poor adventurers. Miss Lance went to Curzon -Street with all her wits painfully about her, knowing that she was about -to stand for her life. It seemed the most extraordinary spite of fate -that this should have happened in the house of Aubrey Leigh. She would -have had in any case a disagreeable moment enough between Charlie -Kingsward and his father, but it was too much to have the other brought -in. The man whom she had so wronged, the family (for she knew that his -mother was there also) who knew all about her, who could tell -everything, and stop her on the very threshold of the new life—that new -life in which there would be no equivocal circumstances, nothing that -she could be reproached with, only duty and kindness. So often she -seemed to have been just within sight of that halcyon spot where she -would need to scheme no more, where duty and every virtuous thing would -be natural and easy. Was the failure to come all over again?</p> - -<p>She was little more than an adventuress, this troubled woman, and yet it -was not without something of the exalted feeling of one who is about to -stand for his life, for emancipation and freedom to do well and all that -is best in existence, that she walked through the streets towards her -fate. Truth alone was possible with the Leighs, who knew everything -about her past, and could not be persuaded or turned from their -certainty by any explanations. But poor Charlie! Bare truth was not -possible with him, whom she had sacrificed lightly to the amusement of -the moment, whom she could never have married or made the instrument of -building up her fortune except in the way which, to do her justice she -had not foreseen, through the access he had given her to his father. How -was she to satisfy that foolish, hot-headed boy?—and how to stop the -mouths of the others in the background?—and how to persuade Colonel -Kingsward that circumstances alone were against her—that she herself -was not to blame? She did not conceal from herself any of these -difficulties, but she was too brave a woman to fly before them. She -preferred to walk, and to walk alone, to this trial which awaited her, -in order to subdue her nerves and get the aid of the fresh air and -solitude to steady her being. She was going to stand for her life.</p> - -<p>It seemed a good augury that she was allowed to enter the house without -any interruption from the sitting-room below, where she had the -conviction that her worst opponents were lying in wait. She thought even -that she had been able to distinguish the white cap and shawl of Mrs. -Leigh through the window, but it was Betty who met her in the hall—met -her with a kiss and expression of delight.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so glad you have come,” said Betty, “he is so eager to see -you.” The people in ambush in the ground floor rooms must have heard the -exclamation, but they made no sign. At the door upstairs they were met -by the nurse, excited and laconic, speaking without any sound.</p> - -<p>“No worry—don’t contradict. Much as life is worth,” she said, with -emphatic, silent lips. Miss Lance, so composed, so perfect in her -manner, so wound up to everything, laughed a little—she was so -natural!—and nodded her head. And then she went in.</p> - -<p>Charlie on the sofa was of course the chief figure. But he had jumped -up, flinging his wrappings about, and stood in his gaunt and tremulous -length, with his big hollow eyes and his ragged little beard, and his -hands stretched out. “At last!” he said, “at last—— Laura!” stumbling -in his weakness as he advanced to her. Bee was standing up straight -against the window in the furthest corner of the room, not making a -movement. How real, how natural, how completely herself and ready for -any emergency this visitor was! She took Charlie’s hands in hers, -supporting him with that firm hold, and put him back upon his couch.</p> - -<p>“Now,” she said, “the conditions of my visit are these: perfect quiet -and obedience, and no excitement. If you rebel in any way I shall go. I -know what nursing is, and I know what common-sense is—and I came here -to help you, not to harm you. Move a toe or finger more than you ought, -and I shall go!”</p> - -<p>“I will not move, not an eyelid if you tell me not. I want to do nothing -but look at you. Laura! oh, Laura! I have been dead, and now I am alive -again,” Charlie said.</p> - -<p>“Ill or well,” said Miss Lance, arranging his cushions with great skill, -“you are a foolish, absurd boy. Partly it belongs to your age and partly -to your temperament. I should not have considered you like your father -at the first glance, but you are like him. Now, perfect quiet. Consider -that your grandmother has come to see you, and that it does not suit the -old lady to have her mind disturbed.”</p> - -<p>He had seized her hand and was kissing it over and over again. Miss -Lance took those caresses very quietly, but after a minute she withdrew -her hand. “Now, tell me all about it,” she said; “you went off in such a -commotion—so angry with me—”</p> - -<p>“Never angry,” he said, “but miserable, oh, more miserable—too -miserable for words. I thought that you had cut me off for ever.”</p> - -<p>“You were right so far as your foolish ideas of that moment went, but I -hope you have learnt better since, and now tell me what did you do? I -hoped you had gone home, and then that you had gone to Scotland, and -then—. What did you do?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Charlie, “I can’t tell you. I suppose I must have -been ill then. I came up to town, but I don’t know what I did. And I was -brought here, and I’ve been ill ever since, and couldn’t seem to get -better until I heard you had been speaking for me. You speaking for me, -Laura! Thinking of me a little, trying to bring me back to life. I’ll -come back to life, dear, for you—anything, Laura, for you!”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, it is a pity you should not have a better reason,” she -said. The two girls had not gone away. Betty had retired to the corner -where Bee was, and they stood close together holding each other, ashamed -and scornful beyond expression of Charlie’s abandonment. Even Betty, who -was almost as much in love with Miss Lance as Charlie was, was ashamed -to hear him “going on” in this ridiculous way. What Miss Lance felt to -have these words of devotion addressed to her in the presence of two -such listeners I will not say. She was acutely sensible of their -presence, and of what they were thinking, but she did not shrink from -the ordeal. “And you must not call me Laura,” she said, “unless you can -make it Aunt Laura, or Grandmother Laura, which are titles I shouldn’t -object to. Anything else would be ridiculous between you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Laura!” the young man said, raising himself quickly.</p> - -<p>“Say Aunt Laura, my dear, and if you move another inch I will go away!”</p> - -<p>“You are crushing me,” he cried, “you are driving me to despair!”</p> - -<p>“Dear Charlie,” said Miss Lance, “all this, you know, is very great -nonsense—between you and me; I have told you so all along. Now things -have really become too serious to go on. I want to be kind to you, to -help you to get well, and to see as much of you as possible; for you are -a dear boy and I am fond of you. But this can’t be unless you will see -things in their true light and acknowledge the real state of affairs. I -am most willing and ready to be your friend, to be a mother to you. But -anything else is ridiculous. Do you hear me, Charlie?—ridiculous! You -don’t want to be laughed at, and you don’t want me to be laughed at, I -suppose?” She took his hands with which he had covered his face and held -them in hers. “Now, no nonsense, Charlie. Be a man! Will you have me for -your friend, always ready to do anything for you, or will you have -nothing to do with me? Come! I might be your mother, I have always told -you so. And look here,” she said, with a tone of genuine passion in her -voice and a half turn of her flexible figure towards the two girls, “I’m -worth having for a mother; whatever you may think in your cruel youth, I -am, I am!” Surely this was to them and not to him. The movement, the -accent, was momentary. Her voice changed again into the softness of a -caress. “Charlie, my dear boy, don’t make me ridiculous, don’t make -people laugh at me. They call me an old witch, trying to entrap a young -man. Will you let people—nay, will you <i>make</i> people call me so?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> make anyone call you—anything but what you are!” he cried. -“Nobody would dare,” said the unfortunate fellow, “to do anything but -revere you and admire you so long as I was there.”</p> - -<p>“And then break out laughing the moment your back was turned,” she said. -“ ‘What a hold the old hag has got upon him!’ is what they would say. And -it would be quite true. Not that I am an old hag. No, I don’t think I am -that, I am worse. I’m a very well preserved woman of my years. I’ve -taken great care of myself to keep up what are called my personal -advantages. I have never wished—I don’t wish now—to be thought older -than I am, or ugly. I am just old enough—to be your mother, Charlie, if -I had married young, as your mother did——”</p> - -<p>He drew his hands out of her cool and firm grasp, and once more covered -his face with them. “Don’t torture me,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear boy, I don’t want to torture you, but you must not make me, -nor yourself—whom I am proud of—ridiculous. I am going probably—for -nothing is certain till it happens,” she said, with a mournful tone in -her voice, slightly shaking her head, “and you may perhaps help to balk -me—I am probably going to make a match with a reasonable person suited -to my age.”</p> - -<p>Poor Charlie started up, his hands fell from his face, his large -miserable eyes were fixed upon hers. “And you come—you come—to tell me -this!” he cried.</p> - -<p>“It will be partly for you—to show how impossible your folly is—but -most for myself, to secure my own happiness.” She said these words very -slowly, one by one—“To secure my own happiness. Have I not the right to -do that, because a young man, who should have been my son, has taken it -into his foolish head to form other ideas of me? You would rather make -me ridiculous and wretched than consider my dignity, my welfare, my -happiness—and this is what you call love!” she said.</p> - -<p>The girls listened to this conversation with feelings impossible to put -into words, not knowing what to think. One of them loved the woman and -the other hated her; they were equally overwhelmed in their young and -simple ideas. She seemed to be speaking a language new to them, and to -have risen into a region which they had never known.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L" id="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">She</span> left Charlie’s room, having soothed him and reduced him to quiet in -this inconceivable way, with a smile on her face and the look of one who -was perfectly mistress of the situation. But when she had gone down -half-a-dozen steps and reached the landing, she stood still and leaned -against the wall, clasping her hands tight as if there was something in -them to hold by. She had carried through this part of her ordeal with a -high hand. She had made it look the kindest yet the most decisive -interview in the world, crushing the foolish young heart, without -remorse, yet tenderly, kindly, with such a force of sense and reason as -could not be resisted—and all so naturally, with so much apparent ease, -as if it cost her nothing. But she was after all, merely a woman, and -she knew that only half, nay, not half, not the worst half of her trial -was over. She lay back against the wall, having nothing else to rest -upon, and closed her eyes for a moment. The two girls had followed her -instinctively out of Charlie’s room, and stood on the stairs one above -the other, gazing at her. The long lines of her figure seemed to relax, -as if she might have fallen, and in their wonder and ignorance they -might still have stood by and looked on letting her fall, without -knowing what to do. But she did not do so. The corner of the walls -supported her as if they had made a couch for her, and presently she -opened her eyes with a vague smile at Betty, who was foremost. “I was -tired,” she said, and then, “it isn’t easy”—drawing a long breath.</p> - -<p>At this moment the trim figure of Mrs. Leigh’s maid appeared on the -stairs below, so commonplace, so trim, so neat, the little apparition of -ordinary life which glides through every tragedy, lifting its everyday -voice in announcements of dinner, in inquiries about tea, in all the -nothings of routine, in the midst of all tumults of misery and passion. -“If you please, madam—my lady would be glad if you would step into the -dining-room,” she said.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance raised herself in a moment from that half-recumbent position -against the wall. She recovered herself, got back her colour and the -brightness of her eyes, and that look of being perfectly natural, at her -ease, unstrained, spontaneous, which she had shown throughout the -interview with Charlie. “Certainly,” she said. There did not seem to be -time for the twinkling of an eyelid between the one mood and the other. -She required no preparation or interval to pull herself together. She -looked at the two sisters as if to call them to follow her, and then -walked quietly downstairs to be tried for her life—like a martyr—oh, -no, for she was not a martyr, but a criminal. She had no confidence of -innocence about her. She knew what indictment was about to be brought -against her, and she knew it was true. This knowledge, however, gives a -certain strength. It gives courage such as the innocent who do not know -what charge may be brought against them or how to meet it, do not -possess. She had rehearsed the scene. She knew what she was going to be -accused of, and had thought over, and set in order, all the pleas. She -knew exactly what she had done and what she had not, which was a tower -of strength to her, and she knew that on her power of fighting it out -depended her life. It is difficult altogether to deny our sympathy to a -brave creature fighting for bare life. However guilty he may be, human -nature takes sides with him, hopes in the face of all justice that there -may be a loophole of escape. Even Bee, coming slowly downstairs after -her, already thrown into a curious tumult of feeling by that scene in -Charlie’s room, began to feel her breath quicken with excitement even in -the hostility of her heart.</p> - -<p>There was one thing that Miss Lance had not foreseen, and that burst -upon her at once when the maid opened the door—Colonel Kingsward, -standing with his arm upon the mantel-piece and his countenance as if -turned to stone. The shock which this sight gave her was very difficult -to overcome or conceal, it struck her with a sudden dart as of despair; -her impulse was to fling down her arms, to acknowledge herself -vanquished, and to retreat, a defeated and ruined adventuress, but she -was too brave and unalterably by nature too sanguine to do this. She -gave him a nod and a smile, to which he scarcely responded, as she went -towards Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>“How strange,” she said, “when I come to see a new friend to find so old -a friend! I wondered if it could be Mr. Leigh’s house, but I was not -sure—of the number.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I cannot say I am glad to see you, Laura,” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>“No? Perhaps it would have been too much to expect. We were, so to -speak, on different sides. Poor Amy, I know, was never satisfactory to -you, and I don’t wonder. Of course you only thought of me as her -friend.”</p> - -<p>“If that were all!” Mrs. Leigh said.</p> - -<p>“Was there more than that? May I sit down? I have had a long walk, and -rather an exhaustive interview—and I did not expect to be put on my -trial. But it is always best to know what one is accused of. I think it -quite natural—quite natural that you should not like me, Mrs. Leigh. I -was Amy’s friend and she was trying to you. She put me in a very false -position which I ought never to have accepted. But yet—I understand -your attitude, and I submit to it with respect—but, pardon -me—sincerely, I don’t know what there was more.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance had taken a chair, a perfectly upright one, on which few -people could have sat gracefully. She made it evident that it was mere -fatigue which made her subside upon it momentarily, and lifted her fine -head and limpid eyes with so candid and respectful an air towards Mrs. -Leigh’s comfortable, unheroic face, that no contrast of the oppressed -and oppressor could have been more marked. If anyone had suffered in the -matter between these two ladies, it certainly was not the one with the -rosy countenance and round, well-filled-out figure; or so, at least, any -impartial observer certainly would have felt.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, for her part, was almost speechless with excitement and -anger. She had intended to keep perfectly calm, but the look, the tone, -the appearance of this personage altogether, brought before her -overpoweringly many past scenes—scenes in which, to tell the truth, -Miss Lance had not been always in the wrong, in which the other figure, -now altogether disappeared, of Aubrey’s wife was the foremost, an -immovable gentle-mannered fool, with whom all reason and argument were -unavailing, whom everybody had believed to be inspired by the companion -to whom she clung. All Amy’s faults had been bound upon Laura’s -shoulders, but this was not altogether deserved, and Miss Lance did not -shrink from anything that could be said on that subject. It required -more courage to say, “Was there anything more?”</p> - -<p>“More!” cried Mrs. Leigh, choking with the remembrance. “More! My boy’s -house was made unsafe for him, it was made miserable to him, he was -involved in every kind of danger and scandal, and she asks me if there -was more?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Amy,” said Miss Lance, with a little pause on the name, shaking -her head gently in compassion and regret. “Poor Amy put me in a very -false position. I have already said so, I ought not to have accepted it, -I ought not to have promised; but it was so difficult to refuse a -promise to the dying. Let Colonel Kingsward judge. She was very unwise, -but she had been my friend from infancy and clung to me more, much more -than I wished. She exacted a promise from me on her death-bed that I -would never leave her child—which was folly, and, perhaps more than -folly, so far, at least, as I was concerned. You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward,” she added, steadfastly regarding him. He had kept his head -turned away, not looking at her, but this gaze compelled him against his -will to shift his position, to turn towards the appellant who made him -the judge. He still kept his eyes away, but his head turned by an -attraction which he could not withstand. “You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward—that I was the person who suffered most,” Miss Lance said -after that pause, “compelled to stay in a house where I had never been -welcome, except to poor Amy, who was dead; a sort of guardian, a sort of -nurse, and yet with none of their rights, held fast by a promise which -I had given against my will, and which I never ceased to regret. You are -a man, Colonel Kingsward, but you have more understanding of a woman’s -feelings than any I know. My position was a false one, it was cruel—but -I was bound by my word.”</p> - -<p>“No one ought to have given such a promise,” he said, coldly, with -averted eyes.</p> - -<p>“You are always right, I ought not to have done so; but she was dying, -and I was fond of her, poor girl, though she was foolish—it is not -always the wisest people one loves most—fond of her, very fond of her, -and of her poor little child.”</p> - -<p>The tears came to Miss Lance’s eyes. She shook her head a little as if -to shake them from her eyelashes. “Why should I cry? They have been so -long happy, happier far than we——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, the prosecutor, the accuser, gave a gulp, a sob; the child -was her grandchild, her only one—and besides anger in a woman is as -prone to tears as sorrow. She gave a stifled cry, “I don’t deny you -were good to the child; oh, Laura, I could have forgiven you -everything! But not—not——”</p> - -<p>“What?” Miss Lance said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh seized upon Bee by the arm and drew her forward—Aubrey’s -mother wanted words, she wanted eloquence, her arguments had to be -pointed by fact. She took Bee, who had been standing in proud yet -excited spectatorship, and held her by her own side. “Aubrey,” she said, -almost inarticulately, and stopped to recover her breath—“Aubrey—whom -you had driven from his home—found at last this dear girl, this nice, -good girl, who would have made him a new life. But you interfered, you -wrote to her father, you went—I don’t know what you did—and said you -had a claim, a prior claim. If you appeal to Colonel Kingsward, he is -the best judge. You went to him——”</p> - -<p>“Not to me, I was not aware, I never even saw Miss Lance till long -after; forgive me for interrupting you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance turned towards him again with that full look of faith and -confidence. “Always just!” she said. And this time for a tremulous -moment their eyes met. He turned his away again hastily, but he had -received that touch; an indefinable wavering came over his aspect of -iron.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I do not deny it—it is quite true. Shall I now -explain before every one who is here? I think,” she added, after a -moment, “that my little Betty, who has nothing particular to do with it, -may run away.”</p> - -<p>“I!” said Betty, clinging to the back of a chair.</p> - -<p>“Go,” said her father, impatiently, “go!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, run away. Charlie must want some one. He will have got -over me a little, and he will want some one. Dear little Betty, run -away!”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance rose from her seat—probably that too was a relief to -her—and, with a smile and a kiss, turned Betty out of the room. She -came back then and sat down again. It gained a little time, and she was -at a crisis harder than she had ever faced before. She had gained a -moment to think, but even now she was not sure what way there was out of -this strait, the most momentous in which she had ever been. She looked -round her at one after another with a look that seemed as secure and -confident, as easy and natural, as before; but her brain was working at -the most tremendous rate, looking for some clue, some indication. She -looked round as with a pause of conscious power, and then her gaze fixed -itself on Bee. Bee stood near Mrs. Leigh’s chair. She was standing firm -but tremulous, a deeply concerned spectator, but there was on her face -nothing of the eager attention with which a girl would listen to an -explanation about her lover. She was not more interested than she had -been before, not so much so as when Charlie was in question. When Mrs. -Leigh, in her indictment, said, “You interfered,” Bee had made a faint, -almost imperceptible movement of her head. The mind works very quickly -when its fate hangs on the balance of a minute, and now, suddenly, the -culprit arraigned before these terrible judges saw her way.</p> - -<p>“I interfered,” Miss Lance said, slowly, “but not because of any prior -claim;”—she paused again for a moment—“that would have been as absurd -as in the case Colonel Kingsward knows of. I interfered—because I had -other reasons for believing that Aubrey Leigh was not the man to marry a -dear, good, nice girl.”</p> - -<p>“You had—other reasons, Laura! Mind what you are saying—you will have -to prove your words,” cried Mrs. Leigh, rising in her wrath, with an -astonished and threatening face.</p> - -<p>“I do not ask his mother to believe me. It is before Colonel Kingsward,” -said Miss Lance, “that I stand or fall.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out! You know it was because she -claimed my son—she, a woman twice his age; and now she pretends—— -Make her speak out! How dare you? You said he had promised to marry -you—that he was bound to you. Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out!”</p> - -<p>“That was what I understood,” he said, looking out of the window, his -head turned half towards the other speakers, but not venturing to look -at them. “I did not see Miss Lance, but that was what I understood.”</p> - -<p>Laura sat firm, as if she were made of marble, but almost as pale. Her -nerves were so highly strung that if she had for a moment relaxed their -tension, she would have fallen to the ground. She sat like a rock, -holding herself together with the strong grasp of her clasped hands.</p> - -<p>“You hear, you hear! You are convicted out of your own mouth. Oh, you -are cruel, you are wicked, Laura Lance! If you have anything to say -speak out, speak out!”</p> - -<p>“I will say nothing,” said Miss Lance. “I will leave another, a better -witness, to say it for me. Colonel Kingsward, ask your daughter if it -was because of my prior claim, as his mother calls it, that she broke -off her engagement with Aubrey Leigh.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward turned, surprised, to his daughter, who, roused by the -sound of her own name, looked up quickly—first at the seemingly -composed and serious woman opposite to her, then at her father. He spoke -to her angrily, abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Do you hear? Answer the question that is put to you. Was it because of -this lady, or any claim of hers, that you—how shall I say it?—a girl -like you had no right to decide one way or the other—that you broke -off—that your mind was changed towards Mr. Aubrey Leigh?”</p> - -<p>It appeared to Bee suddenly as if she had become the culprit, and all -eyes were fixed on her. She trembled, looking at them all. What had she -done? She was surely unhappy enough, wretched enough, a clandestine -visitor, keeping Aubrey out of his own house, and what had she to do -with Aubrey? Nothing, nothing! Nor he with her—that her heart should -now be snatched out of her bosom publicly in respect to him.</p> - -<p>“That is long past,” she said, faltering, “it is an old story. Mr. -Aubrey Leigh is—a stranger to me; it is of no consequence—now!”</p> - -<p>“Bee,” her father thundered at her, “answer the question! Was it because -of—this lady that you changed your mind?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had always the art, somehow, of kindling the blaze of -opposition in the blue eyes which were so like his own. She looked at -him almost fiercely in reply, fully roused.</p> - -<p>“No!” she said, “no! It was not because of—that lady. It was -another—reason of my own.”</p> - -<p>“What was your reason?” cried Mrs. Leigh. “Oh, Bee, speak! What was it, -what was it? Tell me, tell me, my dear, what was your reason? that I may -prove to you it was not true.”</p> - -<p>“Had it anything to do with—this lady?” asked Colonel Kingsward once -more.</p> - -<p>“I never spoke to that lady but once,” cried Bee, almost violently. “I -don’t know her; I don’t want to know her. She has nothing to do with it. -It was because of something quite different, something that we -heard—I—and mamma.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance looked at him with a smile on her face, loosing the grip of -her hands, spreading them out in demonstration of her acquittal. She -rose up slowly, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. She allowed it to -be seen for the first time how she was shaken with emotion.</p> - -<p>“You have heard,” she said, “a witness you trust more than me—if I put -myself into the breach to secure a pause, it was only such a piece of -folly as I have done before. I hope now that you will let me withdraw. -I am dreadfully tired, I am not fit for any more.”</p> - -<p>She looked with that appeal upon her face, first at one of her judges, -then at the other. “If you are satisfied, let me go.” It seemed as if -she could not say a word more. They made no response, but she did not -wait for that. “I take it for granted,” she added, “that by that child’s -mouth I am cleared,” and then she turned towards the door.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward, with a little start, came from his place by the -mantel-piece and opened it for her, as he would have done for any woman. -She let it appear that this movement was unexpected, and went to her -heart; she paused a moment looking up at him—her eyes swimming in -tears, her mouth quivering.</p> - -<p>“How kind you are!” she said, “even though you don’t believe in me any -more! but I have done all I can. I am very tired, scarcely able to -walk.” He stood rigid, and made no sign, and she, looking at him, softly -shook her head—“Let me see you at least once,” she said, very low, in a -pleading tone, “this evening, some time?”</p> - -<p>Still he gave no answer, standing like a man of iron, holding the door -open. She gave him another look, and then walked quietly, but with a -slight quiver and half stumble, away. They all stood watching until her -tall figure was seen to pass the window, disappearing in the street, -which is the outer world.</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward—” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>He started at the sound of his name, as if he had but just awakened out -of a dream, and began to smooth his hat, which all this time he had held -in his hands.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me, another time. I have some pressing -business to see to now.”</p> - -<p>And he, too, disappeared into that street which led both ways, into the -monotony of London, which is the world.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI" id="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Those</span> who were left behind were not very careful of what Colonel -Kingsward did. They were not thinking of his concerns; in the strain of -personal feeling the most generous of human creatures is forced to think -first of their own. Neither of the women who were left in the room had -any time to consider the matter, but if they had they would have made -sure without hesitation that nothing which could happen to Colonel -Kingsward could be half so important as that crisis in which his -daughter was involved.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh turned round upon the girl by her side and seized her hands. -“Bee,” she cried, “now we are alone and we can speak freely. Tell me -what it was, there is nobody here to frighten you, to take the words -from your mouth. What was it, what was it that made you turn from -Aubrey? At last, at last, it can be cleared up whatever it was.”</p> - -<p>Bee turned away, trying to disengage her hands. “It is of no -consequence,” she said, “Oh, don’t make me go back to those old, old -things. What does it matter to Mr. Leigh? And as for me——”</p> - -<p>“It matters everything to Aubrey. He will be able to clear himself if -you will give him the chance. How could he clear himself when he was -never allowed to speak, when he did not know? Bee, in justice, in mere -justice! What was it? You said your mother——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I had her then. We heard it together, and she felt it like me. But -we had no time to talk of it after, for she was ill. If you would please -not ask me, Mrs. Leigh! I was very miserable—mother dying, and nowhere, -nowhere in all the world anything to trust to. Don’t, oh! don’t make me -go back upon it! I am not—so very—happy, even now!”</p> - -<p>The girl would not let herself be drawn into Mrs. Leigh’s arms. She -refused to rest her head upon the warm and ample bosom which was offered -to her. She drew away her hands. It was difficult, very difficult, to -keep from crying. It is always hard for a girl to keep from crying when -her being is so moved. The only chance for her was to keep apart from -all contact, to stand by herself and persuade herself that nobody cared -and that she was alone in the world.</p> - -<p>“Bee, I believe,” said Mrs. Leigh, solemnly, “that you have but to speak -a word and you will be happy. You have not your mother now. You can’t -turn to her and ask her what you should do. But I am sure that she would -say, ‘speak!’ If she were here she would not let you break a man’s heart -and spoil his life for a punctilio. I have always heard she was a good -woman and kind—kind. Bee,” the elder lady laid her hand suddenly on the -girl’s shoulder, making her start, “she would say ‘speak’ if she were -here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, if you were here!” said Bee, through her tears.</p> - -<p>She broke down altogether and became inarticulate, sobbing with her face -buried in her hands. The ordeal of the last two days had been severe. -Charlie and his concerns and the appearance of Miss Lance, and the -conflict only half understood which had been going on round her, had -excited and disturbed her beyond expression, as everybody could see and -understand. But, indeed, these were but secondary elements in the storm -which had overwhelmed Bee, which was chiefly brought back by that sudden -plunge into the atmosphere of Aubrey. The sensation of being in his -house, which she might in other circumstances have shared with him, of -sitting at his table, in his seat, under the roof that habitually -sheltered him—here, where her own life ought to have been passed, but -where the first condition now was that there should be nothing of him -visible. In Aubrey’s house, but not for Aubrey! Aubrey banished, lest -perhaps her eyes might fall upon him by chance, or her ears be offended -by the sound of his voice! Even his mother did not understand how much -this had to do with the passion and trouble of the girl, from whose -eyes the innocent name of her mother, sweetest though saddest of -memories, had let forth the salt and boiling tears. If Mrs. Leigh had -been anybody in the world save Aubrey’s mother, Bee would have clung to -her, accepting the tender support and consolation of the elder women’s -arms and her sympathy, but from Aubrey’s mother she felt herself -compelled to keep apart.</p> - -<p>It was not until her almost convulsive sobbing was over that this -question could be re-opened, and in the meantime Betty having heard the -sound of the closing door came rushing downstairs and burst into the -room: perhaps she was not so much disturbed or excited as Mrs. Leigh was -by Bee’s condition. She gave her sister a kiss as she lay on the sofa -where Mrs. Leigh had placed her, and patted her on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“She will be better when she has had it out,” said Betty. “She has -worked herself up into such a state about Miss Lance. And oh, please -tell me what has happened. You are her enemy, too, Mrs. Leigh—oh, how -can you misjudge her so! As if she had been the cause of any harm! I was -sent away,” said Betty, “and, of course, Bee could not speak—but I -could have told you. Yes, of course, I knew! How could I help knowing, -being her sister? I can’t tell whether she told me, I knew without -telling; and, of course, she must have told me. This is how it was——”</p> - -<p>Bee put forth her hand and caught her sister by the dress, but Betty was -not so easily stopped. She turned round quickly, and took the detaining -hand into her own and patted and caressed it.</p> - -<p>“It is far better to speak out,” she said, “it must be told now, and -though I am young and you call me little Betty, I cannot help hearing, -can I, what people say? Mrs. Leigh, this was how it was. Whatever -happened about dear Miss Lance—whom I shall stick to and believe in -whatever you say,” cried Betty, by way of an interlude, with flashing -eyes, “that had nothing, nothing to do with it. That was a story—like -Charlie’s, I suppose, and Bee no more made a fuss about it than I should -do. It was after, when Bee was standing by Aubrey, like—like Joan of -Arc; yes, of course I shall call him Aubrey—I should like to have him -for a brother, but that has got nothing to do with it. A lady came to -call upon mamma, and she told a story about someone on the railway who -had met Aubrey on the way home after that scene at Cologne, after he was -engaged to Bee, and was miserable because of papa’s opposition.” Betty -spoke so fast that her words tumbled over each other, so to speak, in -the rush for utterance. “Well, he was seen,” she resumed, pausing for -breath, “putting a young woman with children into one of the sleeping -carriages—a poor young woman that had no money or right to be there. He -put her in, and when they got to London he was seen talking to her, and -giving her money, as if she belonged to him. I don’t see any harm in -that, for he was always kind to poor people. But these ladies did, and I -suppose so did mamma, and Bee blazed up. That is just like her. She -takes fire, she never waits to ask questions, she stops her ears. She -thought it was something dreadful, showing that he had never cared for -her, that he had cared for other people even when he was pretending, I -should have done quite different. I should have said, ‘Now, look here, -Aubrey, what does it mean?’—or, rather, I should never have thought -anything but that he was kind. He was always kind—silly, indeed, about -poor people, as so many are.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh had followed Betty’s rapid narrative with as much attention -as she could concentrate upon it, but the speed with which the words -flew forth, the little interruptions, the expressions of Betty’s matured -and wise opinions, bewildered her beyond measure.</p> - -<p>“What does it all mean?” she asked, looking from one to another when the -story was done. “A sleeping carriage on the railway—a woman with -children—as if she belonged to him? How could a woman with children -belong to him?” Then she paused and grew crimson with an old woman’s -painful blush. “Is it vice, horrible vulgar vice, this child is -attributing to my boy?”</p> - -<p>The two girls stared, confused and troubled. Bee got up from the sofa -and put her hands to her head, her eyes fixed upon Mrs. Leigh with an -appalled and horrified look. She had not asked herself of what Aubrey -had been accused. She had fled from him before the dreadful thought of -relationships she did not understand, of something which was the last -insult to her, whatever it might be in itself. “Vulgar vice!” The girls -were cowed as if some guilt had been imputed to themselves.</p> - -<p>“You are not like anything I have known, you girls of the period,” cried -the angry mother. “You are acquainted with such things as I at my age -had never heard of. You make accusations! But now—he shall answer for -himself,” she said, flaming with righteous wrath. Mrs. Leigh went to the -bell and rang it so violently that the sound echoed all over the house.</p> - -<p>“Go and ask your master to come here at once, directly; I want him this -moment,” she said, stamping her foot in her impatience. And then there -was a pause. The man went off and was seen from the window to cross the -street on his errand. Then Bee rose, her tears hastily dried up, pushing -back from her forehead her disordered hair.</p> - -<p>“I had better go. If you have sent for Mr. Leigh it will be better that -I should go.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh was almost incapable of speech. She took Bee by the shoulders -and put her back almost violently on the sofa. “You shall stay there,” -she said, in a choked and angry voice.</p> - -<p>What a horrible pause it was! The girls were silent, looking at each -other with wild alarm. Betty, who had blurted out the story, but to whom -the idea of repeating it before Aubrey—before a man—was unspeakable -horror, made a step towards the door. Then she said, “No, I will not run -away,” with tremendous courage. “It is not our fault,” she added, after -a pause. “Bee, if I have got to say it again, give me your hand.”</p> - -<p>“It is I who ought to say it,” said Bee, pale with the horror of what -was to come. “Vulgar vice!” And she to accuse him, and to stand up -before the world and say that was why!</p> - -<p>It seemed a long time, but it was really only a few minutes, before -Aubrey appeared. He came in quickly, breathless with haste and suspense. -He expected, from what his mother had told him, to find Miss Lance and -Colonel Kingsward there. He came into the agitated room and found, of -all people in the world, Bee and Betty, terrified, and his mother, -walking about the room sounding, as it were, a metaphorical lash about -their ears, in the frank passion of an elder woman who has the most just -cause of offence and no reason to bate her breath. There was something -humorous in the tragic situation, but to them it was wholly tragic, and -Aubrey, seeing for the first time after so long an interval the girl he -loved, and seeing her in such strange circumstances, was by no means -disposed to see any humorous side.</p> - -<p>“Here, Aubrey!” said his mother, “I have called upon you to hear what -you are accused of. You thought it was Laura Lance, but she has nothing -to do with it. You are accused of travelling from Germany, that time -when you were sent off from Cologne—the time those Kingswards turned -upon you”—(the girls both started, and recovered themselves a little at -the shock of this contemptuous description),—“travelling in sleeping -carriages and I know not what with a woman and children, who were -believed to belong to you! What have you to say?”</p> - -<p>“That was not what I said, Mrs. Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“What have you to say?” cried Mrs. Leigh, waving her hand to silence -Betty; “the accused has surely the right to speak first.”</p> - -<p>“What have I to say? But to what, mother? What is it? Was I travelling -with a woman and children? I suppose I was travelling—with all the -women and children that were in the same train. But otherwise, of course -you know I was with nobody. What does it mean?”</p> - -<p>Bee got up from the sofa like a ghost, her blue eyes wild, her face -pale. “Oh, let us go, let us go! Do not torment us,” she said. “I will -acknowledge that it was not true. Now that I see him I am sure that it -was not true. I was mad. I was so stung to think—— Mrs. Leigh, do not -kill me! I did him no harm; do not, do not go over it any more!”</p> - -<p>“Go over what?” cried Aubrey. “Bee! She can’t stand, she doesn’t see -where she is going. Mother, what on earth does it matter what was -against me if it is all over? Mother! How dare you torture my poor -girl—?”</p> - -<p>This was naturally all the thanks Mrs. Leigh got for her efforts to -unravel the mystery, which the reader knows was the most innocent -mystery, and which had never been cleared up or thought of since that -day. It came clear of itself the moment that Aubrey, only to support -her, took Bee into his arms.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII" id="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Sorceress</span> walked away very slowly down the street.</p> - -<p>She had the sensation of having fallen from a great height, after the -excitement of having fought bravely to keep her place there, and of -having anticipated every step of a combat still more severe which yet -had not come to pass after her previsions. It had been a fight lasting -for hours, from the moment Betty, all unconscious, had told her of the -house in which Charlie was. That was in the morning, and now it was late -afternoon, and the work of the day, the common work of the day in which -all the innocent common people about had been employed, was rounding -towards its end. It seemed to her a long, long time that she had been -involved, first in imagination, in severe thought, and then in actual -conflict—in this struggle, fighting for her life. From the beginning -she had made up her mind that she should fail. It was a consciously -losing game that she had fought so gallantly, never giving in; and -indeed she was not unaware, nor was she without a languid satisfaction -in the fact that she had indeed carried off the honours of the field, -that it would not be said that she had been beaten. But what did that -matter? Argument she knew and felt had nothing to do with such affairs. -She had known herself to have lost from the moment she saw Colonel -Kingsward standing there against the mantelpiece in the dining-room. It -had not been possible for her then to give in, to turn and go forth into -the street flinging down her arms. On the contrary, it was her nature to -fight to the last; and she had carried off an apparent victory. She had -marched off with colours flying from the field of battle, leaving every -enemy confounded. But she herself entertained no illusion in the matter. -It was possible no doubt that her spell might yet be strong enough upon -her middle-aged captive to make him ignore and pass over everything that -told against her—but, after considering the situation with a keen and -close survey of every likelihood, she dismissed that hope. No, her -chance was lost—again; the battle was over—again. It had been so near -being successful that the shock was greater perhaps than usual; but she -had now been feeling the shock for hours; so that her actual fall was as -much a relief as a pang, and her mind, full of resource, obstinately -sanguine, was becoming ready to pass on to the next chance, and had -already sprung up to think—What now?</p> - -<p>I am sorry that in this story I have always been placed in natural -opposition to this woman, who was certainly a creature full of interest, -full of resource, and indomitable in her way. And she had a theory of -existence, as, it is my opinion, we all must have, making out to -ourselves the most plausible reasons and excuses for all we do. Her -struggle—in which she would not have denied that she had sometimes been -unscrupulous—had always been for a standing-ground on which, if once -attained, she could have been good. She had always promised herself that -she would be good when once she had attained—oh, excellent! kind, just, -true!—a model woman. And what, after all, had been her methods? There -had been little harm in them. Here and there somebody had been injured, -as in the case of Aubrey Leigh, of Charlie Kingsward. To the first she -had indeed done considerable harm, but then she had soothed the life of -Amy, his little foolish wife, to whom she had been more kind than she -had been unkind to him. She had not wanted to be the third person -between that tiresome couple. She had stayed in his house from a kind of -sense of duty, and had Aubrey Leigh indeed asked her to become his -second wife she would, of course, have accepted him for the sake of the -position, but with a grimace. She was not particularly sorry for having -harmed him. It served him right for—well, for being Aubrey Leigh. And -as for Bee Kingsward, she had triumphantly proved, much to her own -surprise it must be said, that it was not she who had done Bee any -harm. Then Charlie—poor Charlie, poor boy! He thought, of course, that -he was very miserable and badly used. Great heavens! that a boy should -have the folly to imagine that anything could make him miserable, at -twenty-two—a man, and with all the world before him. Miss Lance at this -moment was not in the least sorry for Charlie. It would do him good. A -young fellow who had nothing in the world to complain of, who had -everything in his favour—it was good for him to be unhappy a little, to -be made to remember that he was only flesh and blood after all.</p> - -<p>Thus she came to the conclusion, as she walked along, that really she -had done no harm to other people. To herself, alas! she was always doing -harm, and every failure made it more and more unlikely that she would -ever succeed. She did not brood over her losses when she was thus -defeated. She turned to the next thing that offered with what would have -been in a better cause a splendid philosophy, but yet in moments like -this she felt that it became every day more improbable that she would -ever succeed.</p> - -<p>Instead of the large and liberal sphere in which she always hoped to be -able to fulfil all the duties of life in an imposing and remarkable way, -she would have probably to drop into—what? A governess’s place, for -which she would already be thought too old, some dreadful position about -a school, some miserable place as housekeeper—she with all her schemes, -her hopes of better things, her power over others. This prospect was -always before her, and came back to her mind at moments when she was at -the lowest ebb, for she had no money at all. She had always been -dependent upon somebody. Even now her little campaign in George Street, -Hanover Square, was at the expense of the friend with whom she had lived -in Oxford, and who believed Laura was concerting measures to establish -herself permanently in some remunerative occupation. These accounts -would have to be settled somehow, and some other expedient be found by -which to try again. Well, one thing done with, another to come on—was -not that the course of life? And there was a certain relief in the -thought that it was done with.</p> - -<p>The suspense was over; there was no longer the conflict between hope and -fear, which wears out the nerves and clouds the clearness of one’s -mental vision. One down, another come on! She said this to herself with -a forlorn laugh in the depths of her being, yet not so very forlorn. -This woman had a kind of pleasure in the new start, even when she did -not know what it was to be. There are a great many things in which I -avow I have the greatest sympathy with her, and find her more -interesting than a great many blameless people. Poetic justice is -generally in books awarded to such persons. But that is, one is aware, -not always the case in life.</p> - -<p>While Miss Lance went on quietly along the long unlovely street, with -those thoughts in her mind, walking more slowly than usual, a little -languid and exhausted after her struggle, but as has been said frankly -and without <i>arrière pensée</i> giving up the battle as lost, and accepting -her defeat—she became suddenly aware of a quick firm footstep behind, -sounding fast and continuous upon the pavement. A woman like this has -all her wits very sharply about her, the ears and the sight of a -savage, and an unslumbering habit of observation, or she could never -carry on her career. She heard the step and instinctively noted it -before her mind awoke to any sense of meaning and importance in it. -Then, all at once, as it came just to that distance behind which made it -apparent that this footstep was following someone who went before, it -suddenly slackened without stopping, became slow when it had been fast. -At this, her thoughts flew away like a mist and she became all ears, but -she was too wise to turn round, to display any interest. Perhaps it -might be that he was only going his own way, not intending to follow, -and that he had slackened his pace unconsciously without ulterior -motives when he saw her in front of him—though this Miss Lance scarcely -believed.</p> - -<p>Perhaps—I will not affirm it—she threw a little more of her real -languor and weariness into her attitude and movements when she made this -exciting discovery. She was, in reality, very tired. She had looked so -when she left the house; perhaps she had forgotten her great fatigue a -little in the course of her walk, but it now came back again with -double force, which is not unusual in the most matter of fact -circumstances. As her pace grew slower, the footstep behind became -slower also, but always followed on. Miss Lance proceeded steadily, -choosing the quietest streets, pausing now and then at a shop window to -rest. The climax came when she reached a window which had a rail round -it, upon which she leaned heavily, every line of her dress expressing, -with a faculty which her garments specially possessed, an exhaustion -which could scarcely go further. Then she raised her head to look what -the place was. It was full of embroideries and needlework, a woman’s -shop, where she was sure of sympathy. She went in blindly, as if her -very sight were clouded with her fatigue.</p> - -<p>“I am very tired,” she said; “I want some silk for embroidery; but that -is not my chief object. May I sit down a little? I am so very tired.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” cried the mistress of the shop, rushing -round from behind the counter to place a chair for her and offer a -glass of water. She sat down so as to be visible from the door, but -still with her back to it. The step had stopped, and there was a shadow -across the window—the tall shadow of a man looking in. A smile came -upon Miss Lance’s face—of gratitude and thanks to the kind people—also -perhaps of some internal satisfaction. But she did not act as if she -were conscious of anyone waiting for her. She took the glass of water -with many acknowledgments; she leant back on the chair murmuring, -“Thanks, thanks,” to the exhortations of the shop-woman not to hurry, to -take a good rest. She did not hurry at all. Finally, she was so much -better as to be able to buy her silks, and, declaring herself quite -restored, to go out again into the open air.</p> - -<p>She was met by the shadow that had been visible through the window, and -which, as she knew very well, was Colonel Kingsward, stiff and -embarrassed, yet with great anxiety in his face. “I feared you were -ill,” he said, with a little jerk, the words coming in spite of him. “I -feared you were fainting.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Colonel Kingsward, you!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I feared you were fainting. It is—nothing, I hope?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but exhaustion,” she said, with a faint smile. “I was very -tired, but I have rested and I am a little better now.”</p> - -<p>“Will you let me call a cab for you? You don’t seem fit to walk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no cab, thanks! I would much rather walk—the air and the slow -movement does one a little good.”</p> - -<p>She was pale, and her voice was rather faint, and every line of her -dress, as I have said, was tired—tired to death—and yet not -ungracefully tired.</p> - -<p>“I cannot let you go like this alone.” His voice softened every moment; -they went on for a step or two together. “You had better—take my arm, -at least,” he said.</p> - -<p>She took it with a little cry and a sudden clasp. “I think you are not a -mere man, but an archangel of kindness and goodness,” she said, with a -faint laugh that broke down, and tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>And I think for that moment, in the extraordinary revulsion of feeling, -Miss Lance almost believed what she said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIII" id="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">What</span> more is there to say? It is better, when one is able to deal poetic -justice all round, to reward the good and punish the evil. Who are the -good and who are the evil? We have not to do with murderers, with -breakers of the law, with enemies of God or man. If Aubrey Leigh had not -been exceedingly imprudent, if Bee had not been hot-headed and -passionate, there would never have been that miserable breach between -them. And the Sorceress, who destroyed for a time the peace of the -Kingsward family, really never at any time meant that family any real -harm. She meant them indeed, to her own consciousness, all the good in -the world, and to promote their welfare in every way by making them her -own. And as a matter of fact she did so, devoting herself to their -welfare. She made Colonel Kingsward an excellent wife and adopted his -children into her sedulous and unremitting care with a zeal which a -mother could not have surpassed. Her translation from scheming poverty -to abundance, and that graceful modest wealth which is almost the most -beautiful of the conditions of life, was made in a way which was quite -exquisite as a work of art. Nobody could ever have suspected that she -had been once poor. She had all the habits of the best society. There -was nowhere they could go, even into the most exalted regions, where the -new Mrs. Kingsward was not distinguished. She extended the Colonel’s -connections and interest, and made his house popular and delightful; and -she was perfect for his children. Even the county people and near -neighbours, who were the most critical, acknowledged this. The little -girls soon learned to adore their step-mother; the big boys admired and -stood in awe of her, submitting more or less to her influence, though a -little suspicious and sometimes half hostile. As for baby, who had been -in a fair way of growing up detestable and a little family tyrant, his -father’s new marriage was the saving of him. He scarcely knew as he grew -up that the former Miss Lance was not his mother, and he was said in the -family to be her idol, but a very well disciplined and well behaved -idol, and the one of the boys who was likely to have the finest career.</p> - -<p>Charlie, poor Charlie, was not so fortunate, at least at first. The -appointment which Colonel Kingsward declared he had been looking out for -all along was got as soon as Charlie was able to accept it, and he left -England when he was little more than convalescent. People said it was -strange that a man with considerable influence, and in the very centre -of affairs, should have sent his eldest son away to the ends of the -earth, to a dangerous climate and a difficult post. But it turned out -very well on the whole, for after a few years of languor and disgust -with the world, there suddenly fell in Charlie’s way an opportunity of -showing that there was, after all, a great deal of English pluck and -courage in him. I do not think it came to anything more than that—but -then that, at certain moments, has been the foundation and the saving -of the British Empire in various regions of the world. There was not one -of his relations who celebrated Charlie’s success with so much fervour -as his step-mother, who was never tired of talking of it, nor of -declaring that she had always expected as much, and known what was in -him. Dear Charlie, she said, had fulfilled all her expectations, and -made her more glad and proud than words could say. It was a poor return -for this maternal devotion, yet a melancholy fact, that Charlie turned -away in disgust whenever he heard of her, and could not endure her name.</p> - -<p>Bee, whose little troubles have been so much the subject of this story, -accomplished her fate by becoming Mrs. Aubrey Leigh in the natural -course of events. There was no family quarrel kept up to scandalise and -amuse society, but there never was much intercourse nor any great -cordiality between the houses of Kingswarden and Forestleigh. I think, -however, that it was against her father that Bee’s heart revolted most.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress (complete), by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS (COMPLETE) *** - -***** This file should be named 52060-h.htm or 52060-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/6/52060/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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