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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..b520dc3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52615 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52615) diff --git a/old/52615-0.txt b/old/52615-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0018053..0000000 --- a/old/52615-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8372 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Two Marys, 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 Two Marys - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 23, 2016 [EBook #52615] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO MARYS *** - - - - -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 TWO MARYS - - - - - THE TWO MARYS - - BY - - MRS OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “THE WIZARD’S SON,” - “THE PRODIGALS,” ETC. - - METHUEN & CO. - 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. - LONDON - 1896 - - _Originally published in_ - - “MACMILLAN’S MAGAZINE” AND IN “GOOD WORDS” - - - - -CONTENTS - - -THE TWO MARYS-- - - PAGE - -I. MY OWN STORY 1 - -II. HER STORY 85 - - -GROVE ROAD, HAMPSTEAD 127 - - - - -THE TWO MARYS - - - - -I. MY OWN STORY - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -My name is Mary Peveril. My father was the incumbent of a proprietary -chapel in that populous region which lies between Holborn and the New -Road--a space within which there is a great deal of wealth and comfort, -and a great deal of penury and pain, but neither grandeur nor abject -misery. I like those streets, though I know there is no loveliness in -them. I feel that I can breathe better when I come out into the -largeness and spacious width of the squares, and I take a pleasure which -many people will laugh at in the narrow paved passages--crooked and bent -like so many elbows, with their bookstalls and curious little shops. How -often have I strayed about them with my father, holding on by his -coat-skirts when I was little, by his arm when I grew tall, while he -stood and gazed at the books which he could so seldom afford to buy. -When he found a cheap one that pleased him, how his face brightened up! -While he looked at them I was not often thinking what the thoughts might -be in his mind. What was I thinking of--swinging by the skirts of his -coat, or by his arm when I grew a great girl? How can I tell? Thinking -how bright the twinkling lights were; how funny life was, so full of -people passing whom we never saw again--of paving-stones and -shop-windows; and droll with whispering airs that blew round the -corners, and always seemed to want to tell you something; and again more -lights and more faces and more shop-windows. In winter these passages -always felt warm and comfortable, and I had some theory about them which -I scarcely remember now--something like the theory of the poor man whom -I once heard saying that he went into the streets by night because the -gaslights made them so warm. The desolateness of such a forlorn being, -seeking warmth in the lighted, streets, did not strike me when I heard -that speech; I only felt I understood him, and had frequently been -conscious of the same feeling. But I remember very well how once, when I -was swinging back a little upon papa’s arm, clinging to him, proud of -showing that I belonged to him and was old enough to take his arm, yet -separate from him, as youth so often is, thinking my own thoughts, -living in another world, I all at once caught the illumination on his -face as he fell upon a book he wanted which was cheap enough to be -bought. To think he should really care about such a trifle--he--papa, -the clergyman whom everybody looked up to; that he should look as -pleased about it as Ellen our servant did when she got a new dress! I -was half humiliated, half sympathetic. Poor papa! What a pity he could -not buy a great many books when he cared so much for them! But yet, I -think, there was a little sense of shame on his behalf, and of -humiliation, mingled with that more amiable thought; that he should care -so much about anything, seemed somehow a derogation from his dignity, a -descent on his part into a less lofty place. - -We lived in Southampton Street, in the end where there are no shops. We -had two very white steps before our front-door, which was the brightest -point about us. When anyone asked in that street where the clergyman of -St Mark’s lived, the house was always pointed out by this: “No. 75, the -house with the white steps.” I used to think for years and years that -they were a natural feature, and had nothing to do with any work of man, -or rather, woman. It was a shabby house inside. There were two little -kitchens in the basement, two little parlours on the ground-floor, two -little bedrooms above that, and on the top storey I think there were -three divisions instead of two. One of the little parlours--the back -one, which looked out upon a little square yard about the same size--was -papa’s study. It was not a cheerful room, with that outlook upon four -brick walls, and a little square bit of mouldy black soil in which -flourished some poor tufts of grass, and the big water-butt in the -foreground, where the water was black with soot--when there was any -water at all. The room had a writing-table in it, always covered with -books and papers, and papa’s chair--black haircloth, beginning to wear -white at the edges--between the table and the fire, and two other black -chairs standing against the opposite wall. It was divided by folding -doors from the parlour, in which we lived. This room was furnished with -a haircloth sofa, half-a-dozen chairs, a round table with a -close-fitting oilcloth cover, and, thrust up into a corner, an old -piano, upon which I practised sometimes, and which on other occasions -served as a sideboard. There was a short Venetian blind at the lower -part of the window to keep people from seeing in, and a chair in the -recess, on which I used to sit and darn papa’s stockings and dream. -Sometimes I read, but, generally, dreaming was more fun. I made out such -nice new lives for myself and papa. Sometimes I would dream that we were -quite different people from what we appeared to be--great people, rich -and noble, with all kinds of grandeur belonging to us, though no one -knew; and how it would be found out all of a sudden, to the confusion -of everybody who had ever been uncivil. I used to trace out, as minutely -as if I had seen it, every detail of what we were to do. I was Lady Mary -in these visions; and if anyone had called me so I should have been, I -am sure, more shocked to think that _it_ had been prematurely discovered -than struck by the unreality of the title. It was not unreal to me. -Sometimes it would take other shapes, and my imagination would content -itself with the notion of someone dying and leaving us a fortune, and -how we would wear mourning and do our very best to be sorry; but the -other idea was much the favourite. It was very sweet to me to think -that, for all so humble and so unknown as we were, things would appear -very different _if people but knew_! The old life comes round me as my -thoughts go back to it, the afternoon sounds in the street--vulgar -sounds, but softened by summer air as much as if they had been the -sweetest; the drowsy tinkle of the muffin-man’s bell, the prolonged cry -of “water-cre-e-e-sses!” the sound of children’s voices and dogs -barking, and distant wheels that always ground out an accompaniment; and -myself in the window, poor Mr Peveril the clergyman’s daughter, to my -own knowledge Lady Mary, and a very great, small person. I wonder which -was the real Mary--she or I. - -I have heard that in poor mamma’s time we were so fine as to have a -drawing-room upstairs on the first floor, like Mrs Stephens next door; -but that splendour was long, long over, for mamma died soon after I was -born, and I was left all alone--a small baby, with papa on my hands to -look after. I do not think, however, that I was at any time very sorry -for this. I was sorry for her, who died so young, but not for myself; I -felt instinctively that, had she been there, always poking between papa -and me, I should not have liked it, and that on the whole things were -best as they were. The room which had been the drawing-room was papa’s -bedroom, and I slept in the room behind, over his study. Ellen had the -three little places up above all to herself, though one of them was -called--I don’t know why--the spare room. In this little place we lived, -and never asked ourselves whether it was dingy or not. The walls were -dark, with papers which had not been renewed so long as I could -remember; and the curtains were dark, and always had the look of being -dusty, though, thanks to Ellen, they never were so in reality. We had no -pictures, except two old prints from Raphael’s cartoons. One was the -“Miraculous draught of fishes,” and the other “Peter and John at the -beautiful gate of the Temple.” How I remember those twisted pillars, and -how many dreams have they twisted through! But I never admired them, -though they were part of my life. I should have liked a landscape -better, or some pretty faces like those one sometimes sees in the -shop-windows. When the people who went to St Mark’s talked of having a -lithograph of papa the thought made me wild with excitement; but the -lithograph was never done. - -It must not be supposed, however, that papa and I lived in that state of -ecstatic delight in each other’s society which one hears of often in -books. There were no great demonstrations between us. I led my own life -by the side of his, and he, I suppose, lived his by me, like two -parallel lines which never meet whatever you may please to do. I do not -know that it occurred to me to think articulately that the happiness of -my life depended on him. I did not seek to sit in his study or to be -near him while he worked, as I have heard of girls doing. I was quite -satisfied to be in the parlour while he was busy on the other side of -the closed doors; indeed, until he ceased to be all mine, I accepted -papa as calmly as I did the other accessories of my life. When he went -out to dinner, which was a very rare occurrence, yet happened sometimes, -I would make myself very comfortable with a book over my tea. I was fond -of going out with him; but then, he was the only person who ever took me -out, through amusing places, where there were shop-windows and crowds of -people passing. I had not been brought up to have my walk regularly -every day, like well-educated children. I walked when I could. Sometimes -I had an errand to do--something to buy or order, which I did by myself -in one of the shops of the neighbourhood; but this was an office I -hated, for I was too shy to go into a shop with any pleasure; and -sometimes old Mrs Tufnell would send for me to walk in the square, which -was fine, but not very amusing. I liked the passages about Holborn with -the bookstalls a great deal better. But we did not talk a great deal -even in these walks. Sometimes I would be seized with a fit of inquiry, -and would pester papa with a torrent of questions; but at other times I -fell back into my dreams, and would be making some splendid expedition -as Lady Mary all the time, while I hung, always a little behind him, on -his arm, leaving him as undisturbed as, generally, he left me. I think -of this calm of indifference now, when I look back upon it, with very -odd feelings. Is it that one does not care so long as one has those whom -one loves all to one’s self? It is only, I suppose, when your rights are -interfered with that you grow violent about them. I suppose it was the -fact that we loved each other--I him,--and he me--that made us happy; -but it was so natural to love each other that we thought little about -it, and I am afraid it would have surprised me a little in my secret -heart if any one had told me that my happiness depended upon papa. - -The way in which this tranquil ease of possession was disturbed was a -very gentle and gradual one--at least, so I can see now, though at the -time it appeared to me most abrupt and terrible. My idea of my father -was that he was old, as a child’s ideas generally are; but he was not -old. He was about five-and-forty when I was fifteen. He was not -tall--and he stooped, which made him look still less so. At fifteen I -was as tall as he was. He had a handsome, refined face, with very clear -features, and a sort of ivory complexion. His hair was worn off his -temples, and there were a great many lines in his face--partly with -trouble, partly with work; but his smile was the sweetest smile I ever -saw, and he had a way of captivating everybody. I have heard it said -since that this power of fascination did not last, and that he grew -melancholy and monotonous after the first few times you had seen him; -and though I was very angry when I heard this first, I can with an -effort believe that it might be true. I suppose it was the same faculty -which showed itself at church, where there were always new people -coming, who attended closely for a few weeks and then went away. He was -like a man who gives you everything he has at once, and then has nothing -more for you. At home he was silent, always kind, but never saying much. -I scarcely recollect ever to have been scolded by him. Ellen scolded me, -and so did old Mrs Tufnell, and even Mrs Stephens next door; but papa -only said, “Poor child!” with the air of a compassionate spectator, when -I was complained of to him. Our chief conversation was at meals, when -he would sometimes talk a little, and tell me of things he had seen or -heard; and it was at tea one evening that he first brought forward the -name of the other person who was henceforward to stand between us. No -such thought was in his mind then, I am sure; but he was more -communicative than usual. He told me that he had seen a young lady on -one of his visits, in a very strange place for such a person to be -found--in the back parlour of a small grocer’s shop which I knew quite -well. He told me quite a long story about her--how she was an orphan and -had been left destitute, and had been obliged to go back to her mother’s -family, who had been a governess in her day, and married much above her. -Her father, too, was dead, having been of no use whatever in the world -or to her, and there was no prospect before her but that of going out to -be a governess--a thing which papa seemed to think a great hardship for -her. I had been trained to believe that some such place would have to be -mine as papa got older and I grew a woman; therefore I was not at all -shocked by the suggestion. I said: “Has she heard of any nice situation, -papa?” with the quietest matter-of-fact acceptance of his words. - -“Heard of a situation! You talk very much at your ease, Mary,--but if -you saw this elegant, accomplished, refined girl,” said my father. -“Poor thing, I cannot bear to think that she should be driven to such a -fate.” - -I did not make any answer. I was surprised. It had never occurred to me -that it was “such a fate.” Most girls, it seemed to me, who were not -great ladies were governesses, both in the little real world with which -I was acquainted and in books. - -“Poor thing!” he said again. “Poor thing! how I wish there was any -possible way of saving her. What a thing it is to be poor!” - -“But any situation would be better than staying with the Spicers,” I -said. “Think, papa--the Spicers! I should not mind being a governess--I -suppose I shall be, some day or other--but I should hate living in a -parlour behind a shop.” - -“Well, Mary, I hope you will see her some time, and when you do see her -you must be very kind to her,” said my father with a sigh; and that -night he drew his chair to the fire and tried to talk, which was a thing -that took me very much by surprise. But, unfortunately, I had a new book -which was very interesting, and instead of responding to this unusual -inclination, as I ought to have done, I kept on reading, making pettish -and uncertain replies, until he grew tired of the attempt and gave it -up, and got a book too, as usual. He sighed a little as he did so, with -a sort of disappointed air; and through my reading and my interest in -the story somehow I perceived this, and felt guilty and uncomfortable -all the rest of the evening. When I had finished my volume I was very -conciliatory, and tried all I could to bring him back to the point where -he had given it up, but it was of no use. I have always found it exactly -so in my experience. If you are too stupid, or too much occupied with -yourself, to take just the right moment for explanations, you never can -recover the thread which you have allowed to slip through your fingers. -Even to this day I often wonder what papa would have said to me that -night had I let him speak. I have invented whole conversations, but they -never were much satisfaction to me. To think out what perhaps some one -might have said is very different from hearing them say it. I was not at -all pleased with myself that evening when I went to bed; but perhaps -this was partly because I had finished my novel and it was not -satisfactory, and seemed, now it was over, such a poor sort of thing to -have preferred to a conversation with papa. - -Nothing, however, happened for some time after this to put me on my -guard. I went on in my old careless way. If he was out a little more -than usual, I paid no attention. All that was quite natural. Of course -he had his duties to attend to. He dined at Mrs Tufnell’s once during -this time, and was very particular about his tie, and about having his -coat brushed. “It is quite nice,” I said; “it was well brushed on Monday -morning before it was put away. Why, papa, I thought you did not like a -fuss: how you laughed at me for being so particular about my sash when -we went to the party at Mrs Overend’s. Shouldn’t you like to have a sash -too?” - -He laughed, but he did not look like laughing; and I remember stopping -short in the middle of my tea, and laying down my book to ask myself if -anything could be the matter with him. One or two odd people whom I did -not know had come to see him of late. Was it possible he could be ill? -But no, he ate as usual, and he had looked quite ruddy when he went out. -So I took up my novel again, and helped myself to jam, and thought no -more of it. I believe the whole business was decided, or the next thing -to decided, that night. - -I could if I liked have heard a great deal of what was said in the study -while I sat at work in the parlour, and this was a thing which Mrs -Tufnell and Mrs Stephens had often remarked. They thought it “not quite -nice:” for, to be sure, people might say things to papa as their -clergyman which they did not wish to be overheard. But it could not well -be helped, for there was no other room where I could sit. I have said -too that I could have heard if I liked; but the fact was I did not care, -and I never heard. When you are perfectly indifferent and used to -everything, and know there is no mystery in it, it is astonishing how -little you hear. I had got accustomed to the hum of voices from the -study just as I had to the cries in the streets and the muffin-man’s -bell. Sometimes, I suppose, a word must have caught my ear now and then, -but I paid no attention, and heard as if I heard it not: I was thinking -of such very different things. One day, however, I did catch a few words -which surprised me. It was a summer day. The back-door into the little -yard and all the windows everywhere were open. The noises in the street -came into the house exactly as if we were living out of doors, but so -softened by the warm air and the sunshine that they were pleasant -instead of being disagreeable. The day was not hot, but only -deliciously, genially warm. We had put up white curtains in the parlour, -and the wind blew them softly about, flapping the wooden stretcher in -the blind against the window-frame. I was in a muslin dress myself; and -I was happy without any reason, not in the least knowing why. I came -downstairs singing, as I had a way of doing, and went into the parlour -and sat down in the window. I gave up singing when I sat down, partly -because it might have disturbed papa, and partly because people stopped -to listen as they were passing. I was running up the breadths of my new -frock, a blue print, which was as bright and pretty as the day, and, to -tell the truth, did not care in the least what the voices were saying on -the other side of the folding doors. I had made noise enough to -demonstrate my presence, and, as nothing was ever hid from me, it never -came into my head to listen. It was Spicer the grocer’s voice, I think, -which attracted my ear at last. It was a strange, little, harsh, -snappish voice, so unharmonious that it worried one like a dog barking; -and by degrees, as he talked and talked, some sort of vague association -came into my mind--something which I had half forgotten. What was it I -had heard about the Spicers? I could not recollect all at once. - -“Governessing ain’t paradise,” said Spicer, “but it’s better perhaps -than other things. Marrying a man as is in poor health, and at a -troublesome time o’ life--and nothing to leave to them as comes after -him; that ain’t much, Mr Peveril. A woman’s best married, I allow; but -marriage has consekenses, and when there’s no money----” - -I did not hear what my father said in reply, and indeed I did not care -to hear. I was half annoyed, half amused, by Spicer’s queer little -barking voice. - -“Forty-five, sir? no, it ain’t old--but it ain’t young neither. I’ve -known many a man carried off at forty-five. Them things have all got to -be considered; though for that matter twenty-five would make little -difference. The thing is, here’s a young woman as has a trade she can -make her living by. A man comes in, marries her right off: they have a -child or two in natural course, and then he goes and dies. Nothing more -natural or more common. But then you see, Mr Peveril, sir, here’s the -question: what’s to become of her? And that’s the question I’ve got to -consider. I’ve a family myself, and I can’t put myself in the way of -having to support another man’s family; and a woman can’t go out and be -a governess, it stands to reason, with two or three young uns on her -hands.” - -My father said something here in a very earnest, low, grave voice, which -really attracted my curiosity for the first time. Whatever he was -saying, he was very serious about it, and his tone, though I could not -hear what he said, woke me up. Perhaps he warned Spicer to talk low; but -at all events I heard nothing more for some time, except the grumbling -and barking of the grocer’s voice, in a much subdued tone. They seemed -to argue, and Spicer seemed to yield. At last he got up to go away, and -then I heard him deliver his final judgment on the matter, whatever it -was, standing close to the folding doors. - -“You speaks fair, sir. I don’t say but what you speaks fair. Granting -life and health, it’s a fine thing for her, and a honour for us. And -taking the other side of the question, as I’m bound to take it, I -wouldn’t say but the insurance makes a difference. A woman with a -thousand pounds and a babby is no worse off than if she hadn’t -neither--and Missis is better nor Miss in the way of setting up a -school or such like. I may say, Mr Peveril, as the insurance makes a -great difference. A thousand pound ain’t much for a dependence; and if -there was a lot of little uns--but to be sure, in them matters you must -go on providence to a certain extent. I’ll think it over, sir--and I -don’t see as I’ve any call to make objections, if her and you’s made up -your minds.” Then there was a step towards the door, and then Spicer -came to a stand-still once more. “First thing,” he said, “Mr Peveril, is -the insurance. You won’t put it off, sir? I’ve known them as meant it -every day o’ their lives, and never did it when all was done; and died -and left their families without e’er a----” - -“It shall be done at once,” said my father peremptorily, and almost -angrily; and then there was a begging of pardon, and a scraping and -shuffling, and Spicer went away. I saw him go out, putting his hat on as -he shut the door. I never liked Spicer--of course he was one of the -parishioners, and papa could not refuse his advice to him or to any one; -but I made a face at him as he went away. I felt quite sure he was the -sort of man one sometimes reads of in the newspapers, who put sand in -the sugar, and sell bad tea to the poor people, and have light weights. -This was in my mind along with a vague, faint curiosity as to what he -had been talking about, when to my surprise papa came into the parlour. -He came in quickly, with a flush on his face, and the most uneasy, -uncomfortable look I ever saw a man have. Was he ashamed of -something?--ashamed! he--papa! - -“I suppose you have heard all that Spicer has been saying, Mary,” he -said to me, quite abruptly. He gave me one strange look, and then turned -away, and gazed at the Beautiful gate of the Temple which hung over the -mantelpiece as if he had never seen it before. - -“Yes,” I said; and then it suddenly flashed upon me that Spicer’s talk -had not been exactly of a kind to be overheard by a girl, and that this -was why poor papa looked so embarrassed and uncomfortable. He felt that -it was not proper for me. “I heard a little of it,” I said instantly, -“but I never listen, you know, papa, and I don’t know in the least what -he was talking about.” - -Poor papa! how delicate he was; how shocked I should have heard anything -I ought not to know--though it was not so dreadful after all, for of -course everybody knows that when people are married they have babies. -But he did not like to look me in the face; he kept his back to me, and -gazed at the twisted pillars. - -“Mary,” he said, “I have a little explanation to make to you.” - -“An explanation?” I looked at him over my blue print, wondering what it -could be; but it did not seem worth while to stop working, and I -threaded my needle and made a knot on my thread while I waited for what -he was going to say. Then suddenly my heart began to beat a little fast, -and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps my dreams were about to -become true, and that he knew all about it as well as I, and was just -going to tell me I was Lady Mary, and he Earl of ----. I had never been -able to choose a satisfactory title, and I could not invent one on the -spur of the moment; but instinctively I gave a glance from the window to -see whether the beautiful carriage was in sight, coming to take us to -our splendid home. - -“Perhaps I ought to have taken you into my confidence before,” he said, -“for you have been brought up a lonely girl, and ought to feel for -people who are lonely. I have been very lonely myself, very desolate, -ever since your poor mother died.” - -Here my heart gave a slight stir, and I felt angry, without knowing -exactly why. Lonely? Why, he had always had me! - -“When you are older,” he went on nervously, “you will feel what a -dreadful thing the want of companionship is. You have been a good child, -Mary, and done all you could for me. I should not have been able to live -without you; but when a man has been used to a companion of--of his own -standing, it is a great change to him to fall back upon a child.” - -I grew angrier and angrier; I could scarcely tell why. A feeling of -disappointment, of heart-sinking, of fury, came over me. I had never -made much fuss about adoring my father, and so forth; but to find out -all at once that he had never been satisfied--never happy---- - -“Do you mean me?” I said, quite hoarsely, feeling as if he had wronged -me, deceived me, done everything that was cruel--but with no clear -notion of what was coming even now. - -“Whom else could I mean?” he said, quite gently. “You are a dear, good -child, but you are only a child.” - -Oh, how my heart swelled, till I thought it would burst! but I could not -say anything. I began to tap my foot on the floor in my anger and -mortification, but still I was so stupid I thought of nothing more. - -“Don’t look as if you thought I blamed you, Mary,” said my father; “on -the contrary, you have been a dear little housekeeper. But--do you -remember, dear,” he went on, with his voice shaking a little, “that I -told you once of a young lady who lived with the Spicers?” - -It began to dawn upon me now. I turned round upon him, and stared at -him. Oh, how pleased I was to see his eyes shrink, and the embarrassed -look upon his face! I would not give him any quarter; I felt my own face -growing crimson with shame, but I kept looking at him, compelling him -to keep opposite to me, preventing him from hiding that blush. Oh, good -heavens--an _old_ man--a man of forty-five--a clergyman--my father! and -there he sat, blushing like some ridiculous boy. - -He faltered, but he kept on, not looking at me, “I see you remember,” he -said, with his voice shaking like a flame in a draught of air. “She has -no prospect but to go out as a governess, and I cannot see her do that. -I have asked her to--to--share--our home. I have asked her to--to be -your--best friend; that is, I mean, I have asked her to marry me, Mary. -There! You must have seen that I have been disturbed of late. I am very -glad there is no longer this secret between my little girl and me.” - -And with that he kissed me quite suddenly and trembling, and went off -again to the mantel-shelf, and stared up at Peter and John by the -Beautiful gate. - -For my part I sat quite still, as if the lightning had struck me. What -ought I to do? I did not realise at first what had happened. I was -struck dumb. I knew that I ought to do or say something, and I could not -tell what. My lips stuck together--I could not now even open my mouth; -and there he stood waiting. I suppose if I had possessed my wits at that -moment I would have gone and kissed him or something. Even, I suppose, -if I had stormed at him it would have been less idiotic--but I could -say nothing; I was bewildered. I sat staring into the air with my mouth -open, over my blue print. - -At last he made an impatient movement, and I think said something to me, -which roused me out of my stupefaction. Then--I do not know what impulse -it was that moved me--I asked all at once, frightened, feeling I ought -to say something, “What is her name, papa?” - -“Mary Martindale,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -I remember quite distinctly how people talked. They did not think I -observed or listened, for I had always been a dreamy sort of girl, and -never had attended much to what was said about me. At least so everybody -thought. They said I had always to be shaken or pulled when anything was -wanted of me, to make me listen--which is true enough, I believe; but -nevertheless I was not half so absent as people thought at any time, and -heard a great deal that I was not supposed to hear. And now my senses -were all shaken up and startled into being. How well I recollect hearing -old Mrs Tufnell and Mrs Stephens talking in the quiet front drawing-room -in the Square, while I was in the little room behind, taking no notice, -as they thought. They had given me a book and got rid of me, and though -they all pretended to deplore my dreamy ways, I think on the whole it -was rather a relief to get rid of a quick, inquisitive, fifteen-year-old -girl, and to be able to talk in peace. It was twilight of the summer -evening and we had taken tea, and the two ladies were seated at one of -the windows looking out upon the Square. The windows had long, full, -white curtains, hanging and fluttering from the roof to the carpet. They -were seated against that soft white background in their black silk -dresses, for Mrs Tufnell was old, and Mrs Stephens was a widow and -always wore black. It was like a picture: and I, not being so happy as I -used to be, sat with my book and read and listened both together. You -may think this is nonsense; but I could do it. I see them now -approaching their caps to each other, with little nods and shakes of -their heads and the white curtains fluttering softly behind them. Mrs -Tufnell was a great patroness of papa’s, and always went to St Mark’s -regularly, and Mrs Stephens was our very nearest neighbour, living next -door. - -“I hope it will turn out the best thing that could happen for _her_,” -said Mrs Tufnell, nodding her head at me. They would not say any more -lest they should attract my attention. “She has been greatly neglected, -and left alone a great deal too much,--and I hear _she_ is accomplished. -Dear, dear, who would have thought that he, of all men in the world, -would have taken such a step.” - -“I don’t quite see that,” said Mrs Stephens; “he is a young man still, -and nobody could suppose he would always be contented with his child’s -company: besides, she is so cool and indifferent, as if she never -thought it possible anything could happen: and I am sure she never did -anything to make herself necessary or agreeable----” - -“Poor child!” - -“You may say ‘poor child!’ but yet I blame her. A girl of fifteen is a -woman to all intents and purposes. She ought to have seen that there was -a great deal in her power by way of making him comfortable and herself -pleasant. It’s rather hard to say the plain downright truth about it, -you know, he being a clergyman and all that. Of course, when there is a -young family one can say it is for their sake; but in this case there’s -no possible excuse--he only wanted a wife, that’s all. I don’t blame -him; but it’s a coming down--it’s a disturbance of one’s ideal----” - -“I don’t know much about ideals,” said Mrs Tufnell; “what surprises me -is, if the man wanted to marry, why he didn’t marry long ago, when the -child was young and he had an excellent excuse. As for being a -clergyman, that’s neither here nor there. Clergymen are always marrying -men, and it’s no sin to marry.” - -“It disturbs one’s ideal,” said Mrs Stephens; and, though Mrs Tufnell -shrugged her shoulders, I, sitting behind over my book, agreed with her. -Oh the inward humiliation with which one sees one’s father in love!--I -suppose it would be still worse to see one’s mother, but then, I never -had a mother. I blushed for him a great deal more than he blushed for -himself, and he did blush for himself too. If he was happy, it was a -very uneasy, disturbed sort of happiness. He took me to see her--to -Spicer’s; and he went often himself and sat in the parlour behind the -shop, and suffered, I am sure, as much as ever a man who is having his -own way could suffer. Mrs Tufnell, who was a thoroughly kind old lady, -at length came to his aid, and invited Miss Martindale to stay with her -the rest of the time, and to be married from her house, which was a -thing which even I was grateful for. And the night before the -wedding-day the old lady kissed me and said, “Things will turn out -better than you suppose, dear. It is hard upon you, but things will turn -out better than you suppose.” - -I am not sure that this is ever a very effectual kind of comfort, but to -me it was exasperating. Had I been told that things would turn out worse -than I supposed, I should have liked it. It seemed to me that nothing -could be half bad enough for this overturn of all plans and thoughts and -life. For you must recollect that it was my life that was chiefly to be -overturned. Papa liked it, I supposed, and it was his own doing--but the -change was not so great to him as to me. All the little offices of -authority I used to have were taken from me--my keys, which I was proud -of keeping--my bills and tradesmen’s books, which I had summed up since -ever I can remember. I was turned out of my room, and sent upstairs to -the spare room beside Ellen. In the parlour I was never alone any more, -and not even my favourite corner was mine any longer. I had no more -walks with papa, swinging back from his arm. She had his arm now. She -made the tea, and even darned his stockings. I was nothing in the house, -and she everything. If you suppose that a girl bears this sort of -dethronement easily, I am here to witness to the contrary. I did not -take it easily; but the thing that went to my heart most was, I think, -that she was called Mary, like me. For the first few days when I heard -papa call Mary I used to run to him and find her before me, and get sent -away, sometimes hastily (one time I ran in and found them sitting -together, he with his arm round her waist. I wonder he was not ashamed -of himself, at his age!); and another time with a joke which made me -furious: “It was my other Mary I wanted,” he said, looking as vain and -foolish as--as--. I never saw anybody look so foolish. _My_ father! It -humbled me to the very ground. And then I took to never answering to the -name at all, which sometimes made papa angry when it was really me he -wanted. I soon came to know very well which of us he meant by the sound -of his voice, but I never let him know that I did so. His voice grew -soft and round as if he were singing when he called her. When he called -me, it was just, I suppose, as it always had been; but I had learned -the other something now, the different accentuation, and I resented the -want of it, though I knew that it never had belonged to me. - -All this time I have not spoken of her, though she was the cause of all. -When I saw her first, in the grocer’s back shop, working at frocks for -the little Spicers, I could not believe my eyes. Though I had already -begun to hate her as supplanting me with my father, I could not but -acknowledge how very strange it was to see her there. She had on a very -plain black alpaca dress, and she sat in the back parlour, amid all that -smell of hams and cheese, with a sewing-machine before her; and yet she -looked like a princess. She was tall and very slight, like a flower, and -her head bowed a little on its stem like the head of a lily. She was -pale, with dark eyes and dark hair. I believe she was very handsome--not -pretty, but very handsome, almost beautiful, I have heard papa say. I -allow this, to be honest, though I cannot say I ever saw it. She had a -pathetic look in her eyes which sometimes felt as if it might go to -one’s heart. But, fortunately, she always looked happy when I saw -her--absurdly happy, just as my poor foolish father did--and so I never -was tempted to sympathise with her. I do not understand how anybody but -an angel could sympathise with another person who was very happy and -comfortable while she (or he) was in trouble. This was our situation -now. She had driven me out of everything, and she was pleased; but I was -cross from morning till night, and miserable, feeling that I scarcely -minded whether I lived or died. Her smiles seemed to insult me when we -sat at table together. She looked so much at her ease; she talked so -calmly, she even laughed and joked, and sometimes said such merry, witty -things, that it was all I could do to keep from laughing too. It is -painful to be tempted to laugh when you are very much injured and in a -bad temper. Reading was forbidden now at meals, and neither papa nor I -ever ventured to prop up a book beside us while we ate. I suppose it was -a bad custom; yet my very heart revolted at the idea of changing -anything because she wished it. And then she tried to be “of use” to me, -as people said. She made me practise every day. She gave me books to -read, getting them from the library, and taking a great deal of trouble. -She tried to make me talk French with her; but to talk is a thing one -cannot be compelled to do, and I always had it in my power to balk that -endeavour by answering _Oui_ or _Non_ to all her questions. But the -worst of it all was that I had no power to affect either her or papa, -whatever I might do to make myself disagreeable. I suppose they were too -happy to mind. When I was sulky, it was only myself I made miserable, -and there is very little satisfaction in that. - -I cannot but say, however, looking back, that she was kind to me, in -her way. She was always good-natured, and put up with me and tried to -make me talk. She was kind: but _they_ were not kind. As soon as my -father and she got together they forgot everything. They sat and talked -together, forgetting my very existence. They went out walking together. -Sometimes even he would kiss her, without minding that I was there; and -all this filled me with contempt for his weakness. I could not support -such nonsense--at his age, too! I remember one day rushing to Mrs -Stephens’ to get rid of them and their happiness. She was well off, and -I don’t really know why she lived in such a street as ours. She kept two -servants all for herself, and had a nice drawing-room on the first-floor -very beautifully furnished, as I then thought, where she sat and saw all -that was going on. Without Mrs Stephens I think I should have died. I -used to rush to her when I could bear it no longer. - -“What is the matter, Mary?” she would say, looking up from her Berlin -work. She had a daughter who was married--and she was always working -chairs for her, and footstools, and I don’t know what. - -“Nothing,” said I, sitting down on the stool by her wool-basket and -turning over the pretty colours; and then, after I had been silent for a -minute, I said, “They have gone out for a walk.” - -“It is very natural, my dear; you must not be jealous. It might be a -question, you know, whether you liked your papa to marry; but now that -he is married, it is his duty to be attentive to his wife.” - -“He had me before he had a wife,” cried I; “why should he love her -better than me? Why should he be so much happier with her than with me? -He has always something to say to her: he is always smiling and -pleasant. Sometimes with me he will be a whole day and never say a word. -Why should he be more happy with her than with me?” - -Mrs Stephens laughed. “I can’t tell you how it is, Mary, but so it is,” -she said; “and by and by, when you are older, you will have somebody -whom you will be happier with than you ever were with your papa. That is -the best of being young. When my Sophy married, it was very hard upon me -to see her happier with her husband than she had been with her mother, -and to know that all that sort of thing was over for me, and that I must -be content with my worsted-work. But you will have a happiness of your -own by and by, when you are older; so you must not grudge it so much to -your poor papa. I think he is looking pale. I thought he coughed a great -deal on Sunday. Is she doing anything for that cough of his, do you -know?” - -“I never noticed that he had a cough.” - -“Well, I hope _she_ does,” said Mrs Stephens, with a strange look, as -if she meant something. “Your papa never was strong. He has not health -to be going out of nights, and to all those concerts and things. She -ought to look after his cough, Mary. If she does not, it will be she who -will suffer the most.” - -I did not in the least understand what this meant; I had never remarked -papa’s cough. Yes, to be sure, he always had a little cough--nothing to -speak of. I had been used to it all my life, and it was not any worse -than usual--it was nothing. I told Mrs Stephens so, and then we talked -of other things. - -What a long year that was! When the wedding-day came round again they -had a party, and were quite gay. It was a very odd thing to see a party -in our house; but, though I would not have owned this for the world, I -almost think I half enjoyed it. I had got used to papa’s foolish -happiness, and to Mrs Peveril’s ways. By mere use and wont I had got -more indifferent; and then there began to be some talk of getting a -situation for me as a governess. Papa did not like the idea, but I -myself pressed it on, with a feeling that something new would be -pleasant. I took most of my ideas of life from novels; and if you will -think of it, young ladies who are governesses in novels, generally come -to promotion in the end, though they may have to suffer a great deal -first. I did not much mind the suffering. Whatever it may be that makes -one superior to other people, one can bear it. I made up my mind to a -great deal of trouble, and even persecution, and all kinds of -annoyances, feeling that all this would come to something in the end. -All my dreams about being Lady Mary, and a great personage, had been -dispersed by my father’s marriage. But now I began to dream in another -way; and by degrees the old nonsense would steal back. I used to sit -with a book in my hand, and see myself working in a schoolroom with the -children; and then some one would come to the door, and I should be -called to a beautiful drawing-room, and the lady of the house would take -me in her arms and kiss me, and say, “Why did not you tell me who you -really were!” and there would be a lawyer in black who had come with the -news. All this I am sure is intensely silly, but so was I at the time; -and that is exactly how my mind used to go on. Sometimes a gentleman -would come into it, who would be intensely respectful and reverential, -and whom I would always refuse, saying, “No; I will allow no one to -descend from their proper rank for me!” until that glorious moment came -when I was found out to be as elevated in rank as in principles. Oh, how -absurd it all was! and how I liked it! and what a refuge to me was that -secret world which no one ever entered but myself, and yet where so many -delightful people lived whom I knew by their names, and could talk to -for hours together! Sitting there under Mrs Peveril’s very nose, I -would have long argumentations with my lover, and he would kiss my hand, -and lay himself at my feet, and tell me that he cared for no one in the -world but me; and the scene of the discovery was enacted over and over -again while papa was talking of parish matters, quite unaware that by -some mysterious imbroglio of affairs he was really the Earl of ---- So -and So--(I never could hit upon a sufficiently pretty name). Thus, -instead of weeping over my hard fate and thinking it dreadful to have to -go out as a governess, I looked forward to it, feeling that somehow the -discovery of the true state of affairs concerning us was involved in it, -and that, without that probation, Fate would certainly never restore me -to my due and native eminence in the world. - -But, however, I must come back to the night of the anniversary, and to -our party. I had on a pretty new white frock--my first long one: and I -half, or more than half, enjoyed myself. Everybody was very kind to me, -everybody said I was looking well; and Mrs Tufnell and Mrs Stephens -petted me a good deal behind backs, and said, “poor child!” And then -papa’s curate, who was one of the guests, kept following me about and -trying to talk to me; whenever I looked up I met his eyes. I did not -admire him in the least, but it amused me very much, and pleased me, to -see that he admired me. When I wanted anything he rushed to get it for -me. It was very odd, but not at all disagreeable, and gave me a -comfortable feeling about myself. When the people went away, papa stood -a long time in the hall between the open doors, saying good-night to -everybody. He went back into the parlour after they were all gone; he -went up to the fireplace, I don’t know why, and stood there for a moment -as if there had been a fire in the grate. Then he called “Mary!” I might -have known it was not me he wanted. He held out his hand without turning -round. “I never thought I could be happier than I was this day last -year,” he said, “and yet I am happier to-night. What a delightful year -you have given me, my darling---- Oh, is it you? What did you mean by -not telling me it was you, when you must have perceived that I thought I -was talking to my wife?” - -“There was no time to tell you,” I said. It gave me a pang I can -scarcely describe when he thrust my hand away which I had held out to -him. He was ashamed; he sat down suddenly in the big chair, and then all -at once a fit of coughing came on, such a fit of coughing as I never saw -before. It frightened me; and he looked so pale, and with such circles -round his eyes! When he could speak he said, hurriedly, panting for his -breath, “Be sure you do not tell her of this----.” That was all he -thought of. It did not matter for me. - -But, as it happened, it was not long possible to keep it from _her_. -When I look back upon that evening, with its little follies, and the -laughter, and the curate, and my new dress! O, how little one knows! -That very night papa was taken ill. He had caught cold in the draught as -he shook hands with the people. It was congestion of the lungs, and from -the first the doctor looked very serious. The house changed in that -night. The study and the parlour and the whole place turned into a -vestibule to the sick room, which was the centre of everything. The very -atmosphere was darkened; the sun did not seem to shine; the sounds -outside came to us dulled and heavy. I was not allowed to be very much -in the room. She took her place there and never left him, day or night; -and if I were to spend pages in describing it I could not give you any -idea of my dreariness, left alone down below, not allowed to help him or -be near him while my father lay between living and dying. I could not do -anything. I tried to read, but I could not read. To take up a novel, -which was the only thing I could possibly have given my attention to, -would have seemed like profanation at such a time. It would have been -worse than reading a novel on Sunday, which I had always been brought up -to think very wicked; and as for my dreams, they were worse even than -the novels. I dared not carry them on while papa was so ill. I felt that -if I allowed my thoughts to float away on such useless currents, I never -could expect God to listen to my prayers. For this reason I made a -dreadful effort to think “as one ought to think,” to think of religious -things always and all day long--and this was very difficult; but I made -the effort, because I thought God was more likely to listen to me if I -showed that I wanted to do well. - -But, oh the dreary days and the dreary nights! The three last nights I -sat up in my dressing-gown, and dozed drearily and woke still more -drearily, after dreaming the strangest dreams. Sometimes I thought it -was the wedding-day again, and he was standing with her hand on his arm; -sometimes it was the anniversary, and he was saying how happy he was; -sometimes it was a funeral. I dreamed always about him, and always in -different aspects. One morning I woke up suddenly and found Ellen -standing by me in the grey dawning. She did not say anything; the tears -were running down her face. But I got up and followed her quite silent, -knowing what it was. - -He died, after a week’s illness, in the morning, leaving us a whole -horrible, light, bright day to get through with what patience we could; -and then there was a dreary interval of silence, and he was carried away -from us for ever and ever; and she and I, two creatures of different -minds as ever were born, with but this one link of union between us, -were left in the house alone. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -She and I alone in the house! I do not think that I could express our -desolation more fully were I to write a whole book. He who had brought -us together was gone. The link between us was broken--we were two -strangers, rather hostile to each other than otherwise. No pretence of -love had ever existed between us. She had never had any occasion to be -jealous of me; but she had known and must have felt that I was jealous -of her, and grudged her position, her happiness, her very name. She knew -this, and it had not mattered to her so long as he was alive; but now -that he was gone, now that she and I, bearing the same name, supposed to -belong to each other, were left within our dismal house alone---- - -We went together to the funeral. I was too much absorbed in my own -feelings, I believe, to think of her; and yet I noticed everything, as -people do when they are deeply excited. She walked by herself, and so -did I. There was no one to support either of us, and we did not cling to -each other. The churchwardens were there, and Spicer the grocer, to my -annoyance. When I saw him all the conversation which I had once -overheard came to my mind. Even as I stood by my father’s grave it came -back to me. I understood it only partially, but it seemed to me as if -the time had come on which he calculated, and which he had spoken of. I -do not think it had ever recurred to me till that moment. She would be -better off with a thousand pounds than with nothing. A thousand -pounds---- and---- what had he said? I thought my heart had been too -faint to feel at all, and yet it began to quicken now with excitement. I -looked at her as she walked before me. What was to become of her? What -was to become of me? But I did not think of myself. - -When we got back to the house Spicer came in and the churchwardens with -him; they came into the parlour. When I was going away Mr Turnham, who -was one of them, called me back. “Miss Mary,” he said, “wait a little. -It is hard upon you, but there is some business to be settled. Pray, -come back.” - -I went, of course. She had dropped into the chair my father used to sit -in. He had given it up to her when they were married, but now death had -unmarried them, and I could not bear to see her there. Spicer had gone -to sit by her; they were at one side of the room, Mr Turnham and I at -the other, as if we were opposite sides. The other churchwarden had -shaken hands with us all and gone away. - -“In the present melancholy circumstances it is our duty,” said Mr -Turnham, “to inquire into our late dear friend’s monetary arrangements; -there must have been some settlement or other--some explanation at -least, as he married so short a time ago.” - -Then Spicer cleared his throat, and edged still more on to the edge of -his chair. Oh, heaven knows. I was as miserable as a girl could be--but -yet I noticed all this as if I did not care. - -“There was no settlement,” he said, “reason good, there wasn’t nothing -to settle as was worth the while; but being Mrs Peveril’s only relation, -and responsible like, he spoke very clear and honourable about his means -to me. ‘I ain’t got no money, Mr Spicer,’ he said, ‘but I’ve insured my -life for my daughter, and I’ll do as much for her. They’ll have a -thousand pounds apiece, and that’s better than nothing,’ he said; ‘it -will get them into some snug little way of business or something.’ He -was a sensible man, Mr Peveril, and spoke up handsome when he saw as -nothing was exacted of him. I don’t know what office it’s in, but I -believe as what he said must be true.” - -“Perhaps if we were to adjourn into the study, and if one of the ladies -would get the keys, we might look in his desk if there was a will,” said -Mr Turnham. “I am very sorry that our late lamented friend had so short -an illness, and therefore was unable to say anything as to what he -wished.” - -“Stop, please,” Mrs Peveril said all at once. “Stop: neither of us is -able to give you any help to-day; and afterwards we will try to manage -for ourselves. We thank you very much, but it is best to leave us to -ourselves. I speak for Mary too.” - -“But, my dear Mrs Peveril, you will want some one to manage for you; it -is painful, I know, but it is best to do it at once; you will want some -one to manage----” - -“I do not see the necessity,” she said. She was dreadfully pale; I never -saw any one so pale; and it went to my heart to be obliged to side with -her, and acquiesce in what she said; but I could not help it, I was -obliged to give in. She spoke for me too. - -“As long as there’s me, you may make your mind easy,” said Spicer. “A -relation; and on the premises, so to speak. I’ll do for ’em all as is -necessary; you may make your mind quite easy, Mr Turnham--you trust to -me.” - -Then she got up; her head drooped in her great heavy black bonnet and -veil. She was not like a lily now, in all that crape; but I could not -keep my eyes from her. She was not afraid of these men, as I was. She -held out her hand first to the one, then to the other. “Good-bye,” she -said. “We thank you very much for taking so much interest, but we would -like to be alone to-day. Good-bye.” - -Mr Turnham got up not quite pleased, but he shook hands with her and -then with me, and said “Good-bye and God bless you” to us both. “If you -want me, you know where I am to be found,” he said, with a little look -of offence. Spicer stayed behind him, as if he belonged to us. - -“I agree with you,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Them as -is strangers has no business with your affairs. Trust ’em to me, my -dear; trust ’em to me. When your money’s safe in a good snug little -business you won’t be so badly off; at least it’s always something to -fall back upon;--don’t you be downhearted, my dear. I don’t see as you -will be so badly off.” - -“Good-bye, Mr Spicer,” she said. She pushed past him and left the room -with an impatience which I understood. He and I were left standing -together, looking at each other. Nobody considered me much. It was the -wife who was thought of--not the daughter. He shook his head as he -looked after her. - -“Bless us all! bless us all!” he said. “That’s what comes of turning a -woman’s head. Miss Mary, I ain’t going to forsake you, though she’s far -from civil. I’ll stand by you, never fear. If the money’s well invested -you’ll both get something ’andsome. Nothing pays like business; and as -there ain’t no babby--which was what I always feared----” - -“I don’t want to talk about Mrs Peveril,” I said. - -“Oh, you don’t want to talk about her! no more do I. She’s very flighty -and hoity-toighty. I remember when she was very glad to get a corner at -my table. She thinks she’s set up now, with her thousand pounds. It’s a -blessing as there’s no family. Miss Mary, I’ll take your instructions -next time as I comes if you’ll put yourself in my hands. I’ve come to -think on you as a relation too; but bless you, my dear, I know as you -can’t be cheerful with visitors not just the first day. Don’t stand upon -no ceremony with me.” - -He wanted me to leave him, I thought, that he might examine everything, -and perhaps, get at poor papa’s papers; but I would not do that. I -stayed, though my heart was bursting, until he went away. What an -afternoon that was! it was summer, but it rained all day. It rained and -rained into the smoky street, and upon papa’s grave, which I seemed to -see before me wet and cold and sodden, with little pools of water about. -How heartless it seemed, how terrible, to have come into shelter -ourselves and to have left him there alone in the wet, and the cold, and -the misery! If one could but have gone back there and sat down by him -and got one’s death, it would have been some consolation. I went up to -my room and sat there drearily, watching the drops that chased each -other down the window panes. It was so wet that the street was quite -silent outside, nobody coming or going, except the milkman with his -pails making a clank at every area. There were no cries in the street, -no sound of children playing, nothing but the rain pattering, pattering, -upon the roofs and the pavement, and in every little hollow on both. The -house, too, was perfectly still; there was no dinner, nothing to break -the long monotony. Ellen came up in her new black gown, with tears on -her cheeks, to bring me a glass of wine and a sandwich. I could not eat, -but I drank the wine. “Oh, Miss Mary,” said Ellen, “won’t you go to her -now? There’s only you two. It ain’t a time, Miss, oh, it ain’t a time to -think on things as may have been unpleasant. And she’s a taking on so, -shut up in that room, as I think she’ll die.” - -Why should she die any more than me? Why should she be more pitied than -I was? I had lost as much, more than she had. She had known him but a -short time, not two years; but he had been mine all my life. I turned my -back upon Ellen’s appeal, and she went away crying, shaking her head and -saying I was unkind, I was without feeling. Oh, was I without feeling? -How my head ached, how my heart swelled, how the sobs rose into my -throat; I should have been glad could I have felt that it was likely I -should die. - -“Will you go down to tea, Miss Mary,” Ellen said, coming back as the -night began to fall. I was weary, weary of sitting and crying by myself; -any change looked as if it must be better. I was cold and faint and -miserable; and then there was in my mind a sort of curiosity to see how -she looked, and if she would say anything--even to know what were to be -the relations between us now. I went down accordingly, down to the dark -little parlour which, during all papa’s illness, I had lived in alone. -She was there, scarcely visible in the dark, crouching over a little -fire which Ellen had lighted. It was very well-meant on Ellen’s part, -but the wood was damp, and the coals black, and I think it made the -place look almost more wretched. _She_ sat holding out her thin hands to -it. The tea was on the table, and after I went in Ellen brought the -candles. We did not say anything to each other. After a while she gave -me some tea and I took it. She seemed to try to speak two or three -times. I waited for her to begin. I would not say a word; and we had -been thus for a long time mournfully seated together before she at last -broke the silence. “Mary,” she said, and then paused. I suppose it was -because I was younger than she that I had more command of myself, and -felt able to observe every little movement she made and every tone. I -was so curious about her--anxious, I could not tell why, as to what she -would do and say. - -“Mary,” she repeated, “we have never been very good friends, you and I; -I don’t know why this has been. I have not wished it--but we have not -been very good friends.” - -“No.” - -“No; that is all you say? Could we not do any better now? When I came -here first, I did not think I was doing you any wrong. I did not mean it -as a wrong to you. Now we are two left alone in the world. I have no -one, and you have no one. Could we not do any better! Mary, I think it -would please him, perhaps, if we tried to be friends.” - -My heart was quite full. I could have thrown myself upon her, and kissed -her. I could have killed her. I did not know what to do. - -“We have never been enemies,” I said. - -“No. But friends--that is different. There never were two so lonely. If -we stayed together we might get to be fond of each other, Mary; we might -keep together out of the cold world. Two together are stronger than one -alone. You don’t know how cold the world is, you are so young. If we -were to keep together we might stay--at home.” - -Some evil spirit moved me, I cannot tell how; it seemed to me that I had -found her out, that it was this she wanted. I got up from my chair -flaming with the momentary hot passion of grief. “If there is any money -for me, and if you want that, you can have it,” I cried, and tried to go -away. - -She gave a little moaning cry, as if I had struck her. “Oh, Mary, Mary!” -she cried, with a wailing voice more of sorrow than of indignation; and -then she put out her hand and caught my dress. I could not have got away -if I had wished, and I did not wish it, for I was devoured by curiosity -about what she would do and say. This curiosity was the beginning of -interest, though I did not know it; it fascinated me to her. She caught -my dress and drew me closer. She put her other hand on mine, and drew me -down to her, so that my face approached hers. She put up her white -cheek, her eyes all hollowed out with crying, to mine: “Mary,” she said, -in a heartrending tone, “do not go away from me. I have nobody but you -in the world.” Then she paused. “I am going to have a baby,” she said -all at once, with a low, sharp cry. - -I was confounded. I do not know what I said or did. Shame, wonder, pity, -emotion--all mingled in me. I was very young, younger in heart than I -was in years; and to have such a thing told to me overwhelmed me with -shame and awe. It was so wonderful, so mysterious, so terrible. I -dropped on my knees beside her, and covered my face with my hands, and -cried. I could not resist any longer, or shut myself up. We cried -together, clinging to each other, weeping over our secret. _He_ had not -known. At the last, when she was aware herself, she would not tell him -to add to his pains. “He will know in heaven, Mary,” she said, winding -her arms round me, weeping on my shoulder, shaking me, frail support as -I was, with her sobs. This was how the other Mary and I became one. We -were not without comfort as we crept upstairs, with our pale faces. She -went with me to my room; she would not let me go. I had to hold her hand -even when we went to sleep. “Do not leave me, Mary; stay with me, Mary,” -she moaned, whenever I stirred. And we slept by snatches, in our -weariness; slept and woke to sob, and then slept again. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -This union, following so close upon our complete severance from each -other, astonished everybody. We frightened Ellen. When she came to call -me next morning, and saw the other sleeping by me, she thought it was -witchcraft; but I did not mind that I rose, and dressed very quietly, -not to wake _her_. She was sleeping deeply at last, the sleep of -exhaustion. During all papa’s illness she had not rested at all, and at -last sorrow and watching had worn her out. But I need not go over at -length everything that happened. We told kind Mrs Tufnell and Mrs -Stephens, our nearest neighbours; and I believe they told it to many in -the parish; but Mary and I neither knew nor heard what went on out of -our house. I had got to call her Mary, as he did; I liked it now--it no -longer seemed to interfere with me. I thought my voice sounded round and -soft like his when I said her name: Mary. It is a pleasant name to say, -though it is my own. I got to admire it, being hers--I, who had hated -her for being so called. But all that was changed now. - -I do not quite know how our business was settled, for I know nothing -about business. This I know, that she managed it all herself, as she -had said; she would not let Spicer have anything to do with it. She -wrote about the money to an old friend of papa’s, and got it invested -and all settled. Half was for her and half for me. It brought us in -about £85 a year. We settled to let the first floor, two rooms furnished -as a sitting-room and bed-room, which would pay our rent; and we got -three or four little pupils, who came every day, and whom we taught. -Everything was very closely calculated, but we decided that we could -manage it. We had never been used to be rich, neither one nor the other: -and though when all was well I had dreamed of going away among -strangers, yet now I could not help chiming in with that desperate -desire of hers to avoid separation and remain together. She used to tell -me stories of how she had been when she was a governess. How she had -lived upstairs in a schoolroom alone in the midst of a great houseful of -people; how when she came downstairs she was in the society without -belonging to it; and how when any one in the family was kind to her they -got into trouble. What she said was quite vague, but it was not -comfortable; and by degrees my dreams and ideas were modified by her -experience. But I could not be cured of my follies all in a moment, even -by grief. After a while I began to dream again; and now my dreams were -of my high estate being discovered somehow when I was seated lonely in -that schoolroom, trying to get through the weary evening. I used to make -a picture to myself of how the lady of the house would come penitent and -ashamed, and make a hundred apologies; and how I would say to her, that -though her other governesses might not turn out to be Lady Marys, yet -did not she think it would be best to be kind and make friends of them? -Lady Mary! I clung to my absurdity, though I began to be old enough to -see how ridiculous it was. How could I ever turn out to be anybody -now--now that papa was gone? But when a girl is but sixteen there are -often a great many follies in her head which she would be deeply ashamed -of if any one knew them, but which please her in secret as she dreams -over them. - -My life was altogether changed by papa’s death. It is dreadful to say -so, but it was not changed for the worse. Perhaps I had been happier in -the old days before Mary was ever heard of, when he and I used to sit -together, not talking much, and walk together, thinking our own -thoughts--together yet without much intercourse. I had been quite -content then, having enough to amuse me in my own fancies, as he, I -supposed, had in his. But now I began to be able to understand why he -had wearied for real companionship, now that I knew what real -companionship was. We lived together, Mary and I, in a different way. -We talked over everything together; the smallest matter that occurred, -we discussed it, she and I. She had the art of working everything that -happened, into our life, so that the smallest incident was of -importance. Even in those very first days, though her heart was broken, -she soothed me. “Mary,” she said, with her lips trembling, “we cannot be -always crying; we must think of something else whenever we can; we must -_try_ to think of other things. God help us; we must live, we cannot -die.” And then she would break down; and then dry her eyes, and talk of -something, of anything. When we got our little pupils, that was a -relief. She went into her work with all her heart. Her attention never -seemed to wander from the business, as mine constantly did. We had four -little girls; they came for two hours in the morning and two in the -afternoon. When they went away we had our walk. In the evening we did -our needlework, and she made me read aloud, or sometimes play, and she -taught me to sing. We used to stop and cry at every second bar when we -began, but by degrees that hysterical feeling passed off. I was never -away from her. I had constant companionship, communion,--talk that kept -me interested and even amused. I got to be--I am almost ashamed to -confess it--happier than I had been for a long time, perhaps than I had -ever been in my life. - -We had lived like this for about three months, and had got used to it, -when something came to make a little change. Mary and I rarely spoke of -our secret. It seemed to be my secret as well as hers, and I tried all I -could to take care of her, with a secret awe which I never expressed. I -could not have spoken of it; I should have been ashamed; but the -mysterious sense of what was coming was always in my mind. The -needlework which we used to do in the evenings filled me with strange -feelings. I never dared ask what this or that was for. I was afraid and -abashed at the very sight of the little things when they happened to be -spread out and showed their form. It was making them which made me a -good needlewoman: perhaps you will think that is of no great importance -in these days of sewing-machines; but oh, to have let a sewing-machine, -or even a stranger’s hand touch those dearest little scraps of linen and -muslin! Nothing but the finest work, the daintiest little stitches, -would do for them. I used to kiss them sometimes in my awe, but I would -not have asked questions for the world. This is a digression, however; -for what I was going to say had nothing to do either with our work or -our secret. All this time we had not let our first floor--and it was -with great satisfaction in her looks that Mrs Stephens came in one day -and told us that she had heard of a lodger for us. “He is a gentleman, -my dears,” she said, “_quite_ a gentleman, and therefore you may be sure -he will give no trouble that he can help. He is an engineer, and has -something to do, I believe, about the new railway; otherwise he lives at -home somewhere about Hyde Park, and moves in the very best society. When -I say an ‘engineer,’ I mean a ‘civil’ one, you know, which is, I am -told, quite the profession of a gentleman. He will want the rooms for -six months, or perhaps more. His name is Durham; he is cousin to the -Pophams, great friends of mine, and if the lodgings suit him he would -like to come in at once.” - -Mary had given a little start, I could not tell why. There seemed no -reason for it. Her work had fallen out of her hands; but she picked it -up again and went on. “His name is---- What did you say, Mrs -Stephens?--a civil engineer?” - -“Yes, my love, a civil engineer--Durham, his name is. He will come with -me to-morrow, if you are agreeable, to see the rooms.” - -Mary made a visible pause. She looked at me as if she were consulting -me; it was a curious, appealing sort of look. I looked back at her, but -I could not understand her. What did I know about Mr Durham, the civil -engineer? Mrs Stephens was not so observant as I was, and probably she -never noticed this look. And then Mary said, “Very well. If they suit -him, we ought to be very thankful. I should have preferred a lady----” - -“My dear, a lady is a great deal more at home than a man, and gives -more trouble,” said Mrs Stephens; “very different from a man who is out -all day. And then, probably he will dine almost always at his West-end -home.” - -The idea was funny, and I laughed. The notion of the West-end home -amused me; but I could not help observing that Mary, who was always -ready to sympathise with me, did not smile. Her head was bent over her -work. She did not even say anything more on the subject, but let Mrs -Stephens go on and make all the arrangements for coming next day. I -thought of this after; and even at the time I noticed it, and with some -surprise. - -Next day, just as we were going out for our walk, Mary, who had been at -the window, started back, and went hurriedly into the little room -behind, which had once been papa’s study. “Mary,” she said, “there is -Mrs Stephens and---- her friend. Go with them, please, to see the rooms. -I am not quite well: I would rather not appear.” - -“I am so stupid; I shall not know what to say,” I began. - -“You will do very well,” said Mary, and disappeared and shut the door. I -had no time to think more of this, for the stranger came in directly -with Mrs Stephens; and in my shyness I blushed and stammered while I -explained. “She is not very well,” I said; “I am to show you. Will you -please--sit down; will you come upstairs?” - -“You will do very well,” said Mrs Stephens, patting me on the shoulder. -“This is Mr Durham, Mary, and I don’t think he will eat any of us. It is -a nice light, airy staircase,” she said, as she went up, not to lose any -opportunity of commending the house. “A capital staircase,” said Mr -Durham, with a cheery laugh. I had scarcely ventured to look at him yet, -but somehow there was a feeling of satisfactoriness diffused through the -air about him. I cannot explain quite what I mean, but I am sure others -must have felt the same thing. Some people seem to make the very air -pleasant: they give you a sense that all is well, that there is nothing -but what is good and honest in the place where they are. This is what I -felt now; and when we got upstairs I ventured to look at him. He was -tall and strong and ruddy, not at all like any hero whom I had ever read -of or imagined. There was nothing “interesting” about him. He looked “a -good fellow,” cheery, and smiling, and active, and kind. He settled at -once about the rooms. He laughed out when Mrs Stephens said something -about their homeliness. “They are as good as a palace,” he said; “I -don’t see what a man could want more.” The sitting-room was the room -papa died in, and it cost me a little pang to see them walking about and -looking at the furniture; but when people are poor they cannot indulge -such feelings. We learn to say nothing about them, and perhaps that -helps to subdue them. At all events, I made no show of what I was -thinking, and it was all settled in a few minutes. He was to come in on -Saturday, and Ellen was to work for him and wait upon him. I could not -help thinking it would be pleasant to have him in the house. - -And thus there commenced another period of my life, which I must speak -of very briefly,--which indeed I do not care to speak of at all, but -which I will think about as long as I live. I did not see very much of -him at first. I was nearly seventeen now, and very shy; and Mary watched -over me, and took great pains not to expose me to chance meetings with -the stranger, or any unnecessary trouble. Ellen managed everything -between us. She was a good, trustworthy woman, and we did not require to -interfere; she was full of praises of Mr Durham, who never gave any -trouble he could help. But one night, when I was taking tea with Mrs -Stephens, he happened to come in, and we had the pleasantest evening. He -knew a song I had just learned, and sang a second to it in the most -delightful deep voice. He talked and rattled about everything. He made -Mrs Stephens laugh and he made me laugh, and he told us his adventures -abroad till we were nearly crying. When it was time for me to go he got -up too, and said he would go with me. “Oh, it is only next door; I can -go alone,” I said, in my shyness. “It is only next door, but I live -there too, and I am going to work now,” he said. “To work! when all the -rest of the world are going to bed?” said Mrs Stephens; “you will make -yourself ill.” How he laughed at that! his laugh sounded like a cheery -trumpet. He did not mean to kill himself with work. “But I hope you will -let me come to tea again,” he said. How pleased Mrs Stephens was! She -always says she likes young people, and we had spent such a pleasant -night. - -Many more of these pleasant evenings followed. Sometimes when we were -sitting quiet after tea, she would send for me suddenly; sometimes she -would write a little note in the afternoon. This expectation filled my -life with something quite new. I had never had many invitations or -pleasures before: I had never expected them. When we sat down to work -after tea I had known that it was for the whole evening, and that no -pleasant interruption would disturb us. But now a little thrill of -excitement ran through my whole life. I wondered, would a note come in -the afternoon? If it did not come, I wondered whether the bell would -ring after tea, and Ellen come in saying, “If you please, ma’am, Mrs -Stephens’s compliments, and would Miss Mary go in, and take her music?” -Mary never interfered; never said “Don’t go.” She looked at me sometimes -very wistfully; sometimes she smiled and shook her head at me, and said -I was getting dissipated. Once or twice she looked anxious, and told me -a story, which I only half understood, of girls who met with people they -liked, and were very happy, and then lost sight of them ever after. Mary -was very clever at telling stories, and I was fond of listening; but she -did it so well and delicately that I fear I never thought of the -moral--never, at least, till all the harm was done and it was too late. - -I would not have any one think, however, that Mr Durham either meant or -did any harm. To say so would be very wrong. It was as imperceptible -with him as with me. He went quite innocently, as I did, to cheer up Mrs -Stephens, and because an evening’s chatter with a little music was -pleasant; and by degrees we thought less and less of Mrs Stephens and -more and more of each other. If any one meant anything beyond this, it -was she who was the guilty person. She would nod off to sleep in her -easy-chair while we were talking. She would say, with a sleepy smile, -“Don’t mind me, my dears. The light is a little strong for my eyes. That -is why I close them--but I like the sound of your voices even when I -don’t hear what you say.” Alas, if she had heard everything that had -been said it might have been better. After a while he began to say -strange things to me while she had her doze. He talked about his family -to me. He said he hoped I should know them some day. He said his mother -was very kind and wise--“a wise woman.” These were the very words he -used. And then he said---- other things; but that was not till the very, -very last. - -One morning we met in the little hall. It was raining, and it was a -holiday, and when he insisted on following me into the schoolroom, what -could I do--I could not shut him out. He seemed to fill the whole room, -and make it warm and bright. I do not think we had ever been quite alone -before. He came to the window and stood there looking out upon the bare -bit of smoky grass and the water-butt. And then all at once he came to -me and took my hand. “If I had a nice little house out in the country, -with flowers and trees about it, a bright little house--Mary--would you -come and be my little wife, and take care of it and me?” - -Oh, what a thing to have said to you, all at once, without warning, in -the heart of your own dull little life, when you thought you were to -work, and pinch, and put up with things, for ever! It was different from -my old fancy. But how poor a thing to have been found out to be Lady -Mary in comparison with this! What I said is neither here nor there. We -stood together in the little old study, among the forms where we had our -little scholars, as if we had been in a fairy palace. I was not -seventeen. I had no experience. I thought of nothing but him, and what -he said. It was not my part to think of his father and mother, and what -he would do, and what he wouldn’t do. He was a great deal older than I -was; about thirty, I believe. Of course, I thought of nothing but him. - -“Do you know,” he said, after a long time, “I have never seen your -stepmother, Mary? I have been three months in the house, and I have -never seen her. I must go and see her now.” - -“Oh, wait a little,” I said; “wait a day. Let us have a secret all to -ourselves one day.” How foolish I was!--but how was I to know? - -He consented after a while; and then he made me promise to bring her out -at a certain hour in the afternoon, that he might meet us at the door -and see her. I made all the arrangements for this with a light heart. -Though it was very difficult to hide from her what had happened, I did -so with a great effort. I persuaded her to come out earlier than usual. -She did not resist me. She was kinder, more tender, than I had ever -known. She began to say something of a story she had to tell me as we -went out. I went first and opened the door, and stood aside on the white -steps to let her go out. Her crape veil was thrown back. Though she was -still pale, there was a tint of life upon her cheeks. She was more like -herself in her refined, delicate beauty, more like a lily, my favourite -image of her, than she had been for ever so long. - -I had begun to smile to myself at the success of our trick, when -suddenly I got frightened, I could scarcely tell how. Looking up, I saw -him standing on the pavement gazing at her, confounded. I can use no -other word. He looked bewildered, confused, half wild with amazement. As -for Mary, she had stopped short on the step. She was taken strangely by -surprise too; for the first moment she only gazed as he did. Then she -dropped her veil, and stepped back into the house. “I have forgotten -something,” she said; and turned round and went upstairs to her room. He -came in, too, and went upstairs after her, passing without looking at -me. His under lip seemed to have dropped; his cheerful face had lost all -its animation; his eyes had a wild, bewildered stare in them. What did -it mean? oh! what did it mean? - -I did not know what to do. I wondered if he had followed her to speak to -her, or what was the meaning of those strange looks. I lingered in the -hall holding the handle of the door, feeling miserable, but not knowing -why. In two or three minutes she came downstairs. “I had forgotten my -handkerchief,” she said; and we went out together as if nothing had -happened. But something had happened, that was certain. She did not talk -very much that day. When we were coming home she said to me, quite -suddenly, “Was it your doing; Mary, that I met Mr Durham at the door?” - -“He said it was so strange he had never seen you,” I said. - -“Yes; but you should have known I would not do that for nothing. You -should not have been the one to betray me, Mary. I knew Mr Durham once. -He is associated with one of the most painful portions of my life.” - -“Oh, Mary dear! I did not know----” - -“You did not know, and I did not want you to find out; but never mind, -it is done. It need not, I hope, do any harm to you.” - -That was a very strange day: the excitement of the morning, and then the -other excitement; and to feel that I had a secret from her, and that he -was seated upstairs giving no sign, taking no notice of our existence -all day long. I was so agitated and disturbed that I did not know what -to do. At last I settled myself in the schoolroom to do some -translations. When one has been looking for a long time for a holiday, -and something happens to spoil the holiday when it comes, it is worse -even than if that something had happened on an ordinary day. I think -Mary was glad to be left to herself, for instead of our ordinary -companionship, she sat in the parlour at work all the long afternoon, -and I in the schoolroom. One of the doors was half opened between us. -She could hear my pen scratching on the paper, and the rustling of the -leaves of my dictionary--and I could hear her moving softly over her -work. It was autumn by this time, and the days were growing short, and -neither of us cared to ring for tea; and I think Ellen was cooking -dinner for Mr Durham and forgot us at the usual hour. We still sat as we -had been all the afternoon when the twilight came on. I laid down my -pen, having no light to write by, when I heard some one knock softly at -the parlour door. - -Mary made no reply. She sat quite still, never stirring. The knock came -again; then I, too, put my paper away from me and listened. The door -opened, and some one came into the parlour. How well I knew who it was! -I listened now so intently that nothing escaped me. How could it be -wrong? He must have come to talk to her of me. - -“Mary!” he said. I rose up softly in my excitement, thinking it was me -he was calling; but before I could move further a strange consciousness -came over me that it was not me he meant. The old feeling with which I -had heard my father call Mary came into my very soul--but worse, a -hundred times worse. Oh, had he too another Mary besides me? - -“Mary!” he said, breathless, and then paused. “How has all this come -about? Why do I find you here? What does it mean? There are many -explanations which I have a right to ask. You disappear from me--sent -away--I know not how; and then--not to count the years that have -passed--after these three months, in which you must have known me, I -find you by chance----” - -She knew that I was within hearing, and that whatever she said to him -must be to me too. If that was a restraint upon her, I cannot tell. I -felt sorry for her vaguely in my mind; but yet I did not move. - -“I did not wish you to find me at all,” she said, very low. “Mr Durham, -there is and can be nothing between you and me.” - -“Nothing!” he said; “what do you mean, Mary? Why, there is all the past -between us--a hundred things that cannot be undone by anything in the -future. You know how many things there are connected with you which are -a mystery to me--things not affecting you alone, but others. How you -went away, for instance; and what became of you, and how much my mother -had to do with it? You must have known the moment I found you that all -these questions remained to be asked.” - -“All these questions,” she said, “are made quite unimportant by two -things. First, that I am the wife, though now the widow, of a man I -loved dearly--and that you have begun to love, begun to think of, some -one very different from me.” - -“Ah!” he said, with a strange brief utterance of distress. Whether he -was grieved to think of the wrong he was doing me, or whether the -strange position he stood in troubled him, I cannot tell; but there was -pain in the cry he gave--“ah!” with a little shiver. “You have -abundance of power to pain me,” he said, very low, “but it seems strange -you should upbraid me. Yes, I have begun to think of some one else; but -that does not prevent me from being deeply startled, deeply moved, by -the sight of you.” - -There was a little silence then, and I came to myself slowly. I woke as -it were out of a trance. She knew I was there, but he did not. I had no -right to hear his secrets without warning him. I tried to get up, but -could not at first. I felt stiff and weary, as if I had been travelling -for days together. I could scarcely drag myself up from my chair. The -sound I made in rising might have warned him, but I do not think he -heard. Before I could drag myself to the door and show I was there, he -had begun again. - -“Mary,” he said, lingering upon the name as if he loved it, “this is not -a time for recrimination. Tell me how you left Chester Street, and what -my mother had to do with it? and then, if you choose, I will never see -you again.” - -“Is it for your mother, or for me?” - -I did not hear the answer. I could not stay longer. I got to the door -somehow, and threw it open. I was too much bewildered to know what I was -doing, or to think. I came out with a little rush as feeble creatures -do. “I want to get away. I want to go out. I cannot stay there all day -and hear you talking,” I said. I was not addressing either her or him. -The sound of my voice must have been very piteous, for I remember it -even now. - -“Mary!” he cried. - -Oh, what a difference in the sound! This time his voice was startled, -pained, almost harsh, with a kind of reproof in it: not as he said Mary -to her. Oh, papa, papa! it was you first who taught me the difference. I -gave a hoarse little cry. I could not speak. Millions of words seemed to -rush to my lips, but I could not say any of them. “I have been here long -enough,” I managed to stammer out. “Let me go--let me go!” Next moment I -was in the dark, in the silence, in my own little room, kneeling down by -the bedside, crying and moaning to myself. I did not know why. I had -heard nothing wrong; but it seemed to me that all my life was over, and -that it did not matter what came next. - -And, indeed, I cannot tell what came next. She came up to me, and told -me the whole story, and in a vague sort of way I understood it. She was -not to blame. He had been fond of her (everybody was fond of her) when -she was the governess in his mother’s house; and it had been found out, -and his mother was harsh, and she had gone suddenly away. There was -nothing in this which need have made me unhappy, perhaps--so people have -said to me since--but then I was very young; and I had been happy--and -now I was miserable. I listened to her, and made no answer, but only -moaned. The night passed, I cannot tell how. I did not sleep till late -in the morning; and then I fell asleep and did not wake till noon. Then -what was the use of going downstairs? I stayed in my room, feeling so -weary, so worn out. It was Saturday, a half-holiday, and there was -nothing to do. She came to me and spoke to me again and again; but I -gave her very little answer. And he took no notice--he sent no message, -no letter--not a word of explanation. He never asked my pardon. In my -misery I thought I heard voices all the day as if they were talking, -talking--and he never sent a message or note or anything to me. And -then, after a long talk, as I fancied, with him, she would come to me. -“Mary, this must not be. You must get up. You must be like yourself. -Neither Mr Durham nor I have done you any wrong, Mary.” - -“Oh, don’t call me Mary!” I said; “call me some other name. If you knew -how different it sounds when it is said to you, not to me.” - -And then she would look at me with her eyes full of tears, and sit down -by me, and say no more. And so passed this bitter day. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Next day was Sunday. When I woke up, early, I recollected all that had -happened with a flush of overwhelming shame. How childishly, how -foolishly I had behaved. I was very, very wretched; but I was ashamed, -and pride got the upper hand. I dressed myself carefully, and went -downstairs, resolved not to show my misery at least, to be proud and -forget it. “If he does not care for me,” I said to myself, “I will not -care for him.” I passed his room very softly that I might not wake him. -There was early morning service in St Mark’s now, for the curate who had -succeeded poor papa was very High Church. I stole out and went to this -early service, and tried to be good, and to give myself up to God’s -will. Yes, it must have been God’s will--though how it could ever be -God’s will that anybody should be false, or unkind, or cruel, I could -not tell. I know it is right, however, whatever happens that vexes you, -to accept it as if it must be the will of God. I tried to do that, and I -was not quite so miserable when I went home. Ellen opened the door to -me, looking frightened. “I thought you was lost, too, Miss,” she said. -“I have been to church,” I answered, scarcely noticing her words. -Breakfast was laid in the little parlour. It was very, very tidy, -dreadfully tidy--everything was cleared away--the basket with the work -and all the little things, and every stray thread and remnant. All of a -sudden it occurred to me how little I had been doing to help of late. -Instead of working I had been spending the evenings with Mrs Stephens. I -did not even know how far the “things” were advanced, and it seemed -strange they should all be gone. Of course it was because of Sunday. -After a while Ellen brought in the coffee. She had still the same -frightened look. “Missis wasn’t with you at the early service, Miss -Mary?” “Oh, no,” I said, surprised at the question; “perhaps she is not -up.” - -“She’s never lain down all night,” said Ellen; “she was worrited and -worn off her legs going up and down to you yesterday, Miss--you that was -quite well, and had no call to your bed. She was a deal more like it, -the dear. She’s never lain in her bed this blessed night, and I can’t -find her, high or low.” - -I scarcely waited to hear this out, but rushed up to her room. The bed -had not been touched since yesterday. A little prayer-book lay on it, as -if she had been praying. The room was in perfect good order--no litter -about it. The little “things” were not to be seen. One of her dresses -hanging against the wall made me think for a moment she was there, but -it was only an old dress, and everything else was gone. Oh the terror -and the pain and the wonder of that discovery! I could not believe it. I -rushed through all the house, every room, calling her. Mr Durham heard -me, and came out to the door of his room and spoke to me as I passed, -and tried to take my hand, but I snatched it away from him. I did not -even think of him. I can just remember the look he had, half-ashamed, -appealing with his eyes, a little abashed and strange. I scarcely saw -him at the time--but I remember him now, and with good reason, for I -have never seen him again. - -And I have never seen Mary again from that day. Mrs Stephens came in to -me, startled by the news her servants had carried her; and she told me -she had heard a carriage drive off late on the previous night, but did -not think it was from our door. She knew nothing. She cried, but I could -not cry; and it was Sunday, and nothing could be done--nothing! even if -I had known what to do. I rushed to Spicer’s, and then I was sorry I had -gone, for such people as they are never understand, and they thought, -and think to this day, that there was something disgraceful in it. I -rushed to Mrs Tufnell, not expecting to find her, for now it was time -for church. The bells had done ringing, and I had already met, as I -walked wildly along, almost all the people I knew. One woman stopped me -and asked if Mrs Peveril was taken ill, and if she should go to her. -“Poor thing, poor thing!” this good woman said. Oh, she might well pity -us--both of us! But to my surprise Mrs Tufnell was at home. She almost -looked as if she expected me. She looked agitated and excited, as if she -knew. Did she know? I have asked her on my knees a hundred times, but -she has always shaken her head. “How should I know?” she has said, and -cried. I have thought it over and over for days and for years, till my -brain has whirled. But I think she does know--I think some time or other -she will tell me. It is a long time ago, and my feelings have got a -little dulled; but I think some time or other I must find it out. - -This wonderful event made a great change in my life. I began at once, -that very day, to live with Mrs Tufnell in the Square. She would not let -me go home. She kissed me, and said I was to stay with her now. Mr -Durham came twice and asked to see me; but I could not bear to see him. -Then Mrs Stephens came with a letter. He said in it that I must dispose -of him; that he, was in my hands, and would do whatever I pleased; that -he had been startled more than he could say by the sudden sight of one -whom he had loved before he knew me; but that if I could forgive him any -foolish words he might have said, then he hoped we might be happy. In -short, he was very honourable, ready to keep his word; and I felt as if -I hated him for his virtue--for treating me “honourably!” Was that what -all his love and all my happiness had come to? I sent him a very short -little note back, and it was all over. He went abroad soon after, and I -have never heard of him any more. - -And thus my story ended at seventeen. I wonder if there are many lives -with one exciting chapter in them, ending at seventeen, and then years -upon years of monotonous life. I am twenty-three now. I live with Mrs -Tufnell. I am daily governess to one little girl, and I have my forty -pounds a-year, the interest of poor papa’s insurance money. I am very -well off indeed, and some people think I need not care to take a pupil -at all--better off, a great deal, than I was in Southampton Street; but -how different! I heard very soon after that Mary had a little boy. It -was in the papers, but without any address; and I had one letter from -her, saying that we had made a mistake in trying to live together, and -that she was sorry. She hoped I would forgive her if she had been -mistaken, and she would always think of me and love me. Love me? Is it -like love to go away and leave me alone? Two people have said they loved -me in my life, and that is what both have done. - -However, after that letter I could not do anything more. If she thought -it was a mistake for us to live together, of course it was a mistake. -And I had my pride too. “I always felt it was a doubtful experiment,” -Mrs Tufnell said when people wondered, “and it did not answer--that was -all.” And this is how it was settled and ended--ended, I suppose, for -ever. Mrs Tufnell is very good to me, and as long as she lives I am sure -of a home. Perhaps I may tell you her story one of these days; for she -has a story, like most people. She tells me I am still very young, and -may yet have a life of my own; but in the meantime the most I can do is -to take an interest in other people’s lives. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -I had not intended to carry on any further a history which is chiefly -about myself; but events are always occurring which change one’s mind -from day to day, and alter one’s most fixed resolutions. I do not -pretend to understand people who make unchangeable decisions, and -certainly I am not one of them. Besides, common fairness requires that I -should allow Mrs Peveril to have the same privilege as myself, and tell -things her own way. I could not have imagined, had I not seen it, the -difference there was between the aspect of things to her and to me. I -suppose it is true after all that everybody has his or her own point of -view, which is different from all others. Of course we realise this fact -quite clearly in a great poem like “The Ring and the Book;” but to -recognise it in one’s own small affairs has somehow a much stranger, -more surprising effect. What an odd difference it would make in the -world if we could all see ourselves now and then with other people’s -eyes! I confess that the girl in her story, who was Mr Peveril’s -daughter, is very much unlike the girl in mine--and yet the same -somehow, as may be traced out with a little trouble. This is humbling, -but it is for one’s good, I suppose. When you look at yourself in a -mirror, you have so much interest in yourself that your defects don’t -strike you--you can’t help being the first figure--the most important; -but to feel that all along you are not important at all--anything but -the first figure, a mere shadow, scarcely noticed! it has a very odd -effect--sometimes laughable, sometimes rather the reverse; but this was -what now happened to me. - -I must add, however, that a long time passed over before I could even -think that Mrs Peveril might have something to say on her side. It was -not because of the rupture between Mr Durham and myself, and the sudden -conclusion of that dream and all that it seemed likely to bring with it. -No doubt these things embittered all my feelings about her; but yet I -was reasonable enough to come to see that it was not her fault--that she -had kept out of the way with all her might--and that after all she could -not foresee that another complication might arise between him and me. -She could not of course foresee this; and even if she had foreseen it, -what could she have done? I think it shows I was not unfair in my -judgment, for a girl of seventeen, to say that I soon came to see that. -But though I did not blame her, of course I was embittered against her, -and took refuge in being very angry with her on other grounds. That she -should have said our living together was a mistake was the chief of -these. Why was it a mistake? Did she mean to say it was my fault? If it -was simply her fault, as I felt sure it was, why did she call it a -mistake? Why not say plainly out, “I was wrong, and so we got into -trouble?” How easy it seems to be for people to acknowledge themselves -in the wrong! but not so easy for one’s self, somehow. I never met -anybody who liked doing it, though I have met with so many who ought to -have done it, and to whom it would have been so simple--so easy, I -thought; but that never seemed to be their opinion. Mrs Tufnell, who is -in some things a very odd old lady, says it never is anybody’s fault. -“There was never any quarrel yet,” she will say, “but there were two in -it--there was never any misunderstanding but two were in it. There is no -such thing as absolute blame on the one side and innocence on the other. -Even in your affairs, Mary, my dear----” But this I never can see nor -allow. How could I be to blame? Only seventeen, and knowing so little of -the world, and expecting everybody to be good and true, and say just -what they thought. When a man said he was fond of me, how was I to put -up with his having been fond of somebody else? And when a woman -professed to be thinking of me, was it natural that I could be pleased -to know she had been thinking of herself? I could not help behaving just -as I did. It was the only natural, the only possible way; but for them, -they ought to have known better, they ought to have thought of me. On -the whole that is the thing that hurts one--that goes to one’s heart. -People think of themselves first--when they ought to be thinking of you, -they think of themselves first. I suppose it is the same all over the -world. - -The way in which I first heard Mary’s story was simple enough. After -years of a dull sort of quiet life at Mrs Tufnell’s--who was very good -to me, and very kind, but who, of course, could give to me, a girl, only -what she, an old woman, had to give--the quietest life, without -excitement or change of any kind--she had a bad illness. It was not an -illness of the violent kind, but of what, I suppose, is more dangerous -to an old woman, a languishing, slow sickness, which looked like decay -more than disease. The doctors said “breaking up of the constitution,” -or at least the servants said so, who are less particular than the -doctors, and shook their heads and looked very serious. I was less -easily alarmed than anyone else, for it seemed to me a natural thing -that an old lady should be gently ill like that, one day a little better -and the next a little worse, without any suffering to speak of. It was -not until after she was better that I knew there had been real danger, -but she must have felt it herself. The way in which her sense of her -precarious condition showed itself was anxiety for me. I remember one -evening sitting in her room by the fire with a book; she was in bed, and -I had been reading to her, and now she was dozing, or at least I thought -so. Things appear (it is evident) very differently to different people. -I was extremely comfortable in that nice low easy-chair by the fire. It -was a pretty room, full of pictures and portraits of her friends, so -full that there was scarcely an inch of the wall uncovered. The -atmosphere was warm and soft, and the tranquil repose and ease of the -old lady in the bed somehow seemed to increase the warmth and softness -and kindly feeling. She was an additional luxury to me sitting there by -the fire with my novel. If any fairy had proposed to place her by my -side as young and as strong as myself, I should have rejected the -proposal with scorn. I liked her a great deal best so--old, a little -sick, kind, comfortable, dozing in her bed. Her very illness--which I -thought quite slight, rather an excuse for staying in this cosy room and -being nursed than anything else--heightened my sense of comfort. She was -not dozing, as it happened, but lying very still, thinking of -dying--wondering how it would feel, and planning for those she should -leave behind her. I knew nothing of these thoughts, no more than if I -had been a thousand miles away: and fortunately neither did she of mine. -I was roused from my comfortable condition by the sound of her voice -calling me. I rose up half reluctantly from the bright fire, and the -little table with the lamp and my book, and went and sat by her in the -shade where I could not see the fire; but still the sentiment of comfort -was predominant in me. I gave my old lady her mixture, which it was time -for her to take, and advised her to go to sleep. - -“You must not doze this time,” I said; “you must go right off to sleep, -and never wake till morning. Everything is put right for the night, and -I shall not go till you are asleep.” - -“I was not dozing,” she said, with that natural resentment which -everybody feels to be so accused; and then, after a moment, “Mary, I was -thinking of you. If I were to die, what would you do?” - -I was very much shocked, and rather frightened; but when I looked at -her, and saw by the dim light that she did not look any worse, I felt -rather angry. “How unkind of you!” I said, “to speak so! You frightened -me at first. What would it matter what became of me?” - -“It would matter a great deal,” she said. “It would make everything so -much worse. I don’t want to die, Mary, though I daresay I should be a -great deal better off, and get rid of all my troubles----” - -“Oh, it is wicked to talk so!” - -“Why should it be wicked? I can’t help thinking of it,” she said, lying -in her warm cosy bed. It made me shiver to hear her. I began to cry, -rather with a chill, wretched sense of discomfort in the midst of all -the warmth than anything else; upon which she put her hand on my -shoulder and gave me a little shake, and laughed at me softly. “Silly -child!” she said--but she was not angry. There was a very grave look on -her face behind the smile. Dying was strange to her as well as to me, -though she was very old. - -“But, Mary,” she went on, “I want to read you something. I want you to -think again about some one you once were very fond of. I have some news -of Mrs Peveril----” - -“Oh!” I said; and then I went on stiffly, “I hope she is well.” - -“She is quite well--and--your little brother. I wish you would see them. -All that happened was so long ago; I think you might see them, Mary.” - -“I never made any objection to seeing them,” I said, more and more -stiffly, though my heart began to leap and thump against my breast. “You -forget I had nothing to do with it. It was she who went away. She said -it was a mistake.” - -“You are an unforgiving child. You did not try to enter into her -feelings, Mary.” - -“How could I?” I said. “Did she wish me to enter into her feelings? Did -she ever give me a chance? She said it was a mistake. What was there -left for me to say?” - -“Well, well,” said the old lady, “I don’t defend her. I always said she -was wrong; but still I have been hearing from her lately, Mary. I have -three or four letters which I should like you to read----” - -“You have been hearing from her without ever telling me!” - -“Bless the child! must I not even get a letter without consulting her? -But, Mary, I am a free agent still, and I can’t be kept in such order,” -she said, half laughing. “Give me that blotting-book, and my keys, and -my spectacles, and bring the lamp a little closer.” - -Indignant as I was, I was comforted by all these preparations. And when -she had put on her spectacles and opened the blotting-book, sitting up -in bed, my mind was so much relieved that my indignation floated away. -“It is a pretty thing for you to talk of dying, and frighten people,” I -said, giving her a kiss, “with your cheeks like two nice old roses.” She -shook her head, but she smiled too: she felt better, and got better -gradually from that hour. - -But in the meantime I had to listen to these letters. Perhaps if it had -not been that my old lady was ill, I should have been offended to find -that she had deceived me, and had known about Mary all along. It was a -deception, though she did not mean any harm. “She had thought it best,” -she said, “to let time soften all our feelings, before she told me -anything about it.” However, I must not enter into all the discussions -we had on this subject. It is only fair that Mary should have her turn, -and tell her story as I have told mine. It is not a connected story like -mine, but you will see from it what kind of a life hers had been, and -what sort of a woman she was. She is different from the Mary I -thought--and yet not different either--just as I am different from the -girl I thought I was, and yet very like too, if you look into it. I -cannot tell what my feelings were as I read first one bit and then -another, and a great deal more which I do not think it necessary to -quote here. One moment I was furious with her--the next I could have -kissed her feet. These people who send you from one extreme of feeling -to another, who do wrong things and right things all in a jumble, take a -greater hold upon you, somehow, than better people do, who are placid -and always on the same level--at least I think so. I started by calling -her Mrs Peveril--and here I am already saying Mary, as of old, without -knowing! And Mrs Tufnell wishes me to go and see her. She has even made -me promise as a kind of reward to herself for getting better. Since she -takes it in this way, I shall have to go--and sometimes I fear it, and -sometimes I wish for it. Will it make any difference to me? Will the old -love come back, or the still older feeling that was not love? Shall I -think of that “Mary” that sounded always so much sweeter to her than to -me? Or shall I remember only the time when she was everything to -me--when she charmed me out of my grief and loneliness, and told me her -secret, and made me her companion, and was all mine? I do not know. I -begin to tremble, and my heart beats when I think of this meeting; but -in the meantime Mary has a right to her turn, and to tell the story her -own way. It is all in little bits taken from Mrs Tufnell’s letters, and -sometimes may appear a little fragmentary; but I can only give it as it -came to me. - - - - -II. HER STORY - -CHAPTER VII - - -When I went to be governess at Mrs Durham’s I was quite young. I had -been “out” before, but only as nursery governess. Mine was not a very -regular or, perhaps, a very good kind of education. My mother had been a -governess before me, and not one of very high pretensions, as -governesses are nowadays. I don’t think she ever knew anything herself, -except a little music and a little French, which she had forgotten -before my time. How my father and she met, and, still more wonderful, -how they took to each other, is a thing I never could make out. Perhaps -I was most fond of her, but certainly I was most proud of him, and liked -to copy his ways, and to believe what my mother often said--that I was a -Martindale every inch of me. This, poor soul, she meant as a reproach, -but to me it sounded like a compliment. I was very silly and rather -cruel, as young people are so often. My father had a great deal of -contempt for her, and not much affection; and though I had a great deal -of affection, I borrowed unconsciously his contempt, and thought myself -justified in treating her as he did. She was wordy and weak in -argument, and never knew when to stop. But he--when he had stated what -he intended to do--would never answer any of her objections, or indeed -take any notice of them, but listened to her with a contemptuous -silence. I took to doing the same; and though I know better now, and am -sorry I ever could have been so foolish and so unkind, yet the habit -remains with me--not to take the trouble to reply to foolish arguments, -but to do what I think right without saying anything about it. This -habit, I may as well confess, has got me into trouble more than once; -but I do not say that I am prepared to give it up, though I know I have -taken harm by it, and no good, so far as I am aware. - -We were very poor, and I had been a nursery governess and a daily -governess when I was little more than a child. When my poor mother died -a little money came, and then I got a few lessons to improve me in one -or two different accomplishments; and then I took Mrs Durham’s -situation. My father was one of the wandering men who live a great deal -abroad; and I had learned French and enough German to make a show, in -the best way, by practice rather than by book. “French acquired -abroad”--that was what was put for me in the advertisement, and this I -think was my principal recommendation to Mrs Durham. Her eldest son was -at home at the time--a young man just a little older than myself. She -was a kind woman, and unsuspicious. She thought George only a boy, and -perhaps about me she never thought at all--in connection with him, at -least. I used to be encouraged at first to make him talk French, and -great was the amusement in the school-room over his pronunciation and -his mistakes. They were all very kind when I come to think of it. They -were as fearless and trustful with me as if I had belonged to them. And -then by degrees I found out that George had fallen in love with me. I -think I may say quite certainly that I never was in love with him, but I -was a little excited and pleased, as one always is, you know, when that -happens for the first time. It is so odd--so pleasant to feel that you -have that power. It seems so kind of the man--one thinks so when one is -young--and it is amusing and flattering, and a thing which occupies your -mind, and gives you something agreeable to think of. I do not say this -is the right way of thinking on such a subject, but it is how a great -many girls feel, and I was one of them. I had never thought seriously of -it at all. It seemed so much more like fun than anything else; and then -it is always pleasant to have people fond of you. I liked it; and I am -afraid I never thought of what it might come to, and did not take up any -lofty ground, but let him talk, and let him follow me about, and steal -out after me, and waylay me in the passages. I did this without -thinking, and more than half for the amusement of it. I liked him, and I -liked the place he took up in my life, and the things he said, without -really responding to his feelings at all. - -When it was found out, and there was a disturbance in the house about -it, I came to my senses all at once, with such a hot flush of pain and -shame that I seem to feel it yet. They had been so kind to me, that I -had never felt my dependence; but now, all in a moment I found it out. -His mother was frightened to death lest he should marry me! She thought -me quite beneath him; me--a Martindale all over--a gentleman’s -daughter--much better than she was! This roused a perfect tempest in me. -It was my pride that was outraged, not my feelings; but that pride was -strong enough and warm enough to be called a passion. I did what I could -to show his mother that nothing in the world could be more indifferent -to me than he was, but she would not be convinced; and at last I -determined to do what my father often had done when my mother was -unreasonable--to withdraw out of the discussion at once and summarily, -without leaving any opportunity for further talk. My father was living -then. He was at Spa, which was not very difficult to reach. One evening, -after Mrs Durham had been talking to me (George had been sent away, but -I was not sent away because they were sorry for me), I stayed in the -school-room till they were all at dinner, and then I carried all my -things, which I had made up into bundles, down to the hall with my own -hands, and got a cab and went off to the railway station. I bought a -common box on my way, and packed them all into it. I tell you this to -show how determined I was; not even one of the servants knew how I had -gone, or anything about me. It was winter, and the Durhams dined at -half-past six; so I had time enough to get off by the night train to -Dover. I had not a very large wardrobe, you may suppose, but I left -nothing behind me but some old things. I was not particular about -crushing my dresses for that one night. I remember, as if it were -yesterday, the dark sea and dark sky, and great, chill, invisible, -open-air world that I seemed to stand alone in, as the steamboat went -bounding over those black waves, or ploughing through them, to Ostend. -There was a great deal of wind, but the sea had not had time to rise, -and there was the exhilaration of a storm without its more disagreeable -consequences. The vessel did not roll, but now and then gave a leap, -spurning the Channel spray from her bows. Oh how I recollect every -particular! You might think a lonely girl in such circumstances--flying -from persecution, if you like to put it so--flying from love; with -nothing but a very uncertain welcome to look to from a very -unsatisfactory father, and no prospect but to face the world again and -get her bread somehow--was as sad a figure as could be imagined. But I -was not sad. I had a high spirit, and I loved adventure and change. I -felt as if the steamboat was me, going bounding on, caring nothing for -the sea or the darkness. The wind might catch at us, the water might -dash across our sides, the sky might veil itself--who cared? We pushed -on, defying them all. A poor governess as good as turned out of my -situation because the son of the house had fallen in love with me--a -penniless creature without a home, with not a soul to stand by me in all -that dark world. And yet I don’t remember anything I ever enjoyed more, -than that journey by night. - -This will show you--and you may show it to Mary to convince her--how -much I cared for George Durham. I suppose he was in love with me--at -least what a young man not much over twenty considers love. That is six -years ago; and probably he has always had a recollection, all this time, -that he was in love with me, and thinks that he ought to have been -faithful. I should not wonder if there was a kind of remorse in his mind -to find that he had fallen in love with Mary, and cared for me no -longer. It is a superstition with some people that, however foolish -their first fancy was, they ought to hold by it; but I must say that I -think it was very foolish, not to say cruel, of both of them, to make -this breach on account of me. - -I got another situation after that, and did well enough--as governesses -do. I never complained, or thought I had any reason to complain. I -taught all I knew--not very much, but enough for most people. As for -education, as people talk nowadays--of awakening the minds, and training -the dispositions, and re-creating the children, so to speak, -intellectually and morally--I never thought of such a thing; and why -should I? That is the work of a mother, appointed by God, or of some -great person endowed with great genius or influence--not of a young -woman between eighteen and five-and-twenty, indifferently trained -herself, with quite enough to do to master her own difficulties and keep -herself afloat. I was not so impertinent, so presumptuous, or so foolish -as to have any such idea. I taught them as well as I could; I tried to -make them as fond of books as I was myself--I tried to get them to talk -like gentlewomen, and not to be mean or false. I was not their mother, -or their priest, but only their teacher. I had no theory then; but after -one is thirty, one begins to have theories; and I can see what I meant -in my earlier time by the light of what I think now. However, this is -not much to the purpose. I was a successful governess on the whole; I -got on very well, and I had nothing to find fault with. It is not a very -happy life--when you are young, and hear pleasant sounds below-stairs, -and have to sit reading by yourself in the school-room; when there is -music and dancing perhaps, and merry talk, and you are left alone in -that bare place with maps on the walls, and one candle--a girl does not -feel happy; though on the whole, perhaps, the school-room is better than -to sit in a corner of the drawing-room and be taken no notice of--which -is the other alternative. There are a great many difficulties in the -position altogether, as I can see now that I am older. When the -governess is made exactly like one of the family, the eldest son will go -and fall in love with her and bring everybody into trouble. It is hard -for the lady of the house as well. However, after George Durham, I was -careful, and I never got into difficulty of that kind again. Four years -after I left the Durhams I had a bad illness--rheumatic fever. My people -were very kind to me, but I was too proud to be a burden on them; and as -soon as I could be moved I left and went into lodgings, and was ill -there till I had spent all my money; it was only then that I had -recourse to the Spicers. Perhaps I ought to confess that, though Mr -Spicer is my uncle, I was ashamed of him and disliked him. I have felt -angry at my poor mother all my life for having such relations; but of -course there they were, and had to be made the best of. My money lasted -till I was almost well, but not well enough for another situation. My -father had died in the meantime; and only then I sent to the Spicers, -and asked if they would take me in for a time. I was a good needlewoman; -I knew I could repay them well for keeping me. That is how I went to -them. What followed no one could have foreseen. You know how it was. - - * * * * * - -I cannot talk about my husband--yet. How could I talk about that which -was everything to me, which changed my life, which made me another -creature? People may love you, and it makes but little difference to -you. It is pleasant, no doubt; it softens your lot; it makes things -bearable which would not be bearable. I had known that in my life. But -to love--that is another thing. That is the true revelation--the lifting -up of the veil. It is as different from simply being loved as night is -from day. I suppose few women are, as I was, in circumstances to feel -this sudden lighting up of existence all of a sudden. Most women have a -great deal to love, and know that condition better than the other. They -would not make so much fuss about being loved did they not already -possess the other gift. But I had never really loved anybody, I suppose. -Various people had loved me. I had liked it, and had done what I could -to be kind and agreeable to them. Some (women) I had been very fond of. -It seems to me now that the world must have been a most curious, cloudy -sort of place in my early youth--a dim place, where nothing moved one -very much; where daylight was quite sober and ordinary, and nothing out -of oneself was exciting. When I saw Mr Peveril first I had no warning -of what was coming. I did not feel even interested in him. He seemed too -gentle, too soft for my liking. What attracted me was, I think, chiefly -the fact that he was the only educated man I ever saw there--the only -being, man or woman, who was not of, or like, the Spicers. This was my -only feeling towards him for the first two or three times I saw him--but -then----. - - * * * * * - -I am afraid I did not think very much about Mary when we were married. -Of course I meant to do my duty by her: that goes without saying. And -her resistance and dislike did not make me angry. They rather amused me. -It seemed so odd that she should think herself of consequence enough to -be so deeply offended. She, a girl, with all her life before -her--fifteen--of no present importance to any mortal, though no doubt -she would ripen into something after a while. When Mr Peveril distressed -himself about what he called her want of respect to me, I used to smile -at him. He would have made her love me by force had that been -possible--as if her little sullenness, poor child, made any difference! -It was quite natural, besides--only foolish, if she could but have seen -it. She was a naughty child, and she thought herself a virgin-martyr. I -hope it is not wicked of me to be amused by that virgin-martyr look. I -know it so well. I have seen it over and over again in all sorts of -circumstances. To say a tragedy-queen is nothing. There is a sublime -patience, a pathos about your virgin-martyrs, which far outdoes anything -else. Poor little Mary! if I had not seen that she was quite happy in -her own thoughts, even when she thought herself most miserable, I should -have taken more notice of it. I can’t tell what she was always thinking -about--whether it was some imaginary lover or romance of her own that -she kept weaving for hours together; but it kept her happy anyhow. She -was very provoking sometimes--never was there such a spoiled child. She -balked me thoroughly in one thing, and would not let me be her governess -as well as her stepmother; which was what I wished. How often should I -have liked to box her little impertinent ears, and then laugh and kiss -her into good-humour! But in that point there was nothing to be done. I -had to leave all to time, in which I hoped--without, alas! having the -least thought, the least provision, how short my time was to be. You -will see that I am not one to linger upon my private feelings. I have -said nothing to you about my happiness. I can say nothing about my -grief. The beautiful life stopped short--the light went out--an end -seemed to come to everything. I cannot say more about it. Everything -ended--except one’s pulse, which will go on beating, and the long hours -and days that have to be got through somehow, and the bread that has to -be eaten in spite of one’s self--and has to be earned too, as if it were -worth the while. - - * * * * * - -I wonder at myself sometimes, and you will wonder, that I did not break -down under my grief. It was my first real grief, as that which preceded -it had been my first real happiness. I have even envied the people who -got ill and who could go to bed, and darken their windows and lie still -and let the sword go through and through them in quietness, instead of -writhing on it as I did; but that must be nature. My first instinct was -to snatch at something, to lay hold upon something, lest I should be -carried away by some fiery flood or other. And what I snatched at was -Mary. I love Mary. You may think I have not acted as if I did; but that -is nothing; and she does not love me. But still I have that distinct -feeling for her which I never experienced till her dear, dear father -(oh, my God, my God, why is it that my child will never call him so!) -showed me the way. I have had a great deal to bear from her; she is not -like me; and there are many things I dislike in her. But all that does -not matter. And it is not as I loved him--but yet I love her. All I -remember about those dark days was that I laid hold upon Mary. She could -not escape from me when I seized her so--few, very few, people can. To -resist kindness is easy enough, but downright love has a different kind -of grasp; you cannot get free of that. It is because there is so much -fictitious love in the world that people are not aware of the power of -the true. - -I secured her--for the time. You may say it did not last very long; but -that was not my fault; it was because she too, in her time, woke up from -her affection for me, and all the torpor of her youth, and heard the -call of love, and got up and left those that did but love her. The time -we lived together was a strange dreamy time, between blank despair and a -kind of languid happiness. Sometimes I would feel almost happy because -of what was coming, and then I would be plunged into that horror of -darkness, that shadow of death, which is of all things on earth the most -terrible--worse, a thousand times worse, than death itself. I say this -with confidence, because I as good as died once. I was so ill that I had -floated off into that unconsciousness which would have been death had -they left me alone; and it was not unpleasant. Had they left me alone I -should have died, therefore I am justified in saying that this was -death; and it was not disagreeable--just a soft floating away, a gradual -growing dim and shutting out, without any of that sense of desertion and -loneliness which one feels must be so strong in the dying. But the -shadow of death is very terrible. No one can exaggerate its terror. When -it seizes upon the soul, all that surrounds you is lost in one sea of -misery. The waves and the billows pass over you. You feel as if you -could not endure, could not last through that flood of pain--and yet you -do last. The great billow passes over, and there is a calm, and your -soul is so fatigued and worn out that it lies exhausted, and a languor -of rest, which is almost ease, passes over it. This was how I lived for -three months with Mary; until the shock of the other who thrust himself -into our life--the stranger, who was no stranger, came. - -His first appearance was nothing but an insignificant trouble, a mere -annoyance to me,--why should I care? I had not thought of him at all for -years; and I never had thought of him much. But still I did not want him -there: he annoyed me; he was a kind of constant menace of more annoyance -to come. But I don’t know what steps I could have taken. It was a long -time before I could realise that he would fall in love with Mary. I -rather think it is difficult to believe that a man who has loved you -will love some one else. That is--if you are quite indifferent to him; -it is so much easier then, to believe in his faithfulness. The idea did -not occur to me. I feared a little for Mary once or twice, and tried to -warn her; but she was always a dreamy sort of girl, and it was hard to -tell when a new influence came over her. She had lived in dreams of one -kind or other ever since I knew her; and I knew nothing, really nothing, -about what was going on, till that unhappy afternoon when he recognised -me, and came in and talked foolishly in Mary’s hearing, about things -that had happened so long before. Poor child!--I don’t blame her, for -her foolishness was natural enough. She thought I had stolen away her -lover, as I had stolen away her father. She would not listen to me, and -when she did listen to me she did not believe me; and there on the other -hand was he, demanding explanations. Good heavens, what right has a man -like that to ask explanations--a man one had never cared for, and would -have died of? He worried me so that I could not be civil. What with -grief, and what with vexation at the turn things had taken, and -disappointment in Mary, and illness in myself, I had no patience with -the man, maundering on about things that had happened ages before, that -were of no importance to any living being. When he waylaid me on my way -to her, keeping me back from her, in her agony of temper and -mortification and humiliation, what I could have done to him! I was in a -nervous state, I suppose, and easily irritated. I could have struck him -when he came out and worried me. And there was Mary turning her face to -the wall, shutting out the light, shutting her ears, determined to be -miserable. Oh! when I toiled up and down stairs going to her, when I -felt ill and knew that nobody cared, when I saw her absorbed in her -foolish misery, and him tormenting himself and me about dead nonsense -that never had been anything, you may excuse me if I had very little -patience. After a night of it I got tired and sick of the whole -business. It seemed too hard to be obliged to put up with all this folly -on the eve of being ill. And who would care whether I was ill or not, if -things went on so? - -Then I took my resolution suddenly, as I had done before. It was not -with the hope and high spirit that had kept me up when I went off to -Ostend that I left Southampton Street, my own house. I was sick and -tired, that was all. I could not be troubled to go on. I was worried and -impatient and indignant--and then Mary had a friend to take care of her. -I went away. I went to an hospital after a while in the same irritated -hopeless state, feeling that it did not matter what happened; and there -my boy was born. Well! what did it matter? They are for honest, poor -women, these hospitals--and Heaven knows I was poor enough, but honest. -One cares for one’s self only when one has other people who care. I had -nobody. I did not lose heart altogether, because that is not my nature. -I could not if I would; but what did I care for what people would think -or for what they might say? no more than for the buzzing of the flies. I -should never even hear of it--there was nobody to tell me, nobody to pay -any attention. I thought most likely I should die; but I did not -calculate upon dying, for by that time I knew I had strength to go -through a great deal. And so I did. My boy was quite strong and well, -and I got quite well and strong too. Often I have thought this showed -how little heart I must have; but I could not help it. I got quite -strong. I reflected seriously whether I should not try for a nurse’s -place, which was very well paid, and where very little was required; but -even if I could have parted with my boy, I had no one to trust with the -care of him. So instead of doing this, I made shift to live for a whole -year upon my forty pounds of income, with a little more which I earned -by needlework. When you are a very good needlewoman, you can always earn -something. I did very well; I made baby clothes; my eyes were strong, -and my health was good, and I had my own baby to comfort me. There is -nothing that comforts like a baby. When the child laughs, you laugh too. -You laugh to make him laugh; first it is sympathy, then it is delight, -till gradually you grow a baby too, and are amused at nothing, and happy -for nothing, and live over again, beginning at the very beginning, in -the child. - -In this way I grew to be so tranquil, so eased in mind, and happy in -heart, notwithstanding my loss, which I never forgot, that I was tempted -to remain just as I was always; but then it occurred to me that I should -lose all that I knew, that I would never be able to teach him, or to get -him education, or to rise in the world, as I wanted to do for his sake; -therefore it was clear I must do something else. This was what I did: I -found out about a situation in a school after a great deal of inquiry. I -went to the lady and told her my story; I said I would go to her for -almost nothing if I might have my baby and a little maid to take care of -him. When she heard of my “French acquired abroad,” my showy bit of -German, my music, and how I would make myself as useful as ever she -liked, having excellent health and no sort of prejudices about what I -did, she closed with me. I had two rooms, and board for myself and the -maid and the boy--no more at first--but I managed on that. And then by -degrees we improved. She gave me first twenty pounds, then a little -more. A baby’s white frock and a widow’s black gown do not cost much. We -did very well. I have fifty pounds now the school has increased so much; -and I believe I may have a share soon if all goes well. My French goes -for a great deal, and even my name and my widow’s cap go for something, -and everybody in the school likes to tell the story of the baby. Am I -happy, do you say? I never stop to ask myself whether I am happy or not. -One must form some idea of change in one’s mind, some thought of a -possibility which might make one happier, before one would think of -asking one’s self such a question. And as I have no reasonable prospect -of ever being happier than I am, I do not think about it. I am not -unhappy--of that I am sure. - -You talk of bringing Mary and me together again. Would it answer, I -wonder? Sentiment is one thing, but practicability is another. Having -told you that I loved Mary, I have said all that either woman or man can -say. Likings change and alter, but love is for ever. Yet, whether we -could live together, whether she could trust me, whether she would -understand the past, and feel how little I wished or intended to -interfere with her, I cannot tell; unless she could, it would almost be -better to leave us as we are. So long as a woman is young, as Mary is, -it is doubtful and dangerous, I am afraid, to try any relationships but -those that are quite natural. She is with you, you dearest, kind friend, -as if she were your own child. You can do her nothing but good; but I am -not so very much older than she is. I am older--centuries older--but not -to outward appearance; and can you not suppose a state of things in -which the last chapter of our lives might be, one way or other, repeated -again? I say this not with any sort of vanity, Heaven knows, but with -fear and trembling. For I should be happier with her--far happier--but -not if she came to me with a single doubt in her mind, a single thought -which was uncertain or suspicious. Do not tell her this one difficulty -which seems to me to stand in our way, but judge for us both what is -best. I want her for myself and for my boy. We belong to each other, -and no one else in the world belongs to us. How often I long for her -when I am sitting alone! How many things I have in my mind to say to -her! But not unless it would be well for her, to whom anything may -happen. Nothing that I know of, except through her or my baby, can now -happen to me. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -I will not enter into all the particulars of our discussion after this, -for time would fail me. The last part of Mary’s letter, which she said -was not to be shown to me, made me angry. I thought it was vanity on her -part to be afraid of interfering with me again. “In what way?” I could -not but ask, and that sharply; how could the last chapter of our lives -be repeated? Mrs Tufnell only smoothed my hair and soothed me, and -called me “dear” and “darling,” but would give no explanation. “What -does she mean?” I asked. “Oh, she means, my love--probably she means -nothing. It is just a way of talking that people fall into,” said my old -lady. I knew this was said simply to quiet me, but on the whole perhaps -I preferred it to anything more definite; and, after a time, I allowed -myself to be persuaded to pay my stepmother a visit. What a strange -journey into the past it seemed! and yet actually we went far away from -the scene of the past, into a place so new and unknown to me, that it -could awaken no associations. We drove in the comfortable old fly, with -the old sleek horse and the old fat man, which was as good as Mrs -Tufnell’s private carriage. She did not keep a carriage of her own, but -I am sure this fly, in which she drove every day of her life except when -she was ill, cost her more than a carriage would have done. She was very -apologetic about it always. “I could not undertake the responsibility of -a carriage,” she would say; “horses are always getting ill, and your -coachman drinks, or he gets into trouble with the maids, or something. -Old Groombridge and his fly suit me quite well. No, he is not an old -rogue. I have to pay him, of course, for all his trouble, and for the -loss of customers, and so forth. You know, Mary, he always suits himself -to my convenience at whatever sacrifice----” - -This was her idea, and nothing would convince her otherwise. So we drove -in Groombridge’s old fly--which was one of the most expensive vehicles -in town--out Hampstead way, but past all the houses, past everything, -till we came to new houses again, and skeleton roads and villas growing -up like mushrooms, in one of those long straggling arms that London puts -out into the country. I had got excited so often thinking that we must -be quite close upon the place, that at last I ceased to be excited, and -felt as if we had set out upon a hopeless circle, and were going to wind -in and out and round and round, till we worked back to the point from -which we started. How dreary they look, those new places--roads newly -laid out, breaking in upon the fields, which somehow look so superior, -so desecrated, and vulgarised by those new muddy lines with the -unnecessary kerbstones; and then all the half-built houses, each one -uglier than the other, with their bow-windows, all made by the gross (I -suppose), and their thin little walls that the wind whistles through, -and even their monotonous attempt at irregularity. A steady, solid row -which is very ugly and nothing more, is endurable. I was saying this, -when suddenly the fly made a sharp turn, and immediately the villas and -the kerbstones became invisible. We had got within a mossy wall, through -a large old-fashioned gate. There was an avenue, not very long nor very -grand, but still an avenue, with odd old trees all gnarled and mossed -over, and I suppose in a very bad condition, but still old, and -trees--trees which our grandfathers might have walked under. The house -was an old red-brick house, very dark red, and covered with little brown -and yellow lichens. It was neat, but yet one could see it was in want of -repair, and looked like a poor lady in a faded gown and mended lace by -the side of the fine shop-people in silk and satin. It was a winter -day--a very still and bright one. The shadows of all the leafless trees -made a network upon the brown gravel path. The old house seemed to be -basking, warming itself in the sun. There were a great many twinkling -windows, but not a creature to be seen except one little child on the -white step of the deep doorway. There was a porch, and probably his -nurse was there, but the little fellow was standing out in the sun, -cracking a little whip he had, with his hair shining in the bright -light, and his little face like an apple-blossom. He was shouting out -some baby nonsense at the top of his voice. He did not care for us, nor -for anyone. He was the monarch of all--quite alone in his kingdom, -independent of everybody. - -“Who do you think that is, Mary?” said Mrs Tufnell, taking my hand -suddenly, as I looked out laughing and amused by him. Good heavens! I -had never once thought. I fell back into my corner and began to cry, I -cannot tell why. Of course I knew at once whom it must be. - -And then _she_ came, not in the least altered, kissing me just as if we -had parted yesterday. But she was agitated, though she tried not to show -it. She took the little boy and brought him to me, and thrust him into -my arms without a word, and her lip quivered, and for some minutes she -could not say anything. The meeting was hard altogether. When the thing -that sundered you is too far off to be talked about, and when everybody -counsels you to avoid explanations and go on again as if nothing had -happened, it is very hard; you may succeed in uniting the old strands -and twisting them together once more, but it is perhaps more likely that -you will fail. We went into Mary’s new home, and saw the lady who was -the head of the school. It was holiday time--the Christmas holidays--and -they were alone. This lady was middle-aged, older than Mary, but not so -old as Mrs Tufnell. She was an unmarried woman, and I could at once -understand what Mary had said, that her very name and her widow’s cap -told for something in the place. But what was most evident of all was -that little Jack was the sovereign of Grove House. Whatever anybody -might do or say, he was supreme. Miss Robinson was fond of his mother, -and “appreciated” her, as she told us; but little Jack was the monarch, -and did what he pleased. - -Our visit was, as people say, quite successful. It went off perfectly -well--we kissed when we met and when we parted--we had a great deal to -say to each other of what had passed since we met--and there was little -Jack to make acquaintance with, and a great many of his wonderful -adventures to be told of. Mrs Tufnell came away with the thought that it -had been a great success, and that henceforward nothing more was -wanted--that Mary and I would be one again. - -But Mary and I felt differently. I did, at least, and I am sure so did -she. You cannot mend a rent so easily. Such a rent--a rent that had -lasted more than five years--how can it be drawn together again by any -hasty needle and thread like a thing done yesterday? We parted friends, -with promises to meet again; but with hearts, oh! so much more apart -from each other than they had been an hour before! An hour before we met -I had all sorts of vague hopes in my mind--vague feelings that she -would understand me, that I should understand her--vague yearnings -towards the old union which was almost perfect. Did you ever see the -great glass screen they have in some houses to shield you from the heat -of the fire? You can see the cheerful blaze through it, but you feel -nothing. Something of the kind was between Mary and me. We saw through -it as well as ever, and seemed, to enjoy the pleasant warmth; but no -other sensation followed, only the chill of a disappointment. I felt -that she was now nothing, nothing to me; and I--I cannot tell how I -seemed to her. We had the old habit suddenly brought to life and put on -again, but none of the old meaning. We were like mummers trying to make -ourselves out to be heroines of the past, but knowing we were not and -never could be what we appeared. I was very silent during our drive home -I did not know what to say to my dear old lady. She looked very fragile -with her pretty rose-cheeks, lying back in the corner of the fly; she -was fatigued, and in the daylight I suddenly woke up to see that she did -look very fragile. I had not believed in it before. And how could I vex -her by telling her of my disappointment? I could not do it; she was -pleased and happy; she held my hand, and nodded to me and said: “Now you -see you are not so much alone as you thought you were. Now you see you -have friends who belong to you.” How could I have had the heart to say -otherwise--to say I had found out that we were separated for ever, Mary -and I? - -That evening, however, after tea, she began to talk to me very -seriously. We were sitting over the fire--she on her favourite sofa, I -on a low chair near her. The firelight kept dancing about, lighting up -the room fitfully. It was a large room. We had some candles on the -mantel-piece, which shone, reflected in the great mirror, as if from -some dim, deep chamber opening off this one; but it was really the -firelight that lighted the room. I had been singing to her, and I half -thought she had been asleep, when suddenly she roused up all at once, -and sat upright in her little prim way. - -“I want to speak to you, Mary,” she said; and then, after a pause--“You -think I meant nothing but love and kindness when I took you to see Mrs -Peveril to-day; but I am a scheming, wicked old woman, Mary. I had more -than that in my mind.” - -I was a little, but only a little, startled by this: I knew her way. I -looked up at her, smiling. “You are so designing,” I said; “I might have -known there was something underneath. You are going to ask them to spend -the rest of their holidays here?” - -“That if you like,” she said brightly, encouraged, I could see, by my -tone; “but more than that, Mary; more than that.” - -I was not curious. I looked with an indolent amusement at the shining of -the firelight and the reflection in the mirror of the flame of the -candles, which shone out of its surface without seeming to move the dark -ruddy gloom beyond. A glass is always an inscrutable, wonderful thing, -like an opening into the unseen: it was especially so that night. - -“Mary,” Mrs Tufnell resumed, with a voice that faltered, I could not -tell why; “do you remember when I first spoke to you of Mrs -Peveril--when I was ill?--and what I said?” - -“Yes,” I answered, with sudden alarm, looking up at her. “You don’t feel -ill now?” - -“No, but I have got a shake,” she said. “When a woman at my time of life -is ill, though it may seem to pass quite away, it always leaves a -something. I shall never be as strong as I have been, my dear child. I -feel I have got a shake. My life has come to be like the late leaves on -the top of a tree. They may last through many gales, but the first gust -may blow them off. I cannot feel sure for a day.” - -I went close up to her in my fright, and knelt down by the sofa, and put -my arms round her. “Do not speak so,” I said; “you could not leave me? -What could I do without you? I am not an orphan as long as I have you. -You cannot have the heart----” - -“Oh, Mary! hush; don’t overwhelm me. It was of that I wanted to speak. I -shall live as long as I can, for your sake. But, dear, old people cannot -stay always, however much they may be wanted. I have been thinking of it -a great deal, and there is a proposal I have to make to you--with Mrs -Peveril’s consent, Mary. You must listen to all I have to say.” - -“Oh, you have consulted Mrs Peveril!” said I; and I got up, feeling my -heart grow chill and sore, and went back to my seat to hear what was to -be said to me. In the depths of my heart I must have been jealous of her -still. It came all back upon me like a flood. My dear old lady gave me a -grieved look, but she did not stop to explain. She went quickly on with -what she had to say:-- - -“Grove House is a nice old-fashioned house, and cheap, and they have a -good list of scholars; and Miss Robinson would be glad to retire, and -would not ask very much for the furniture and things; and Mrs Peveril is -so much liked by everybody. I have always set apart as much as I thought -was right of my little property, intending it for you, Mary----” - -“Don’t!” I cried, in a voice so shrill and sharp that it startled even -myself who spoke. - -“It is not very much,” she went on, “but it is all I can give away, and -my whole heart has been set upon doing something for you with this money -that would make you independent. My dear Mary, I am half afraid you -don’t like the thought, you are so silent. I had thought of buying Grove -House for Mrs Peveril and you.” - -“For Mrs Peveril and me!” - -“Yes--don’t you like the idea, Mary?--don’t you like the idea? I thought -it was something that would please you so much. You have always said you -liked teaching, and it would be a living for you, dear, and a home when -I am gone. I have so wished to make these arrangements for you, -Mary----” - -“Is it all settled?” I said. - -“Nothing could be settled without your consent. All that I want is your -good. I could not leave you, could I, at your age, without anyone to -stand by you, without a home to go to, without a friend----” - -Thus she apologised to me for those kind, tender plans of hers; and I -sat like a clod, feeling that I could not reply. I was dull and heavy -and miserable; not grateful, yet feeling how grateful I ought to be; -understanding her, yet not owning even to myself that I understood her. -It was not a very great destiny that was thus allotted to me, but that -was not what I was thinking. My mind did not revolt against the idea of -being the mistress of a school; which was a natural lot enough. To tell -the truth, I cannot quite say what it was that gave me so miserable a -feeling. Here was my life marked out for me; there was never to be any -change in it; no alteration for the brighter or better occurred to this -dear old woman who loved me. She wanted to make sure I should have daily -bread and a roof to shelter me, and some sort of companionship. How -right she was! How good and how kind! and yet, oh, how dreary, how -unutterably blank and hopeless seemed the prospect! I felt this with a -dull fighting and struggle of the two things in me--wanting to please -her by looking pleased, feeling how good she was, and how kind, how -just, how suitable was the arrangement. I felt all this in a kind of -way, and then I felt the struggle not to be wildly angry, not to burst -out and ask her how she could think of condemning me so--for my life? - -She was grieved and disappointed at the way I received her proposal, but -she was so good that she took no notice, but kissed me, and said nothing -should be done or thought of against my consent. For my part my heart -was so heavy and dull that I could not even thank her for her kindness; -but I hung about her when she went to bed, and held her fast in a -speechless way that she understood, I think, though I said nothing. She -cried; she looked at me with her kind old eyes full of tears. “Oh, -Mary,” she said, “don’t break my heart! If I could live for ever and go -on always taking care of you, don’t you think I would do it, for your -sake and your father’s too? But I cannot. One must die when one’s time -comes, however much one may be wanted: and I must provide for that.” - -“Oh, why can’t I provide for it?” I cried. “Why can’t I die too? That -would be the best way.” - -And then she was angry--half angry--as much as it was in her nature to -be. And presently I found myself alone, and had to sit down and think it -over, and make up my mind to it, as one has so often to do in this life. -I had to teach myself to see how good it was. And I did. I made up my -mind to it. What was there else in heaven or earth--as I could not die -with my only friend, or compel her to live, what was there else that I -could do? - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -Next morning when I woke, the impression on my mind was, that Mrs -Tufnell must have died in the night. I cannot tell why I thought so, but -I woke with such a horror in my mind, that I threw a shawl over my -shoulders and rushed to her door to ask how she was, before I could take -breath. She was not up; but smiled at me from her bed, where she lay -with all the pictures and the portraits of her friends about her, the -centre of a silent company. “I am quite well--better than usual,” she -said; but I think she knew the meaning of my terror, and felt that after -all that had been said it was natural I should be afraid. This perhaps -threw just a little cloud upon her serenity too, during the morning, for -however calmly one may think of dying, I suppose it must startle one to -see that others are thinking of it. I suppose so--it seems natural. She -was very grave, thoughtful, and somewhat silent during the forenoon; and -when I went and sat down by her, and asked her to forgive me, and said I -was ready to do whatever she thought best, she took me into her arms and -cried and kissed me. “Oh, that it should be necessary to change!” she -said. “I do not feel as if I could face the change--but, Mary, for your -good----” - -It was about noon as we thus sat talking it over. It comforted me to see -that she liked it as little as I did; that she would rather have kept me -with her to the last moment of her life. But then what should I have -done?--this was what she thought of. We were talking it all over very -seriously, with more pain than either of us would show. It was a chilly -winter morning. The room was bright, to be sure, with a good fire -burning, and all the comforts that so many poor people are without; but -there was a chill that went to one’s heart--the chill of the grave for -her, which she thought near; and the chill of the outside world, from -which she had sheltered me so long, for me. I remember the look of that -morning--there was a black frost outside which bound all the dry street, -and seemed to hold the naked trees in the square so fast that they dared -not rustle, though an icy wind was blowing through them. There were -traces still on the windows, notwithstanding the fire, of the frosty -network of the night. The sun had begun to shine as it approached noon, -but even the sun was white and cold, and seemed rather to point out how -chilly the world was, than to warm it. After we had got through all our -explanations and said all that was to be said, and arranged that Mary -was to be invited to the Square with her child to spend a week of the -holidays and arrange everything, we still kept sitting together holding -each other’s hands, not saying much. I could not pretend that I liked it -even to please her, and she did not like it, though she thought it -right; but all the same it was settled, and there was nothing more to -say. - -It was all settled by twelve o’clock, fixed and decided with that double -certainty which is given by pain. If we had liked it we should not have -felt half so sure. At half-past twelve the mid-day post came in, and I -was still sitting by my dear old lady, holding her hand, feeling my -heart sink lower and lower every moment, thinking how I should have to -leave her when she wanted me most--when Mrs Tufnell’s maid came in with -the letters. She gave some to her mistress, and she gave one to me. I do -not think I recognised the writing at first. But I got few letters, and -it gave me a little thrill of agitation, I could not quite tell why. It -was a foreign letter, with a number of unintelligible postmarks. I got -up and went to the window, partly because my heart began to beat very -loud, and partly to leave Mrs Tufnell at liberty to read her letters. I -recollect looking out unconsciously and seeing the dried-up, dusty, -frosty look of everything, the ice-wind sweeping the dust round the -corners, the bare shivering trees--with a momentary thrill of sensation -that my life was like that, dried-up, frost-bound, for ever and ever. -And then, with my fingers trembling and my heart beating, and a -consciousness of something coming, I could not tell what, I opened the -envelope and found---- This was what I found; without any preface or -introduction--without anything to soften the difference between what was -before my eyes and what was going to be. - -There was no beginning to the letter; there were a good many blots in -it, as if it had been written with a hand which was not very steady. -There was not even a date until the end. He who had written it had been -as much agitated as she who read it; and she who read it did so as in a -dream, not knowing where she was standing, feeling the world and the -white curtains and the frosty square to be going round and round with -her, making a buzzing in her ears and a thumping against her breast. - -What a plunge into a new world--into an old world--into a world not -realised, not possible, and yet so strange in its fascination, so -bewildering! Was it a dream--or could it be true? - - “I have long wanted, and often tried, to write to you again. I do - not know now whether I may or whether I ought. If this letter - should come to another man’s wife, if it should fall into your - hands in such changed circumstances that you will scarcely remember - the writer’s name--and I cannot hide from myself that all this may - be the case--then forgive me, Mary, and put it in the fire without - further thought. It will not be for you, in your new life, but for - someone else whom you will have forgotten, though I can never - forget her. But if you are still little Mary Peveril as you used to - be, oh, read it! and try to throw your thoughts back to the time - when you knew me--when we used to meet. You were not much more than - a child. How much I have thought of that time; how often and often - I have gone over it in my thoughts I need not tell you. You were - badly used, dear Mary. I was wrong--I will say it humbly on my - knees if you like: having got your promise and your heart--for I - did have that, if only for a little while--nothing could have - justified me in appearing for one moment to place you otherwise - than first in all I did or said. I will not excuse myself by saying - how much startled I was by the sight of Miss Martindale, nor how - anxious I was to know whether my mother had any share, or what - share she had, in her disappearance from our house. I will say - nothing about all that, but only that I was wrong, wrong without - any excuse. Had I thought of what I was risking by my curiosity, I - would have bitten my tongue out sooner than have asked a single - question. Do you think, could you think, that I would have - sacrificed you to the old foolish business which was over years - before? I was an utter fool, I allow, but not such a fool as that. - Therefore, Mary dear, dearest, whom I have always thought of, - listen to me again; take me back again! I will beg your pardon a - hundred and a thousand times. I will humbly do whatever penance - you may appoint me; but listen to me now. You would not listen to - me at first--and perhaps I was not so ready at first to acknowledge - how wrong I was. I have had five long years to think of it, and I - see it all. You were rightly angry, dear, and I was wrong; and if - ever man repented, I have repented. Mary, Mary! take me back! - - “I have been wandering about the world all this time, working and - doing well enough. I can offer you something better now than the - little cottage we once spoke of, though that would have been - Paradise. I am leaving along with this letter, and hope to arrive - in England almost as soon. I do not ask you to write--unless indeed - you would, of your own sweet kindness--one word--to Chester Street? - But even if you don’t do that, I will go to Russell Square in the - hope of finding you. Mary! don’t break my heart. You liked me once. - If I knew what to say that would move you, I would make this letter - miles long; but I don’t know what more to say, except that I love - you better than ever, and no one but you; and that I am coming back - to England for you, for you only--half hopeless, only determined to - try once more. Perhaps by the time you have read this I may be at - your door. - - “Ever and ever yours, - - “GEORGE DURHAM.” - - - -“Mary!” cried some one calling me; “Mary, what is the matter? Have you -bad news, my dear? Mary! Good gracious, the child will faint! Mary, -don’t you hear me?” - -“Oh, hush, hush!” I cried, not knowing what I said. “Hark! listen! is -that him at the door?” - -It was not him just then; and after a little while the curtains stopped -going round, and the floor and the Square and everything about grew -solid and steady, and I came to myself. To myself, yes--but not to the -same self as had been sitting so sadly holding my old lady’s hand. What -a change all in a moment! If I had not been so happy, I should have been -ashamed to think that a man’s letter could all in a moment make such a -change in a woman’s life. It is demoralising to the last degree--it -comes in the way of all the proper efforts of education and independent -thought, and everything that is most necessary and elevating. If in a -moment, without any virtue of yours, without any exertion of yours, you -are to have your existence all altered for you--the greyness turned into -brightness, the labour into ease, the poverty into wealth--how is it to -be supposed that you can be trained aright? It is demoralising: but it -is very pleasant. Oh, the change in one half-hour! - -But I should find it very difficult to explain to anyone how it was that -I behaved like a rational creature at this moment, and did not take a -bad turn and torture him and myself with objections. It was not wisdom -on my part; I think it was the absolute suddenness of the whole -transaction. Had he left me more time to think, or prepared me for his -reception, my pride and my delicacy would have come in, and probably I -should have thrown away both his happiness and my own. But fortunately -he arrived that very afternoon, before the first excitement was over, -and hearing that Miss Peveril was at home, and that the servants had not -been forbidden to admit him, walked upstairs when I was not thinking, -and took possession of me as if there had been no doubt on the subject. -Mrs Tufnell was begging me to write to him at the very moment. I had -shown her my letter, and she was full of excitement about it. “Be an -honest girl, Mary,” she was saying: “a girl should not worry a man like -that: you ought to be frank and open, and send him a word to meet him -when he comes home. Say you are as fond of him as he is of you----” - -“No, I could not--I could not,” I was beginning to say; when suddenly -something overshadowed us, and a big, ringing voice said behind me, “How -could she? Let us be reasonable.” Reasonable! After that there was no -more to say. - -But if it had not all passed like a dream; if he had not been so sudden; -if he had taken more time and more, care--the chances are, I know, that -I should have behaved like a fool, and hesitated and questioned, and -been proud and been foolish. As it was, I had to be honest and -happy--there was no time for anything else. - -This was of course the ending of the whole matter. I have often wondered -whether, had my dear old lady been burdened with the anxiety of her -charge of me, she would have died. As it is, she has not died. She lives -with us often now, and we with her. On my wedding day she talked of -departing in peace; but so far from departing in peace, she has been -stronger ever since, and has a complexion any girl of twenty might envy. -When I look back to Southampton Street and to Russell Square, where I -was so unhappy, they all grow delightful and beautiful to me. It was -very bad, no doubt (I suppose), while it lasted, but how I smile now at -all my dolours! The delightful fact that they are over makes them -pleasant. “That is how it will be, Mary,” my dearest old lady says, -“with all our sorrows, when we die and get safely out of them. We shall -smile--I know it--and wonder how we could have made such a fuss over -those momentary woes.” This is a serious way of ending a story, which -after all has turned out merely a love-story, a thing I never -contemplated when I began to confide my early miseries to you. How -miserable I was! and how it all makes me smile now! - -As for Mary--the other Mary--we carried out that arrangement for her -which had been proposed for me. We bought Grove House for her. I do not -know what we could have done better. I never see that she is dull or -weary of her life. What languors she may have she keeps from common -view. Little Jack has grown a great boy, and she is very happy in him. -But she does not give herself up to him, like so many mothers. “I must -keep my own life,” she said to me once, when I wanted her to give up, to -live quietly at home and devote herself to my little brother alone. “He -will go out into the world after a while,” she went on; “he must, he has -to make his way--and I, what should I do then? follow him or stay at -home all alone?--No! I must keep my own life.” And so she does. -Happiness? I cannot tell if she has happiness: so many people get on -without that--though some of us, I thank God humbly on my knees, have it -without deserving it--without having done anything for it. Mary, I -believe, never takes time to ask herself how about that. She said so -once; she is not unhappy, and never will be; she has her life. - - - - -GROVE ROAD, HAMPSTEAD - -CHAPTER I - - -“Where shall we go first? that is the only question. I know there are a -hundred places to go to. Westminster and Whitehall, and the Tower, and -St Paul’s, and to see the pictures, and the river, and the Temple, and -Cheapside. We cannot, of course,” cried the eager girl, half -regretfully, half pleased with the certainty of so much excitement, “see -them all in one day.” - -“Considering that they are at different points of the compass, no,” said -the father, a serious man, who rarely relaxed even with his children. -They were seated round a breakfast table in a London hotel--not one of -the great caravansaries of the present day, but a small, grey, -comfortable, quiet, very dear hotel in a little London street not far -from Piccadilly. The houses opposite seemed almost within reach of their -hands to the two girls, fresh and young and eager, who had for the first -time that morning opened their eyes upon England. England! The thought -made the blood dance in their veins. It was a little disenchanting, no -doubt, to look out upon those grey houses opposite; but the fog through -which the said houses loomed vaguely had an attraction of its own. A -London fog: it was the right medium through which to see the metropolis -of the world: they were almost as much interested in it as in Hyde Park -or St Paul’s. They were interested in everything; the very names of the -streets made their hearts beat. They had arrived from Canada in the -great steamboat the day before, had travelled up from Liverpool through -a country veiled in the early and lingering dusk of a winter -afternoon--for, though it was nominally spring, it was still winter--and -entered London in the dark. When they opened their eyes this morning it -had been, as they thought, upon a new world. They could hear the noise -of wheels in Piccadilly, and that sound also went to their hearts. All -England was before them. They had heard of it all their lives, and this -arrival had been before them for months, a sensation keenly anticipated, -and experienced now with a commotion of their whole being. -Notwithstanding, it was a very ordinary table at which they sat, -scarcely able to eat anything for sheer excitement. The room was -somewhat dingy. The fog pressed upon the window like something palpable, -the houses opposite looming grimly through it. There was very little in -their external surroundings to justify the sublimated state of their -feelings; but Grace and Milly Yorke wanted nothing to justify their -feelings. These sentiments sustained themselves. They had never been out -of Canada before, but England, as long as they could recollect, had been -called “home” to them. They had said, “We are going home,” when they -communicated the great news to their friends. And now the moment had -come to which they had looked forward for years. - -Their father was not moved by the same ecstatic sentiments. He was not -Canadian born, as they were. He had left England about thirty years -before, and probably his return had recalled some feelings that were not -altogether delightful. He was an angular, tall man, not unlike the -commonly received type of an American, with a long face, somewhat sunken -cheeks, a very resolute and determined mouth--altogether grey and -rugged, like a gnarled tree. His eyes were deep-set and apt to get a -fiery sparkle in them on occasions. He was a man of hot temper and -inflexible obstinacy, not easy to deal with. But he was never -ill-tempered to his children. The boys, indeed, were often more or less -in conflict with their father; but to the girls he was always gentle and -kind. Perhaps they knew better how to glide over all shoals and reefs, -and find the safe channel to his favour. They and their mother knew very -well what subjects it was best to avoid. They had put up danger signals -on every side, and warned each other off this and that difficulty with -a glance. They did this without intention, only half conscious of their -own diplomacy. But so it was, that the girls were on the best of terms -with their father, and to them he never said a hasty or unkind word. He -sat very gravely between them, his countenance taking no reflection from -the light in theirs. He was disposed rather to say, Confound the fog. He -thought London just as dingy and disagreeable as it always had been; but -he said nothing. The girls! The girls had their heads turned, poor -children. He would not say anything to disturb their illusion. Let them -entertain it as long as they could. But he had other things to think of. -His mind was thronged with recollections. England was not to him a -historical country, a place full of poetry, full of great events; but a -very real world, with his own past in it, and many a thought and intent -of which the girls knew nothing. He sat between them, scarcely hearing -their eager chatter, but recalling with all the force of reality, as if -they had happened yesterday, the circumstances which had attended his -going away. He had not been very many years older than Grace, he -recollected, with a sort of wondering half amusement; but how clear it -was! Yesterday was not clearer--not so clear, indeed--for yesterday was -nothing very important in his life; whereas that day---- - -“It is quite true what Mr Winthrop said. I never saw anything so -poetical,” said Grace; “such a wonderful dreamy vista!--don’t you think -so, papa? When you look out to the end of the street you can’t tell what -it is you see. The light is just like a dull topaz--wasn’t that what Mr -Winthrop said? and you can’t tell what is beyond; it might be palaces or -mountains, or one can’t tell what. And to think it is England! and then -that sort of roar of the carriages. It is not like the sea; it is -like---- Oh, why should one try for similes?--it is like--just London, I -suppose.” - -“Wait till you know a little more about London,” said the father, -“before you pronounce what it’s like.” - -“One knows,” said Grace, with a little solemnity. “One does not need to -wait. I suppose London is like no other place in the world.” - -“Perhaps not,” Yorke said with a half laugh; “but you will never know -what it is if you should live a hundred years.” - -He spoke in one sense, they responded in another. - -“I can believe that,” said Grace, with the same gravity. “It is a -mystery. We cannot know, but we can divine.” - -“God forbid!” her father said, and then he changed his tone. -“Westminster is one way and St Paul’s another,” he said. “You can’t go -both ways at once. You had better make up your minds which you will -have.” - -And then a little argument ensued. The girls had read a great deal, and -they had good memories. One of them espoused the cause of St Paul’s and -the other that of Westminster: the one going over the glorious -inhabitants of the Abbey, demanding, with Milton-- - - “What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones - The labour of an age in pilèd stones?” - -though I hope they knew that Shakespeare was not there--while the other -launched herself upon Tennyson’s ode-- - - “Mighty Seaman, this is he, - Was great by land as thou by sea.” - -The father remained quite silent in the midst of it all. It seemed, -indeed, as if he had betrayed them into this fanciful controversy on -purpose that he might be able to take refuge in his own thoughts. What -was Westminster or St Paul’s to him? His mind was busy with events which -no poet had ever celebrated, which had never been put into history. -Neither wife nor children knew of them--only some people at home, people -who might be dead long ago, whom he had not heard of, and who had not -heard of him for thirty years. He got the required leisure and quiet to -think this all over while the others were busy with their poetry. They -appealed to him, and he gave them a little nod and half smile, one of -those smiles that are but for a moment, a gleam of enforced attention -instantly falling back into the gravity of prevailing thought. The -decision finally was for Westminster. As for these young people, they -did not know the difference between St Paul’s and the Abbey. They were -both old, reverend, glorious structures to Grace and Milly; but what it -might be that made the difference between them they did not know. One -meant Poets’ Corner, the other that about the mighty Seaman. They had -never seen a Gothic cathedral in their lives. - -And perhaps it is not ignorance so profound as this that is qualified to -see and understand what is best. The girls read the names on the -monuments with a kind of silent ecstasy of wonder. To think that they, -two little girls from Canada, should actually be treading the storied -pavement in Poets’ Corner, and should be able to read with their own -eyes the names upon those monuments, and see the Kings and Queens lying -in marble, in solemn state, and touch with their little living modern -fingers the chair in which the Confessor had sat! Could anything be more -wonderful? They went through it all as if they were in a dream, looking -at the monuments, reading all the names, thinking it was their own want -of clear historical knowledge that made them at a loss about one here -and there. But the Abbey itself was above their comprehension. They -thought the Houses of Parliament finer, and were a little shocked that -everything should be so grey and old. When you have seen nothing that -is not new, all your life, it is difficult to understand the darkening -of ages. But they spent the entire morning in one dream of pleasure, -their hearts standing still as they came upon name after name, which -they had heard of all their lives. There too was Whitehall, and that -gloomy window, of which, perhaps, it is not true that from thence King -Charles stepped to his execution; but they were not too critical; and -they walked up the Mall to St James’s Palace with a little thrill of -easier admiration (which they thought rather vulgar in themselves, and -were disposed to blush at) for the Lifeguardsmen on their horses. The -little dingy old palace wounded their feelings somewhat, and brought -down the bewildering splendour of imagination into very shabby limits; -but they got over that. When they were not silent with awe, or with the -shock of trying to reconcile to their own ideal something that fell -short of it, they were talking all the way, calling upon each other to -see this or that, reading out even the names of the streets to each -other with many an “Oh, Milly!” and “Oh, Grace!” They were so absorbed -in their sight-seeing that they never noticed the people who looked -after them, the amused admiring looks with which the passers-by would -contemplate their fresh faces. They were very fresh faces, delicate in -colour, clear and animated, and so full of interest that their -superabundant life brightened the foggy street. But fortunately the fog -had lifted a little, and all the ghostly houses round the park, and the -leafless trees, became more real under the mid-day radiance of a veiled -sun doing his best to break through; and if they had thought the fog -poetical before, you may imagine what they thought it now, with those -rays streaming into it. It could not be real, they said to each other; -by-and-by they would wake up and find themselves, let us say, in that -other London which is on the farther side of the Atlantic. It could not -be real; it was too wonderful to be true. - -Meantime the father went on responding a little, but only a little, to -the constant claim made upon his attention. He said “Yes” and “No,” or -even “Very pretty,” “Very nice,” “Very interesting” on occasion. For his -part he did not care very much about the monuments. Sometimes his eye -would wander away among the aisles, or through the lovely tracery and -carved work of the roofs, to where the faint red sun caught a painted -window, and threw a rosy oblique ladder of many colours across the grey. -He understood the Abbey better than the girls did; but what he saw in -the Abbey was, scenes of the past--the past, not of Shakespeare or the -old Kings, but his own. He had been there in his youth, and he had been -in other places which were recalled and suggested by this, and he -remembered and mused in his heart. His companions were not surprised, -because he was always a man of few words; though afterwards it gave them -many thoughts, and the question, what he had been thinking of, what -fancies might have been rising unconsciously in his mind, was often -discussed by them; but at the present moment, as was natural, they did -not realise that there was anything out of the way in his silence. They -went back to their hotel late for their luncheon; they were tired in -body, but not in their minds, which flowed over with wonder and -pleasure. “Are you the least little bit disappointed?” said Milly to -Grace. “No, not the least. Disappointed!” cried Grace with enthusiasm, -though the next moment she was conscious of that little chill in her -soul about St James’s, and even felt that she had missed something in -Westminster. This being the case with Grace, Milly cleared up in a -moment from the slightest little cloud that had fallen upon her, and -felt that neither was she disappointed, oh, not the least in the world! -It was like walking with Shakespeare, they both said. And Mr Yorke gave -a little nod across the table, and lifted his eyebrows at them. It was -almost as much as he ever did when they were in full tide of enthusiasm. -Papa was always quiet; though perhaps, indeed, he was more preoccupied -than usual to-day. The winterly spring afternoon was beginning to close -in a little before their meal was over. They were preparing, however, to -go out again when their father called them to the window where he was -sitting, looking more grave even than he was accustomed to look. - -“I am going out,” he said. “Can you manage for yourselves till dinner? I -have something to do--out.” - -“Can’t we go with you, papa?” they both said in a breath. - -There was a kind of embarrassment on his face. “Not to-day, I think. -After--perhaps: I have a call to make.” - -“Oh, it is about business!” said Milly, wondering, yet apologetic, -looking at Grace. - -“If it is not about business,” said Grace promptly, “you ought to take -us with you, papa. It is the right thing in England. In England girls -don’t go about by themselves; and then we want some friends, we want to -know the people as well as the place.” - -A half smile went over his face. “You shall get the benefit of all the -introductions,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; but you must not expect to be -taken much notice of in London, just on the edge of the season, you -know. People are very busy here; and then there are so many to be looked -after--people of more pretensions than you. You must not expect too -much; but I am not going to deliver any of the letters. I am going--to -see an--old friend.” - -“Oh, then, bring him here--will you please bring him here? Do, papa, do! -If it is an old friend, so much the more reason that we should know him. -Is it a friend you had before you went to Canada? Why has he never come -to see us? We have always wondered that you never had any old friends -come to see you, papa.” - -Yorke did not make any direct reply. He said only, “What will you do -with yourselves while I am away?” - -The two girls looked at each other somewhat blankly. - -“We can’t stay in here,” cried Milly, while Grace drew herself up with -youthful dignity. - -“As for staying in every time you have any business to do or any calls -to make,” she said, with serious emphasis, “you must see that is -impossible, papa. English girls may stop in-doors if they please, but we -cannot. We are Canadian girls; we are used to take care of ourselves. -Milly and I can surely take care of each other wherever we go. It would -be too humbling,” she cried, “in the country of Shakespeare, to think -two girls couldn’t go out without--what was it, Milly?--unpleasantness. -I don’t believe a word of it. Mrs Bidwell is only a vulgar Englishwoman. -Unpleasantness! I don’t believe it; and even if I did believe it I -shouldn’t allow it to be true.” - -“Come,” said her father, “you must not talk so of vulgar -Englishwomen--you who are such enthusiasts for England. No, I don’t see -any harm in it. Come with me so far, I’ll take you to where the shops -are. Of course you would like to look into the shops.” - -They would have liked a great deal better to go with him upon this -mysterious call, but he would not permit it, and accordingly they were -taken to Regent Street, where he left them with a beautiful confidence. -It might not be the best place in the world to leave young girls alone -on a spring afternoon, no doubt; but what did they know of that? They -were innocent, proud, modest girls, to whom no one had ever said a -disrespectful word, and who were afraid of nobody. Nor did they get any -new light upon the subject from that walk. The innocent do not even -suspect the dangers which the knowing see all about them. Nobody -molested Grace and Milly: they walked along in their armour of honest -maidenhood, knowing no evil; and were as safe as in their own rooms. It -was true, however, that their rapture waned a little, and a touch of -local patriotism came over them. - -“I don’t think so very much of the shops,” said Milly doubtfully. - -Milly was often the first to start an opinion, but she never was quite -sure whether she held it or not till she had the support of Grace’s -authority, which this time, as so often, was unhesitatingly given. - -“I don’t think anything of the shops,” said Grace. “Of course one -doesn’t come to England to look at shops. Paris for that, I suppose; but -it is England all the same.” - -“Oh yes,” said Milly, “certainly it is England all the same. I wish the -houses were a little bigger and cleaner-looking, and the streets -broader. I wish there were some trees----” - -“Trees! in the heart of London,” said Grace with high contempt. “Trees -are the things that show how new a place is. Where you have nothing else -you have trees. But think how many people must have walked about here. -If we only could see them all strolling up and down this -pavement--people you would give your head to see.” - -“But Shakespeare--and people like that--could not have walked about -Regent Street: it is not old enough.” - -“No; not Shakespeare, perhaps. I don’t know--he might have walked about -here, though it was not Regent Street then.” - -“I wonder,” said Milly suddenly, “where papa can have gone. I never -heard him talk of any old friends before; nor relations. By the way, -isn’t it very funny that we have no relations in England, Grace?” - -“It is strange,” said Grace thoughtfully. - -It was not a subject which had occurred to them till now. Their father -they were aware had been thirty years in Canada without ever going -“home;” and he had no family correspondence, nobody belonging to him -that they knew of except themselves. Their mother was a Canadian born, -and she had relations in plenty; and cousins on their father’s side had -not seemed a necessity before. But as they thought of it, a little -additional chill came into the air. England--so dear and delightful as -it was, the home of all their traditions--they had begun to make -acquaintance with. But to think that they had not a relation in England, -nothing to justify their fond identification of themselves with this old -country! The idea was somewhat alarming as it burst upon them. It -increased the little shade of disappointment which had crept over them -against their will, and sent them to their hotel, which was all that -answered for home at this moment, with a little heaviness at their -hearts. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Mr Yorke went out in the quickly fading spring afternoon with an air of -seriousness and resolution, which, indeed, had been upon his countenance -all day; but which was not much like the expression of a holiday -visitor. He had a long drive out to the northern outskirts of London, -across those miles on miles of insignificant streets which are almost -more imposing in their shabby dreariness than the more important -portions of the greatest of cities. But though they wearied him with -endless lines of shabbiness and monotony, the mind of the stranger was -not sufficiently at liberty to make any reflection upon them. It was -twilight before he reached, mounting upwards slowly for the last mile or -so, the suburban heights to which he was bound. He dismissed his cab at -the entrance to a leafy lane, lined on each side with detached houses, -which were scarcely perceptible among the bare trees and thick hedges. -To the servant who admitted him he gave a name which was certainly not -that which he had borne an hour before in his hotel. The house which he -entered just at the moment of twilight, before the lamps were lighted, -was very warmly carpeted and curtained, and almost too warm in the air -of its balmy soft interior. He waited for a moment in the hall, with an -extraordinary gravity--the seriousness of painful restrained excitement -on his face. Then a door opened suddenly, and a lady came out carrying a -candle in her hand. The light shone pleasantly upon a fresh face and -pretty eyes, undimmed by some fifty years of life; but those eyes were -puckered up with a curious, anxious, alarmed gaze, looking into the -darkness. She advanced hurriedly for two or three steps, then stopped -short in front of the stranger, examining him not without some distress -in her look. “Leonard Crosthwaite?” she said, “it is very many years -since we have heard that name. Is it some distant cousin we know nothing -about? or is it---- is it----” - -“It is I, Mary. We have not seen each other for thirty years--but I -should have known you anywhere, I think. Certainly, here, in the old -house.” - -She held up her candle and gazed at him, then shook her head slowly. “It -is so sudden,” she said. “It is such a long time----” - -“And you did not expect to see me, while I expected--hoped--to see you.” -Then he put out his hand. “Mary--you are not still Mary--not a -Crosthwaite still, as in the old time? No--I can see that. You have -married, and had children--like me.” - -This drew a faint little smile from her in spite of herself. “Yes, I -have married. I have a son as tall as you. I am a widow. I---- Oh, but I -don’t know if I ought to enter into family particulars. How am I to know -that you are--Leonard? You are--a little like him.” - -“Is there any reason why you should hesitate to own me?” he said, half -sternly, yet with a smile. - -This brought an overpowering flush of colour over her comely, matronly -face; but the next moment she cried out with agitation, “Oh, no, no! How -could you think so of me?--not for the world, not for the world! If -every penny we had depended on it”--and here she stopped short, -confused, and looked at him again. - -“I will not meddle with your pennies, Mary, whatever you may mean by -that. I have plenty. You need not fear for me. Ah!--Uncle Abraham, I -suppose, is dead?--he must be dead long ago: and there is something---- -The old people are all dead, I suppose?” - -“It is not that,” she said, faltering, which was no answer to his -question; but he understood it well enough. He looked at her with -increased seriousness, and she shrank before his eye. - -“Yes: they are all dead----” - -“Uncle Abraham and all----” He looked at her more and more keenly, with -a slight smile on his face. “But he did not take his money with him, I -suppose, as he used to threaten to do?” - -To this the lady made no reply; and there was a pause, he standing -somewhat sternly, with his eyes fixed upon her; she with her head -drooping a little, drawn back a few steps, not looking at him. The door -behind her was open, and after a minute, a voice called from it, “Mary, -to whom are you talking?” - -The stranger started visibly. He said, with a sudden catch in his voice, -“Anna! Is she here?” - -“Oh yes, Leonard, yes,” said the lady. “She is here--so changed! so -changed! I think it is because she has been unhappy.” - -“Unhappy!” he said softly. His tone had changed and softened; only to -hear it the listener might be certain that there were tears in his eyes. -“Unhappy! after thirty years.” - -The man was touched and flattered and compunctious all in one. There was -no difficulty in interpreting the inflections in his voice. It was full -of tenderness, of a mournful pleasure, and surprise as well--“while I -have been making myself so comfortable,” he added in an undertone. - -“Oh, not in that way,” the lady said, but in a whisper. “No, no,” -shaking her head, “not in that way.” - -His mood of tender complaisance was perhaps a little subdued by this, -but only a little. “If you think she would let me see her,” he said-- - -At this moment she was called again--“Mary! there is a perfect gale -blowing in at the door. Who have you there?” - -The lady who was called Mary advanced to him confidentially. “She heard -your name just as well as I did,” she said, “but she pretends to take no -notice; wait here till I go and speak to her. Oh, she is so changed!” - -He caught her by the hand and detained her. “Nothing has happened? She -must be old like all of us, I know----” - -“She is as handsome as ever she was,” said the other hastily. “I am -coming, I am coming, Anna! It is a visitor--an old friend”--and she -turned round with the quickness of a girl, leaving the stranger standing -where she had found him, the candle on the hall table watching him like -a little wakeful sentinel. A glow of warmth and light came from the door -of the open room. He had not noticed it before; now it appeared to him -like a glimpse into some sanctuary. He could see a beautiful Persian -carpet, a softly-tinted wall hung with pictures; not that he noticed -what these details were, but took them in vaguely as producing an effect -of delicate brightness and luxury. Memory stole softly over the -far-travelled visitor. His present life had departed from him -altogether--he was living in the past, in his youth, thinking of the -pretty caprices of the girl whom he had thought the most beautiful, the -most delightful creature that God had made, in all her whims and -fancies. She had always been like that; and through all those thirty -years it had been constantly suggested to him, in the inmost recesses of -his mind, when he saw anything that was graceful or pretty, “It is just -like Anna--Anna would have liked that.” He had felt inclined to say it -to his wife a thousand times--his good wife, who never had heard of -Anna, and would not have heard of her with any pleasure. And now, here -was Anna close to him, enshrined in the warmth and surrounded by all the -prettinesses she had loved. It made his heart beat to think that he was -so near her, that he would see her presently--and even that she had been -unhappy. At fifty-five men are not often sentimental, but the hardest -would be softened by the thought of a beautiful woman who had been -unhappy about him for thirty years. He stood quite patiently, and waited -for admittance. The hesitation of the other, her evident unwillingness -to consent to his identity, which he could see was mingled all the time -with a conviction that he was the person he claimed to be, had irritated -and filled him with suspicions; but all this flew away upon the breath -of old, old, unchangeable feeling. Anna! he had never ceased to think -that the very name was music all these years. - -The sound of the voices within the room was low at first, but -afterwards grew louder. Then it was mingled with impatient tappings as -of a stick on the floor, and Mary’s voice--he could trace both voices, -they were so different, even in the murmur of talk at the -beginning--took an expostulatory tone. - -“I assure you, Anna--” - -“Assure me nothing. Let him come in, let him come in: and I will let him -know what I think of him.” - -It was certainly her voice; but in all his recollection he had never -heard this tone in it. He waited listening, half amused, half sad, -beginning to wonder more and more. At last he yielded to a sudden -impulse, and went straight forward to the half-opened door. - -There he stood for a moment arrested, struck dumb. And they, too, struck -by the sound of the man’s foot, so different from their own velvet -steps, turned round and looked at him. Was that Anna? His heart, which -had been beating so high, stopped short, and seemed to drop, drop into -some unknown depths. “Oh yes, I see,” he said to himself. “I see, I see. -She is as handsome as ever----” But was that Anna? He stood on the -threshold of this room, which was sacred to her, holding his breath. - -Then the strange old woman, who was Anna, beckoned to him imperiously -with her hand. - -“Come in, come in,” she said, “whoever you are, who are using a -name---- Come in. I do not know if you are aware that Mr Leonard -Crosthwaite, whose name you are assuming----” Here she stopped and fixed -two great, brilliant, dark eyes upon him, opened to their full width, -glowing like angry stars. She made a pause of about a minute long, which -seemed to the two others like an hour. Then she dropped her voice with a -careless inflection, as if after that gaze she disdained the risk she -was running--“died,” she added indifferently, but pausing on the -word--“at least twenty years ago.” - -“He did not die, Anna, since I am here,” said the stranger. - -It was impossible to speak to her, even now, without some tenderness -getting into his voice. - -“Do not venture to speak to me, sir, by my Christian name. Do you know -there is a punishment for impostors? Oh, you think perhaps you know just -how far you can go without infringing the law. Perhaps you think, too, -that we are alone here, and you can frighten us. But that is a mistake. -There is a butler, a strong man, whom I can summon in a moment with this -bell, and there is my nephew. Any attempt at bullying or extortion will -be useless here.” - -“Oh, Anna!” her sister cried; then she clasped her hands, turning to the -visitor--“I told you she was changed.” - -A series of different emotions passed over the Canadian’s face--he -smiled, then laughed angrily, growing red and hot; but over these -variations stole such a softening of regret as combined all in one -sorrowful sense of change. He nodded his head gently in reply to what -the other sister said. - -“You are right,” he said in a low tone; “as handsome as ever, but how -different! Anna, Anna, though we have been separated so long--though you -cast me off, and I thought had forgotten me--though I am married and a -happy man--yet you have never been put out of your place in my heart all -these years.” - -She looked at him with those keen eyes; though she kept up wonderfully -her air of lofty scorn and indifference, it was possible to perceive a -gleam of something else, a mixture of satisfaction and anger in her -face. “It is part of the rôle, of course,” she said, “to call me by my -Christian name. But Leonard Crosthwaite, whatever he might be else, was -a gentleman. So you will keep to your part better by acting like a -gentleman in this point. That is one way of making an impostor look like -him.” - -He restrained himself with an effort. “What am I to call you then?” he -said, looking at her sister. “Has she never married? How wonderful that -is! Miss Crosthwaite then: since you wish it, I will call you so.” - -A momentary shadow of humiliation went over the proud face. She had -chosen not to marry. She had always been beautiful, and she was not -without fortune; but nobody whom she thought good enough had ever asked -Anna Crosthwaite to marry him. And she did not like to remember this in -presence of her old lover, whom she had loved once in her silly youth, -though she forsook him: it was not, however, because of that love, or -anything connected with it, that she received him thus now. - -“I am Miss Crosthwaite,” she said, “though you affect to be surprised. -It is not all a woman thinks of to marry any fool that turns up, and to -become the mother of fools. Go away to your son, Mary. That was your -ambition: as it is your folly now, to believe in every deception, and -allow yourself to be led by the nose. I think your _protégé_ had better -withdraw too, now that I have seen him. He has not a feature of poor -Leonard Crosthwaite,” she added, eyeing him steadfastly. “No one, I -suppose, can doubt my capacity to judge. His complexion is different, -his features are different. Go away, sir, and be thankful we don’t turn -you over at once to the police.” - -“Is this,” he said, half-stifled with astonishment and indignation, “is -this all you have to say to me--” - -“It is all I have to say to you,” she said; “and this is my room, where -I am supposed to have some right to choose my visitors. Go! You can do -anything you please; I, for one, am not afraid of you. You may go.” - -He burst out laughing at the extraordinary perversity of the scene. If -he had not laughed he must have been furious--it was his only -deliverance; and yet it may be supposed there was not much laughing in -his heart. - -“This is the most extraordinary reception to meet with,” he said, “after -coming so far, after staying away so long. If it is a jest, it is a bad -jest, Anna. Suppose that it is hard upon us after all this long -interval, to look upon each other with such changed eyes--still there is -such a thing as justice. You know me as well as I know you. It is by -instinct--it is because we cannot help it. For, heaven knows, you are as -unlike the Anna I left as night is to day.” - -She did not reply. A hasty gleam of passion came out of her keen eyes. -Then she put out her hand to the bell. “Simmons,” she said, “will see -this person to the door, Mary. I don’t want to be hard upon any -acquaintance of yours; you know a very strange set of people, I must -say; but I will not be insulted. Simmons must see this person out of the -house.” - -The other sister looked at him with a look of agonised entreaty, -clasping her hands. He was touched by it, though his only answer to Anna -was another outburst of harsh laughter. “I would not like to be in your -Simmons’ shoes,” he said, “if he tries to see me anywhere that I do not -choose to go. But I do not care to thrust myself on anybody. Good-bye, -Anna; we shall meet ere long in different circumstances, never fear.” - -With that he went out hastily into the hall, where the sentinel candle -was still burning. There he was met by a young man who looked at him -surprised. There was so much resemblance in this new-comer to the lady -called Mary that there could be no doubt who he was. The Canadian did -not pause to inquire. He put his hand on the young man’s arm--“Come out -with me, or take me somewhere where I can talk to you. There is a -mystery that wants clearing up, and you can help me. I am your mother’s -cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. What! you have heard the name before?” - -“Indeed, I have heard the name; but you were supposed to be dead long -ago,” the young man said. - -“I am not dead--your mother will tell you--I am newly returned from -Canada. Tell me what reason there is to wish me dead,” he said -peremptorily. “It will be no worse for you----” - -“No reason at all, sir,” said the young man promptly. “I do not know who -you are, but there is nothing to conceal. You are welcome to hear it all -from me.” - -Then he led the visitor into a small room at the other side of the hall, -into which after a while the young man’s mother stole softly, crying -and greatly agitated. She was startled beyond measure to find the -visitor with her son, to whom she was going for consolation. But they -were not long in convincing her that it was better that all there was to -tell should be told. - -When Mr Yorke left the house it was very dark and cold, and the rain -beginning to drizzle. Young Geoffrey Underwood would have gone with him, -or, failing that, pressed all manner of wraps upon him, as his mother -had pressed refreshments: but the Canadian smiled at the cold, and the -dismal, continuous, but not violent rain. “I am used to worse cold than -this,” he said. He went out into the night, more grave than when he had -entered, but with a fire in his eye and in his heart of which there had -then been no sign. He walked slowly along making calculations, arranging -his course of procedure as he went down the hill. The rain came down -faster and faster, till it swept like a great sheet of water from the -inky sky. It swept all the suburban streets both of passengers and -vehicles; nothing was to be seen but the wavering dismal lamps, making -distorted reflections on the wet pavement--not a cab, not a place of -shelter. Mr Yorke was drenched to the bones and chilled to the very -heart. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -An evening in a hotel is seldom cheerful, and this evening was very -forlorn. Mr Yorke did not return, though the hour for which he had -ordered dinner was past. The girls sat very dolefully one on each side -of the table, and read the books which had been provided for their -amusement on board ship. Everything had been so lively on board ship, -there had been so much society, so many expedients to make the time pass -pleasantly, that they had not required to have recourse to these works. -It was very strange and dreadfully disenchanting on their first night in -London to be compelled to take to this way of getting through the -evening. They expected to have been dining, cheerfully chatting about -all their impressions, or, perhaps, though it was the first night, to -have been taken to a theatre, and seen Shakespeare, perhaps, on -Shakespeare’s native soil. Perhaps if they had attained this object of -their desires they might not have found it much more satisfactory--but -then that did not occur to their fresh minds. And instead of such -delights, to find themselves seated in a common-place room with a lamp -which smoked, and two dull novels, and the rain coming down in -bucketfuls outside, was as dreary and disappointing a termination to the -day as could well be supposed. The solemn waiter came in and laid the -cloth, and the girls had to change their places. Grace went to the -window and gazed out at the pouring rain and the street lamps twinkling -feebly through it. Milly sat down vacantly in a big chair, too far off -the lamp to continue her book. - -“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said the soft-voiced waiter: “will you have -the dinner up, or wait till the gentleman comes?” - -“O, Grace!” said Milly, startled, appealing to her sister. - -“Of course, we will wait for papa,” said Grace, turning round from the -window. - -When the man went away poor little Milly, overtired and depressed, fell -a-crying. “Oh, how strange it is! Oh, how lonely it is!” she cried. “I -feel as if there was nobody alive--nobody that knew us.” - -Grace’s lip twitched and quivered a little too. “How silly!” she said; -“this is how you always are--up to the skies one moment, and down to the -depths the next. What does it matter if nobody knows us? Two of us can -go through the world--with papa.” - -“But what has become of papa?” said Milly. - -They did not know what to think. He was not a man to be out at night, -nor, though he was so undemonstrative, was he a man to abandon his -children to an evening in an inn by themselves. Could anything have -happened to him? There flashed across the minds of both recollections of -stories they had heard, of sudden disappearances, stories mixed up in a -great confusion with the Morgue, of which they remembered the name and -the dismal use, without clearly remembering where it was; and of people -found in the river, and all kinds of terrible catastrophes. These were -so much too terrible, however, that after a while Grace laughed. - -“What are you laughing at? I don’t feel at all like laughing,” Milly -said in an aggrieved tone. - -“We are behaving as if something had happened,” Grace said; “such -nonsense! Papa has been detained, that’s all. I hope he is not getting -wet out in this rain.” - -“Oh, I hope he is not getting wet!” Milly said, rising up hastily and -running to the window. Milly had a turn for taking care of everybody’s -health. She was pleased with the importance of being a little “delicate” -herself. - -“I don’t see how he should,” said Grace with another laugh, which was -somewhat forced, “when there are cabs at every step. Of course, he has -not made up his mind to get wet, or to get lost, or to have an accident, -solely to make us uncomfortable the very first day, like a naughty -child. The dinner will be spoiled; that is all that will happen.” - -“As if it mattered about the dinner!” said Milly with feminine -indifference, coming back from the window. The rain was not quite so -heavy, and their spirits began to rise. - -“Here is papa’s letter-case with all the introductions. Let us look them -over and imagine what sort of people they will be. First of all and -foremost,” said Grace, “Lord Conway; that is _our_ Minister. He was once -at our house--don’t you remember, Milly? years and years ago, when he -was the Honourable Mr Something-or-other; at least I have heard mamma -say so----” - -“Mamma would be sure to say Something-or-other. Of course he will come -directly and call----” - -“And ask us to go and stay there,” added Grace seriously, “which would -be grander than a hotel; but then one would not be so free to go out and -in. I think I will advise papa not to go, or to go only for two or three -days, to see how noble people live. To be sure,” she added, “if he is -not married--I wonder if he is married?--he could not ask us; unless he -has a mother, or sister, or something, to keep his house.” - -“He is sure to be married,” said Milly, “if it is so long since he was -in Canada--longer than we can recollect; and a Minister too: he must be -quite old!” - -“On the contrary, the Minister for the Colonies is often quite young, I -believe,” said Grace. What she founded this opinion upon we are unable -to state, but it was Grace’s peculiarity that she liked to be wiser than -her neighbours. “Put Lord Conway on one side. Now there is Sir John -Didcot. He is married; there is not any doubt about that. Don’t you -remember _him_, Milly?--a fat man who had to do with railways. He was -dreadfully rich. I should think very likely they live in the country, -and would ask us for--Easter, or that sort of thing. Everybody in London -goes out of town for Easter. There are several national solemnities of -that kind, you know,” said Grace half satirically, half complacently. -“Easter, and the Derby-day, and the 12th of August, and a few more.” - -“What do people do on the 12th of August? But we shall be back home,” -said Milly, “before that, shan’t we? How nice it will be to get back -home. I shall make papa buy loads of presents--presents for everybody. I -was thinking only to-day what Lenny would like, and old John.” - -“It is rather too soon to think of presents for home, considering we -only arrived yesterday,” said Grace: and then she, too, breathed a small -sigh, thinking of the bright room at home with all the boys laughing and -questioning, and the tables covered with the presents they would carry -back, and the baby, the darling of the whole house, seated triumphant -in the midst of them, the fairy distributor of all these riches. Though -it had been such a great thing to come to England--though it was such an -ecstasy to be in England--yet, after all, home was a different matter. -She gave a glance round this inn parlour, and smothered another little -sigh. - -“I suppose we shall have to go to the Didcots,” she said, “sooner or -later. Oh, after that here is something delightful! Mr Rivers, the -author--you know. Of course, he will ask all the best people to meet -papa. That will be far the most interesting of all. Fancy, perhaps we -shall see Tennyson!” Grace raised a pair of great brown eyes opened wide -with awe and rapture. “I wonder how one ought to behave one’s self to a -great poet. I should like to go down on my knees and kiss his hand.” - -“Ladies never go down on their knees--except to the Queen,” said Milly, -rousing up. “I wonder if we shall be asked to Windsor Castle or -Buckingham Palace, or any of those places! It would be nice to know the -princesses, don’t you think?” - -“We ought to be,” said Grace sedately, “for papa had so much to do for -the Prince of Wales. Oh!” cried the loyal colonial maiden, clasping her -hands, “do you think the Princess will ask us, Milly? He will tell her, -of course, who we are. That beautiful, beautiful creature! I don’t know -which of the two would be most delightful--the Princess or Tennyson. -One would have to call him _Lord_ Tennyson, as if he were nobody, a -common peer,” she added with a plaintive tone; “but to the Princess one -would say Madam, or Your Royal Highness.” - -“Cissy Nunn told me you only said Ma’am.” - -“Cissy Nunn had no manners,” said Grace. “I like titles; they are so -pretty. Everybody that is beautiful, or delightful, or has genius should -have some beautiful title. Princess!--that is what I should like to call -her; but I suppose you can only do that when you are intimate--and I am -afraid, with so many people as she must have to see, _that’s_ not very -likely,” the girl said regretfully. - -Thus they went on talking the greatest nonsense in the world without -suspecting it. The Yorkes were persons of importance at home. Whenever a -great personage from England appeared there, he was received with all -the resources of their simple and graceful, but by no means magnificent, -hospitality. The distinguished visitors accepted all these little -attentions cheerfully. They were the best to be had in the place, and -they were characteristic of it, and amused the wandering peers and lions -as much as if their hosts had been lions also, or peers. But it need not -be said that the Colonial Secretary was very unlikely to invite the -Yorkes to make his house their home, though that was how they had -treated him; and that even the most amiable of princesses would not feel -herself bound to invite, nor her august spouse even to recollect the -name of the good colonial people who had been altogether at his service. -Nay, we doubt much if the author would have felt himself bound to -assemble a literary party for the admiration of the Canadian family. The -simplicity of the girls considered all these natural returns of their -hospitality not only as natural, but inevitable, though some doubts on -the subject of the Princess did cross their minds. Still they could not -help thinking an invitation was at least possible. These anticipations -kept them amused, and made them forget the passage of time. The bland -waiter came up to the door, and looked in more than once. Finally he -entered, and asked respectfully if they would not like to have dinner -served? Then they looked at each other blankly, relapsing all at once -into alarm and gloom. - -“Perhaps it will be better to have it put upon the table,” said Grace, -faltering. - -“I couldn’t eat a morsel,” said Milly energetically. - -“Oh, hush!” said the elder sister, “most likely the people are angry -having to wait so long.” - -And this argument was too strong to be resisted. They were still a -little afraid of making people angry, and loved to please everybody they -were brought in contact with. Then came the soup, cold, which they tried -to swallow; then a terrible soaked rag of fish. But the next moment Mr -Yorke himself walked in. He told the girls hastily that he had been -caught in the rain--that he had been paying a visit in a suburb, where -cabs were not to be got easily, and that he was so wet and it was so -late that he would go to bed at once and have something brought to him -to his room. This was a climax to the discomfort of the evening. They -sent away the joint notwithstanding the almost tears of the waiter. “Oh, -what do we care for dinner!” the girls cried. They had been warned when -they left home that, above all things, they were to see that their -father did not catch cold. - -“Mamma will think it is our fault,” said Milly, with quivering lips. Who -had ever heard of papa going to bed unless he were very, very ill? Even -Grace, though she had so much strength of mind, could scarcely keep from -crying. “Oh, how I wish we had never left home!” she said. “Oh, if mamma -were only here!” said Milly. Left to their own resources, they could -think of nothing but a longing, useless appeal to the one authority. -Mamma would know what should be done in such an emergency. She would -understand at a glance the position of affairs, and whether he might -safely be left alone, or what should be done for him. The girls knew -that he was a very difficult patient, and that nobody but their mother -could persuade him to attend to himself. It was a terrible problem for -them so soon, before they had even awoke to the possibility of such an -accident; for who ever thought of papa falling ill? it had been the -thing against which no precaution had been taken. The girls had a -little medicine chest full of Mrs Yorke’s domestic preservatives, and -had received the minutest directions respecting their own health--but -papa! “Take care your father does not catch cold,” she had said: but -that was all. He had always been subject to bad colds. “But what could -we have done?” Grace asked of herself unconsciously, hearing her -mother’s warnings in her ears. After a while she ventured to go to his -room to see if anything could be done. Mr Yorke had not gone to bed; he -was sitting by a fire which smoked a little, in his dressing-gown, with -a steaming glass of brandy-and-water by his side. He did not send away -the girls, who floated into his room with a doubtful air, keeping close -together like a pair of doves; but he looked up with restrained -impatience from some letters he was reading. “What is it?” he said. Oh, -not crossly--not at all crossly! they said afterwards; but keeping from -being cross with an effort. The letters he was reading were old letters. -Some lying on the table before him did not seem even to have been -opened. He threw his handkerchief over them as the girls came in. “What -is it?” Clearly he had found something which was of more interest to him -than anything they could do or say. - -“I hope you have had something to eat, papa,” said Grace. - -“I don’t want anything to eat. I am taking this by way of precaution,” -he said. - -“But you ought to eat. There is some mutton; it is quite hot still. May -I ring and ask the waiter?” - -“Don’t take any trouble about me. Don’t you think I am old enough to -look after myself?” - -Grace did not know what to do. Her mother, as she felt certain, and as -Milly immediately suggested when they left the room, would have asked no -questions; she would have had a tray brought in quite noiselessly -without saying a word, and made him eat something. “Why didn’t you run, -then, and ask for the tray if you knew that was the right thing?” Grace -asked afterwards, aggrieved: but Milly had not the courage to take any -initiative. - -They stood for two or three moments more, looking at him with an anxiety -that was altogether helpless. - -“Is your cold in your head, papa? Is it in your chest? Have you got a -cough? Do you feel any pain? Shall I bring you some lozenges?” - -Poor Grace! she was cudgelling her brain to know what to do; but to ask -questions was just the thing she was never to do. In the flurry and -agitation of her feelings she forgot that. - -“There is nothing the matter with me,” said Mr Yorke. “I have got a -little cold; that is all; not to-night; I felt it when we landed. Go to -bed. You must be tired too.” - -“But, papa----” said Grace, gazing at him anxiously, helpless, with -nothing to suggest, yet a scared consciousness that there was certainly -something that she ought to do. - -He had the air of a man interrupted in something much more interesting -than their girlish talk. A little pucker of impatience gathered in his -forehead; but he was too serious to smile, or to make a joke of it, as -he often did. And there was a flush on his face, and he was very hoarse, -looking exactly as he did when he caught one of his _worst_ colds. - -“Well,” he said almost harshly, “have you anything particular to say? If -not, you see I am busy. I should prefer to be left alone.” - -Grace’s anxious eyes were surveying him from head to foot. Milly, -behind, plucked at her sleeve, meaning to convey some suggestion which -she could not put into words. They wanted to do something--anything: but -neither of them had the least idea what. Milly, who thus tried to prick -her sister into exertion, was still more destitute than Grace was of any -perception what to do. - -“Good-night then, papa,” said Grace slowly. She stooped over him to kiss -him; and, oh, how hot his head was! One of his worst colds! and nobody -here who knew what ought to be done, or what the danger was. - -“Good-night,” he said quickly. He gave a little sigh of relief as they -went away, and turned back to the papers which he had hastily -concealed. The girls saw this and it did not console them. They went -back much depressed to the sitting-room, which had never been very -bright, and which now was doleful beyond description. And this was their -first night in England! Hearing, however, a furtive sob from Milly, -Grace turned round upon her quite suddenly, and “snapped her up.” - -“Well!” she cried, “after all, it is not anything so very dreadful; papa -has a cold; he has often had a cold before. He is busy with something. I -don’t see why you should make a fuss about it. I dare say he had -something to eat when he was out. An old friend would be sure to offer -him something. Of course, he will be better to-morrow; and we had better -take his advice and go to bed.” - -Now Milly began to cry in earnest. “We did not come to England all this -long way,” she said, half miserable, half indignant, “only to go to -bed.” - -At which, though she was not much happier than Milly, Grace laughed. “Of -course,” she said, “you little goose, the first thing we do everywhere -is always to go to bed. We must do that. You may live without going to -the theatre,” Grace added philosophically, with a little sigh, “without -going into society--but not without going to bed.” - -Nevertheless it was forlorn to be able to think at nine o’clock of no -other way of spending the evening. They occupied a little of the vacant -time by ordering tea, for the spoiled dinner had not tempted them; and -then sadly enough they put back the letters of introduction into the -letter-case. It seemed less probable now somehow, they could not tell -why, that the Princess would take any notice of them, or that Lord -Conway would carry them off to his house. They put away those passports -to society, through which they had seemed to have a momentary glimpse of -everything that was splendid. As they did so a little piece of paper -fell out. Milly took it up and read it first; then Grace came and looked -over her shoulder. It was very inoffensive and unimportant in -appearance--a simple address, 3 Grove Road, Hampstead, written in their -father’s hand. He had sent, they recollected, for the Directory and -taken an address out of it that morning. Could this be where he had been -visiting--the suburb in which he had not been able to get a cab? A -slight tremor ran over them, a sense of mystery which could scarcely be -called disagreeable. Who could it be who lived at 3 Grove Road, -Hampstead? And why had he gone the very first day to call there? The -girls held their breath. Visions of some old love, far too old to be -anything but a memory, came into their minds. They were divided between -a little jealousy on their mother’s account and a romantic interest -about the unknown. - -“It is a lifetime since he left England,” said Grace with emphasis. -Their imaginations leaped into a whole romantic story. They put back -the scribbled address into the letter-case with a sort of awe. They had -never been so much interested in their father before. - -“I wonder who she is,” Milly said softly under her breath. “I wonder if -we shall ever see her.” - -“Whoever she is,” cried Grace, “and whether we see her or not, you must -recollect--not a word, not a word to mamma!” - -“As if I were such a goose!” cried Milly. “But she must be so old--so -old! Mamma would not mind.” - -This discovery, or supposed discovery, relieved them from the nervous -alarm and misery which was beginning to overpower them. After a while -they even laughed softly under their breath. Papa’s old, old love -affair, though it was interesting and even touching, as a relic of the -ancient ages, was yet more or less amusing too. They put back the scrap -of paper along with all the big, imposing letters, which were so much -more pretentious, but which it was very evident their father had not -been nearly so much interested by. They liked him for going _there_ -first of all: and then they permitted themselves a little laugh. - -“I dare say,” said Grace, “they were quite young when they were parted. -How strange it must be to meet after so many years! One reads of it in -books sometimes. I wonder if he will take us to see her. I should think -she would like to see us--if she is nice,” she added with a little -hesitation. - -“She must be nice,” said Milly, “or he would not have remembered all -these years, and gone to see her the very first minute. I wonder if -mamma would be angry, Grace? I wonder if _she_ is married too?” - -“Oh, no, no!” cried Grace, decidedly. “Men may do that, but not women. -You may be sure she has lived all the time--oh, not making herself -unhappy--but always faithful! She will be good; she will do all sorts of -things for people; but marry--no! I _hope_ he will take us to see her. -It is like England. It is what I have always thought of England. People -are so faithful here. Not changing about, not always looking for -something new. I do hope he will take us to see her, Milly.” - -“I suppose mamma would have no objection,” said Milly, her mind somewhat -divided on the subject. - -They exhausted this new theme, looking at it from every side. And at -last, much more cheerful--having, indeed, to exercise restraint upon -themselves not to chatter too much as they passed their father’s door, -and perhaps disturb him--they went to bed, no longer thinking it so -dismal. This hypothesis, which was built upon so slight a foundation, -was on the whole the most amusing and the most interesting suggestion -that had ever yet entered their minds in respect to papa. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Robert Yorke had gone to Canada about thirty years before the beginning -of this history. He was then a robust young man of about twenty-five, a -great athlete, and bringing from “home” all that science in cricket and -other cognate sports which people out there are proud to think is the -inheritance of every Englishman. He had begun in a very humble way, -without introductions or recommendations of any sort--a thing which made -the first steps of his course both slow and difficult; but besides being -a gentleman, which is a thing never without effect, he was a young -fellow of resolution and self-control, and there is no disadvantage in -the world which will stand against those qualities. He made his way -slowly, but very surely, always working upward. He was a man whom people -could not fail to note wherever he went, a man who was loved and hated, -or at least vehemently disliked: the mild approval of indifference never -was his. Perhaps it might even be said that the majority of people -disliked the man. He was not conciliatory. He was very silent, very -reserved, so reserved that his wife even knew nothing about him, where -he came from, who were his relations, or if he had any. On the other -side of the Atlantic a man is permitted to be the son of his own -actions. Where there are so many new people there are not the same -researches into the antecedents of a candidate for social acceptance, as -are common among us. He did not belong to a Canadian family, but was -entirely a new man; and he was not enquired into. Any rash person who -attempted to do so made little by his motion. Such anxious inquirers as -ventured to put the question to him, whether he belonged to the Yorkes -of Hardwicke, or any other great family of the name, were met with a -stern and simple negative which made an end of them. “No,” he would say, -with a perfectly blank countenance, and remain silent, defying further -inquiry. When a man is married, then is the moment for investigations; -but though Yorke married into a very good family, a family which had -been settled in Canada for at least three generations--which is -something like coming in with the Conqueror--he would seem to have -successfully resisted all attempts to make him give an account of -himself. He said shortly that he had “no relations” to the inquiries of -his parents-in-law. It is not to be denied that they disliked this at -first; but finding that no better was to be made of it, they reflected -that it was rather a recommendation to a husband in some cases, and -permitted the marriage. Mrs Yorke was about ten years younger than her -husband, still a pretty woman, as she had a good right to be, having -had neither cares nor troubles to deepen the genial lines, or engrave a -single wrinkle on her pleasant countenance. She had never been required -to think of anything beyond the needs of her household. Her mind was as -fresh as her face. Though she was a great authority to her children, and -knew exactly what to do in household emergencies, and how to take care -of them all when anything was the matter with them--and even how to -manage her husband when he had one of his bad colds--she had never had -any harder intercourse with life. All went smoothly with her in its -bigger affairs. She had everything that heart could desire--according to -her position in life. - -That position was very different in Canada from what it would have been -at home. Here, in this old island, we ordinary folks, who modestly call -ourselves ladies and gentlemen without aspiring to rank or greatness, -are quite aware that we are out of the way of Princes and Princesses, -and Secretaries of State. When we go to London, even if we may have -arranged a royal entry into our special burgh, or been “of use” to a -wandering Prince, it never occurs to us that the Princess will have -heard of our arrival in town, and will forthwith ask us to tea. But on -the other side of the Atlantic things are different, and to be in the -best society, to be in the way of meeting, and even entertaining all the -illustrious wanderers of the earth, it is not necessary to be very rich -or great. Your position in life does not depend upon money, but upon -many things that are little taken into account in more formal -society--upon energy and civic services, and even sometimes upon that -faculty of keeping in the front of affairs which many people who have no -other merit possess, and which tells everywhere, more or less. The -Yorkes were not overwhelmingly rich. He had not made a colossal fortune; -but, on the other hand, his expenses were moderate. And without living -at all splendidly, or with any ostentation of wealth, it was recognised -that they were to be reckoned among the best people. They lived that -kind of life which to many people appears, or did once appear, an ideal -existence--a life of domestic comfort, of homely wealth, and family -companionship: in which Cowper’s picture of the close-drawn curtains, -the blazing fire, the hissing tea-urn was realised continually, with all -the warm family adoration and mutual knowledge, and also, perhaps, -something of the narrowness and sense of superior virtue which that -ideal implies. The Yorkes living thus quite simply and domestically, -parents and children together, had a position which people possessing -six times their income, and living ten times as expensively, would not -have had in England. They kept no more than one homely little carriage -of all work, and were served in-doors by maidservants; but, -notwithstanding, they were among “the best people,” and were not afraid -to offer their simple hospitality, in happy ignorance of its want of -splendour, to all the strangers who pleased them, and sometimes, among -these, to very great people indeed. - -While their children were young it had been several times proposed that -Mr and Mrs Yorke should go “home” on a visit, to see England, and the -ways of the old world. Mrs Yorke in particular, who had never been in -England in her life, had been much excited by the idea of going “home;” -but many things came in the way. Sometimes the drawback was on her side, -in the shape of babies, or other natural impediments of a young mother’s -career; and sometimes on his, in claims of business. Indeed, it had been -generally remarked by all the friends of the family that Yorke himself -never showed any great inclination to go home. After it had all been -settled over and over again that they were to go, it came to be a -foregone conclusion with all observers that something would certainly -come in the way to change all the plans. Yet nobody could say that Yorke -was to blame; the accidents that detained and deterred them were -perfectly natural, and so far as could be seen, quite unavoidable. After -the two elder girls grew up matters became more pressing, for while Mrs -Yorke, with her children always on her mind, very easily accepted any -excuse for giving up an expedition which must have carried her away -from them, Grace and Milly had no such reasons to hold them back, and -clamoured for the tour in which they themselves were to have a share. - -What it was which at last decided their father to this journey, nobody -knew. He was no more explanatory upon this matter than upon so many -others. All he did was to announce one evening, coming back from his -business, that he thought if they could get ready to start by next mail -he really would be able to go. There was reality, and there was meaning -in his tone. This time nobody said, “You will see: nothing will come of -it.” From the very beginning everything was different this time. He went -at once and inquired about berths in the steamers; he inquired after the -outfits, the preparations which the ladies had to make, warning them -that they could get all the new fashions in London--“or in Paris,” he -added, seeing the smile of scorn upon the girls’ faces. But by this time -Mrs Yorke had become more reluctant than ever to leave her little -children, and encounter all the troubles of a long voyage. She had grown -a little stout, not more than was becoming, all her friends said, though -people who did not take any interest in her good looks were perhaps less -flattering; and with this increased fulness there had come an increased -disinclination to budge. She made a thousand excuses. Reginald was a -little delicate. Lenny was just at that crisis in his education when, if -he was not kept up to his work, something dreadful might happen. (“And -mamma thinks she can keep him up to his work!” the girls said aside, -with incredulous laughter; for, indeed, she was always the first to find -out that he had a headache, and that health was of far more importance -than any examination.) Then little Mary, the baby, had not yet got all -her teeth. “And how a woman could find it in her heart to leave a baby -teething--when everybody knows convulsions may come on at any moment,” -Mrs Yorke protested she did not know. The end was that two days before -the day of sailing, she announced point-blank that it was impossible. -She could not do it. Home! why this was home, where they had all been -born. She was very glad that the girls should go, who had the energy: -but she had not the energy; and the little ones wanted her. All the -bystanders, breaking out into accustomed smiles, declared that they knew -it from the beginning. When it was not one thing it was another. When it -was not Robert Yorke who could not leave his office, it was Louisa who -could not leave her nursery--everybody knew from the first mention of -the plan that it never would be carried out. - -But this conclusion, though so often justified, was not infallible. On -hearing, in an outburst of despair from the girls, mamma’s resolution, -Mr Yorke stood stoutly to his colours. It was very unfortunate that -mamma should feel so, but in that case he must go without her, he said; -and he believed that he could take care of Grace and Milly, so as not -to lose the passage money altogether. Mrs Yorke was very thankful to -consent to the compromise. She was not of an anxious mind; everything -had gone well in her family up to this time; there had been no losses, -no accidents; there was no tradition of misfortune in the household, -such as chills the hearts of some; and she saw them go with a cheerful -countenance. The wind blew rather strong the first night, nothing to -hurt, only a quarter of a gale; and she shuddered, and was thankful she -was not with them. “Robert is an excellent sailor, and the girls are -young. They were never at sea before; they will take pleasure in being a -little ill as a new experience. But I cannot bear it, it puts me out -altogether. I am thankful I am not with them,” she said; and so settled -herself quite quietly with her nursery tea-party to wait till the -travellers should return; which would be “such an amusement.” - -This is how it happened that Mr Yorke and his daughters came to England -without her. The girls lamented her withdrawal loudly; but Yorke himself -said little. He made a half confidence to her the evening before they -left. “To tell the truth,” he said, “it is something I saw in the -English papers that decided me, something about some property.” - -“What property?” said Mrs Yorke, to whom, as she had six children, the -question of property was by no means uninteresting; but he only said, -“It may come to nothing. I will tell you all about it when I come back.” -She had curiosity enough after he was gone to send to the office for the -old newspapers, and to examine them carefully to see if she could find -any clue to this mysterious speech; but she could not. And she was an -easy-going soul, and found it not in the least impossible to wait for -the information until he should come home. - -Thus the father and daughters crossed the Atlantic, justifying her easy -confidence in the invariable good fortune of the family by having a most -prosperous voyage. And nothing could be more bright than the cheerful -assault with which the two girls on that first morning took possession -of London and all its associations. They had a delightful morning, but -not a very cheerful night. As, however, the girls were both alive to the -thought that a cold generally (“very often,” said Milly; “almost -always,” cried Grace, more confidently still) goes off, when proper -precautions are taken, in the night--they consoled themselves. To-morrow -is always a new day. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -The girls knew nothing more till next morning. There was no reason why -they should be alarmed. After all a cold is no such great matter. When -they went to bed they went to sleep, as is natural at their age, and -heard nothing more till they were up and dressed, having almost -forgotten their father’s illness altogether. Before, however, they were -quite ready to leave their room, something occurred which startled them -greatly. There was a knock at the door, in which of itself there was an -alarming sound. Mystery and meaning were in it far beyond the sound of -an ordinary knock. When one of them rushed to open it, a woman came in -of imposing appearance. She did not speak to them at the door, as the -servants of the hotel did, but came in even without being asked. -Importance was in her look, in her rustling silk dress and lofty cap, in -her soft and almost stately step. - -“My dear young ladies,” she said, “you must not be alarmed;” and with -this came in, and with her hand behind her shut the door. Naturally the -girls’ imagination immediately leapt at things terrible--bad news from -Canada, a summons home. - -“What is the matter? Is it a telegram?” they cried with one breath. - -“Oh, no, it is no telegram; fortunately, the poor gentleman is in his -own comfortable room, where he will be seen to as comfortably as if he -were at home. He said you were not to be alarmed.” - -“We are thoroughly alarmed now,” said Grace; “tell us the truth at -once.” - -“Your poor papa, my dear young ladies, is very poorly,” said their -visitor. “I am the manageress of this hotel. He rang his bell in the -night, and we sent for a doctor; everything has been done that could -have been done. I made the mustard with my own hands for his poultice. -We are always ready in our great way of business for everything that can -be required. I had the _Foil de Rigolette_ ready, but he preferred -mustard. Everything was done that could be done.” - -The two girls instinctively had drawn together, and caught each other by -the arm in mutual support. “Oh, tell us, tell us,” they cried; “is -papa----” and then their lips refused to fashion the other dreadful word -that leapt to them. The manageress was satisfied with the effect she had -produced. Instead of the fresh and cheerful girls to whom she had -introduced herself, two woebegone and colourless ghosts stood before her -trembling with dismay and terror. - -Then she nodded her head encouragingly. “A little better--yes, a little -better. We have made as much progress, the medical gentleman says, as -can be expected in such a sharp attack. Mustard chest and back have -eased the breathing, and though he does not wish it to be concealed from -you that it is a very sharp attack----” - -Milly dropped her sister’s arm, and, sinking down upon a chair, fell -a-weeping in mingled excitement and terror and relief. Grace stood -still, holding by the table for support, very pale, and with trembling -lips. - -“You have not told us what it is. He had a bad cold.” - -“That is how it always begins,” said the manageress; “but you will have -the consolation of knowing that it has been taken in time, and that -everything has been done. I was called up at once, and I have given him -my best attention. I always say I am half a doctor myself. Yes, it is -congestion of the lungs; but you must not be alarmed--indeed you must -not be alarmed, my dear young ladies; there’s no reason to suppose that -he won’t recover----” - -“Recover!” they both cried together like a lamentable echo, turning -towards her four beseeching eyes, as if she held in her hand the issues -of fate. - -“And do well--and do well,” she said hastily. “That’s what I meant. Go -and take some breakfast, and fortify yourselves like good dears; and -when the doctor comes, we’ll see. You can ask him; and if the sight of -you wouldn’t agitate your poor papa----” - -Why should it agitate him? Why should it not be the most natural thing -in the world to see them by his bedside? That this should not have been -his first thought was beyond measure extraordinary to the girls; but -they yielded to the wonderful, appalling argument after a little. If it -would agitate him, if it might hurt him, whatever it might cost them, -they must stay away. There could not be any question about that. After a -while they went, sick-hearted and miserable, into the sitting-room where -their breakfast was laid, and where, the one persuading the other, they -swallowed each a cup of tea. Then they sat down to wait the coming of -the doctor. They had a long time to wait. It was a bright morning after -the rain, and they sat at the window and watched all the comings and -goings in the dingy London street. Opposite to them was a tall house -with a balcony, filling up all the horizon; and the tradesmen’s carts -jostled up and down for an hour or two, and lugubrious organ-grinders -stopped underneath, encouraged by the sight of the two faces, possible -listeners, which appeared at their window. And thus the first of the -morning passed, and hansom cabs began to rattle about, depositing, with -loud clang and hum, now young men and now old, at the different doors; -and the stream of passers-by quickened; and postmen and telegraph boys -came and went with sharp rattles of knocking; and quick footsteps -beating up and down the street. The girls were not always at the window: -now one, now another would go to the door of the sick-room and listen to -the sounds inside. And sometimes the door would be opened, and something -asked for, which Grace or Milly, far more rapid than any waiter, would -rush to get. “Just the same, just the same,” was all the nurse could say -to them. They began to feel as if they were entirely dependent upon this -woman, and that in her hand was the decision of all. - -When the doctor appeared at last he was so rapid and so hurried that it -was all they could do to get him to pause to speak to them as he left -the room. “No better; but I did not expect it,” he said. “No worse: -these things must take their course.” - -“But we are his daughters,” cried Grace. “Is it possible that you will -shut us out from his bedside? Whenever he has been ill, we have always -nursed him. Oh, why must we be kept out now?” - -“Always nursed him?” said the doctor; “that is well thought of. Step in -here. Do you mean to say that he has had this before?” - -“What is it?” said Grace. “He has had bad colds, very bad colds. Mamma -was always anxious when he had one of his colds.” - -“And mamma told us above all things that we must not allow him to catch -cold,” cried Milly. “Oh, how badly we must have managed! but how could -we know? and what could we do? And it was only the second night.” - -The doctor was quick-witted and sympathetic; but naturally he thought of -his patient as a case, and not as a man. “Not to allow him to catch -cold! that’s easier said than done,” he said with a half-smile, shaking -his head. “I thought there must be delicacy of the chest to begin with; -all that could not have been done in one day.” - -“No, no, there was no delicacy; he was always well and strong--always -strong,” the girls cried, emulating and supplementing each other. They -poured upon him instantly a hundred examples of their father’s -robustness. He had never been ill in his life, except with a cold, and -everybody has colds. He never took any special care. Mamma was anxious, -but then mamma was always anxious about us all, though we are known to -be the healthiest family! To all these eager explanations Doctor Brewer -listened with that half-smile, shaking his head; but he was interested. -From looking at this matter as only a case, he began to realise the -human creatures involved in it, and to perceive that the man who was ill -was the head of an anxious, probably dependent family, and that these -two pale, frightened, eager girls, with their young beauty all obscured -by this cloud of pale terror and confusion, were his children. He began -to look at them with a certain tenderness of pity. - -“You are very young,” he said at last, when they gave him time to speak. -“I think you had better telegraph at once for your mother.” - -“For mamma?” their faces were pale before, but this suggestion withdrew -from them every tinge of colour. - -“She is the best nurse he can have; she ought to be here to take care of -you in any case. Give me her address, and I will telegraph. She ought to -know at once.” - -“Doctor!” said Grace, separating herself from her sister, “oh, let _us_ -know at once. Is it so serious? is it dangerous? I am not very young, -and I am the eldest, and have had a great deal of experience. Mamma -could not be here for nearly a fortnight; and think what a thing it -would be, the long voyage alone, and the fear of what she might find -when she came, and no news--no news for ten days or more--for she might -not have so good a passage as we had. And then she has never been used -to travel, or do anything by herself. Oh, doctor, do you think--do you -think that it is so serious as that?” - -“Where is your mother?” he said. - -“In Canada,” they both cried in one breath. - -Dr Brewer began to be more interested than was at all justifiable in -what was after all only one case out of a hundred. “Poor children! poor -children!” he said. They stood with their faces intent upon him, four -great brown eyes, with the eyelids curved and puckered over them in -deep arches of anxiety and terror, appealing as if to a god who could -kill and make alive. He was overcome by this passionate trouble and -suspense. He put out his hand (he had children of his own) and touched -lightly with a soothing touch the nearest shoulder. “You must not be -frightened,” he said. “I see you are brave girls; you will do your duty. -No; if she is so far away as that, we will not frighten your mother -to-day--not to-day.” - -“You think he is very ill?” they said, searching his face as if it were -full of secret folds and hieroglyphics which searching could find out. - -“He has a sharp attack. Come, one of you shall go, one at a time, and be -at hand if anything is wanted. I sent him a nurse last night, whom I -happened to be able to lay my hand upon. She will want a rest -occasionally. If you will obey orders exactly, and call her whenever you -are at a loss--one at a time.” - -“Milly is not strong--not so very strong,” cried Grace; “let it be me. I -nursed them all when we had scarlet fever: and I never cry nor break -down.” - -“Oh, Grace! I should not cry if I were with papa,” cried Milly, with -streaming eyes. - -Dr Brewer almost cried too. He was tender-hearted, as so many doctors -are, and then he had girls of his own. But he could not spend all his -morning with these two pretty forlorn creatures, and their father, who -was struggling for his life. - -This went on for more than a week, during which there was to these poor -girls neither night nor day, but all one confused languor and excitement -and anxiety; the monotony of the sick-room, broken only by now and then -a terrified consultation with nurse and doctor, or between themselves, -as to what was to be done. During all this time they defended their -mother from the telegram with which the doctor had threatened her. The -more they thought of it the more impossible it seemed that she should be -summoned upon such a journey at a moment’s notice and kept, during all -its course, in the terrible anxiety which was inevitable if once she -knew what was hanging over them. After the first days Dr Brewer himself -did not urge it. He said to himself that all would be settled one way or -other before the poor woman could come: and that the girls, poor things! -must bear it as they could if matters came to the worst. - -Meanwhile, as the dreary days went on, the sick-room, in its stillness -and monotony, became the scene of one of those hand-to-hand struggles -with death in which there is all the terrible force of a tragedy to -those who are aware of the conclusion which is drawing nigh; but it is -seldom that the persons who are most interested are aware of this. And -Grace and Milly were too young and inexperienced to realise more than -that papa was no better from morning to morning, from night to night. -There was always one of them in the room with the nurse, and -occasionally Mr Yorke was well enough to talk to them. But either he did -not realise the seriousness of his own position, or the torpor of -approaching death, and the self-absorption of weakness and suffering had -begun to steal over him. He liked Grace to do what was needful for him, -but smiled at poor little Milly, bidding her run away and amuse herself. -“You ought to be doing something. You ought to be taking advantage of -your opportunities. Who knows if you will ever be in London again?” he -said, once or twice, with that strange forgetfulness of all the -circumstances which bewildered the girls; but either he had nothing -important to say, or, in the languor of his illness, he deferred the -saying of it, preferring to turn his face to the wall and escape from -all consideration of what was coming. Once only this silence was broken; -but not to much purpose. He had asked for something to drink; and as -Grace raised him--she could do this now as easily as if he had been a -child--he caught and was touched by the look of anxiety on her face. - -“Poor little Grace!” he said, when he was laid back again upon his -pillow, “this is a curious way of enjoying London.” He had not much -breath to talk, and had to pause between his words. - -“Not at all, papa. Yes, it is dreadful for you to have to suffer, but -for me quite natural, you being ill.” - -Then he gave a feeble laugh. “Your mother--will not suppose--that we are -engaged like this.” - -“Milly has written to say you are not well.” - -“Not well--that was right--not to make her anxious.” He laughed a little -again. “But she will have to be told--some day: my poor Milly.” This was -his wife’s name as well as his child’s. - -“Yes, papa, when you are quite well again. She will not mind then; but -don’t you think that it is best to say little till you are better? for -she would be so anxious; and what would be the use of bringing her over, -when you will be all right again before she could get here?” - -“I shall be all right again,” he said, pausing upon each word. The smile -had gone off his face. He seemed to weigh the words, and drop them one -by one. Was he asking himself whether that would ever be, or only -lingering for want of breath? “Remind me,” he said, “of the people I -went to see: there is something I want--to tell you about. But I -can’t--be troubled now,” and with that he turned once more, as he was so -fond of doing, his face to the wall. - -Thus the melancholy days went on. Grace had begun to feel something -fatal in the air, but Milly had not yet gone farther than the fact that -papa was very ill, and that it might be weeks before he was well again, -when Dr Brewer came into their room after his nightly visit. They had -been trying to eat something, which they simply acknowledged as a duty, -but did not know how to get through. Their meals were the most dreadful -moments of their day, the only things that marked its melancholy course. -The doctor came in, not hurriedly, as he usually did. He drew a chair to -the table and sat down beside them. “What are you having--tea? I never -told you to take tea,” he said. - -“It is so easy to take,” Milly pleaded, “far easier than anything else.” - -“In the meantime you must have some wine,” he said, ringing the bell; -“yes, yes, you must take it whether you like it or not. Now tell me a -little about yourselves, as I have some time to myself to-night. My wife -was talking of coming to see you. I have never heard anything about your -friends in London. It is time to think of looking them up----” - -“That means papa is better,” said Milly. “I knew it from the first -moment, as soon as I saw the doctor’s kind face.” - -He turned his kind face away from them with a forced smile. He could not -bear to meet their anxious eyes. - -“But we have no friends--not to call friends,” said Grace, who was not -quite so sure as Milly, and yet was so glad to take Milly’s opinion for -this once. “We have letters to quantities of people, and some of them we -have seen at home. There is Lord Conway,” she said with a little -hesitation--“he once stayed at our house. It is a long time ago, but we -thought--oh, we did not want him to ask us, especially since papa has -been ill. It would be dreadful to have a long illness in a stranger’s -house.” - -“Lord Conway!” Dr Brewer said, bewildered. - -“But we don’t know him, not as you know your friends,” Grace made haste -to add; “we don’t know any one in that way. They are all people who have -been in Canada, or the friends of people who have been in Canada.” - -The doctor shook his head. “Do you mean that you know nobody, my poor -dear children? You have no _friends_--people who really are acquainted -with you, who would take a little trouble for you, whom you could have -recourse to----” Here he stopped, confused, feeling Grace’s eye upon -him. “I thought you might have--relations even, on this side of the -water,” he said. - -“Whom we could have recourse to!” said Grace--“oh, doctor, tell us, tell -us what you mean! Why should we want to have recourse to any one? That -means more than ordinary words----” - -“He means--to show us some civility--to show us England--now that papa -is going to get better,” said Milly, throwing back her head with a -pretty movement of pleasure. But Dr Brewer did not raise his eyes. He -could not face them, the one so anxious to divine his meaning, the other -happy in her mistake. Milly was talkative and effusive in her joy. “Now -we ought to telegraph to mamma,” she cried. “She will have got the -first letter saying how ill papa was. It will be delightful to relieve -her mind all in a moment--to tell her he is getting well, almost as soon -as she knew that he was ill. We must telegraph to-morrow.” - -Dr Brewer still did not meet Grace’s anxious gaze, which would have read -his face in a moment. “You are very young,” he said, “to have had such -a--responsibility upon you. You have been very brave hitherto, and you -will not break down now. I am afraid, indeed, that I shall have to -telegraph to your mother--very soon now.” - -It was his tone more than what he said which disturbed Milly in her -happy confidence. She turned round suddenly and looked with an awful -inquiry, not at him but at Grace. Grace for her part, trembling, had -grasped Dr Brewer by the arm. “Doctor!” she said in a strange, stifled -voice. She could not say any more. - -He covered her soft little thin hand with his and patted it gently. “My -poor dear children,” he said, “my poor children! how can I tell you----” -His voice was broken. It told all he had to say without the aid of any -words. How could he put it into words? For a moment it seemed to the -doctor as if the man’s death must be his fault, and that they would have -a right to upbraid him for letting their father die. He sat there with -his head drooped and with his heart full of sympathetic anguish, not -knowing what might happen next. - -Milly gave a great cry. She had not feared all this time, and just now -she had been happy and triumphant in the thought that danger was over. -She cried out and threw herself suddenly on the ground at the doctor’s -feet. “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Oh, don’t let it be. Don’t let it be! -Doctor, think of us poor girls; think of mamma and all the children; -doctor, doctor!” said Milly, her voice rising louder and louder in her -despair. - -Grace had not said anything. She stood, her face all quivering with -anguish, her eyes fixed upon him. She seemed to take up the last -quivering note of Milly’s cry--“Is there no hope?” she said. - -The doctor shook his head. He laid his hand tenderly upon poor Milly’s -hair--every line of his face was working. “Listen to me,” he said, his -voice trembling. “You have been very courageous, very good hitherto--and -now there is one last effort before you. You at least will stand by him -to the end. You will not make it worse, but better for him, Grace.” - -The girl tried to speak two or three times before the words would come. -When she found utterance at last what she said was scarcely -intelligible. It was, “And Milly too.” - -“It would be better, far better, that she should lie down and try to -rest. I will give her something; but you--you must come with me, -Grace.” - -“And Milly too,” the girl said again, as if these were the only words -she was capable of. She gathered up her sister from where she lay at the -doctor’s feet, and whispered to her, smoothing away her disordered hair. -Milly was not able to stand. She leaned her weight upon her sister; her -pretty hair fell about her face, all wild and distorted with crying. She -wanted to get down again to the floor to kneel at the doctor’s feet. “He -could do something still if he were to try. Oh, Gracie, Gracie! think of -us two miserable girls, and mamma, and all the children. He could do -something if he were to try.” - -“Milly! we have got to stand by him--to keep up his heart----” - -“I cannot stand--I cannot stand, I think I will die. Oh, doctor, doctor! -do something, find out something! Couldn’t you do something if you were -to try?” - -“Milly, am I to go alone--the last time--to papa?” - -“Put our blood into him,” cried Milly, holding up her small white -wrists. “They do that sometimes. Take mine--oh, every drop!--and Grace’s -too. Doctor, doctor! you could do something if you were to try.” - -For weeks after, this cry rang in the good doctor’s ears. They both -caught at the idea; even Grace, who had command of herself. How easy it -seemed!--to take the young blood out of their veins and pour it, like -new life, into his. Sometimes it is done in stories--why not, why not, -in actual life? Their voices ran into a kind of clamour, imploring him. -It was long before the impression made by this scene left the doctor’s -mind and recollection. Nevertheless, that night both the girls stood by -their father’s bedside quietly enough, making no scene, watching eagerly -for any last word he might have to say to them. But how few of the dying -have any last words to say! He opened his eyes, and smiled vaguely twice -or thrice, as though all had been quite happy and simple around him--he -had gone out of the region in which anxieties dwell. Perhaps he did not -remember that he was leaving them helpless among strangers--or if he -knew, the ebb of the wave had caught him and he could feel nothing but -the last floating out to sea, the sound of the waters, the tide of the -new life. - -Left to themselves in such circumstances, the poor girls had no -alternative but to be crushed altogether, or to rise into heroic -fortitude; and happily Grace had strength enough for that better part. -She dressed herself, when the dreadful morning came, in the only black -frock her wardrobe contained, with the composure of a creature braced by -the worst that could happen, and knowing now that whatever might come, -nothing so terrible could fall on her again. The shock, instead of -prostrating her as it did her sister, seemed to rally all her forces, -and clear and strengthen every faculty. She had scarcely slept, -notwithstanding the calming dose which the doctor in his pity had -insisted upon administering to both. It procured for poor little Milly -some hours of feverish unconsciousness, but with Grace it acted on the -mind, not the body, numbing the pain but giving an unnatural and vivid -force to all her faculties. Her brain seemed to be beset by thoughts; -and first among them was a yearning sympathy and pity for her mother. -The sudden shock of a curtly worded telegram would be so novel, so -terrible, to that happy woman, who never all her life had known what -great sorrow was, that her young daughter shuddered at the thought. - -As soon as she got up she began to write to her, while Milly still -tossed and moaned in her unquiet sleep. Grace’s letter was such as no -poet, save one of the highest genius, could have written. It was love -and not she that composed it. It was a history of all the last days, -tender and distinct as a picture. Every word that she said led up to the -terrible news at the end, imperceptibly, gradually, as it is the art of -tragedy to do, so that the reader should perceive the inevitable and -feel it coming without the horror of a sudden shock. When her sister -woke she read this letter to her, and they wept over it together. It was -almost as new to Milly as it would be to her mother, for she had not -realised the slow constant progress of the days to this event, nor had -Grace herself done so, till she had begun to put it down upon paper. -When the doctor came in the morning the letter was all ready, put up and -addressed; and then it was that Grace insisted no telegram should be -sent. - -“Mamma has never had any trouble all her life. He always did everything. -Nothing dreadful has ever happened to us. The children have been ill, -but they always got better. We never were afraid of anything. If this -were flung at mamma like a shot--like a blow--it might kill her too.” - -“Yes, it might kill her too,” Milly murmured, turning to the doctor her -large strained eyes. - -“But, my dear children, somebody must come to you at once; you can’t be -left here alone. Your mother will be strengthened to bear it as you are, -and for your sake. Somebody must come to you at once.” - -“O Gracie!” murmured Milly, looking at her sister with beseeching eyes. - -“Why?” said Grace steadily. “That is just what I cannot see. Nobody -could wish mamma to come now. What good would it do? It would be -dreadful for her;--and to him--to him!----” - -Here, brave as she was, she had to stop, and could not say any more. - -“Of course,” said the doctor softly, “your father is beyond all need. He -is safe now, whatever happens; but you--what can you do? Somebody must -come at once to take care of you, to take you home.” - -Once more Milly’s eyes travelled from Grace to the doctor, and back -again. To have some one to take care of them sounded to Milly the only -thing that was left on earth to desire. - -“No one,” said Grace, wondering at her own calm, “could be here for a -fortnight; and the first days will be the worst. After that things will -be easier. Don’t you see, everything that can happen will have happened -then; and why should some one--for it could not be mamma now, Milly; it -would not be mamma: why should some one be disturbed and made -uncomfortable, and forced to start at a moment’s notice, only to take -care of us? I can take care of Milly, and we can go home.” Another pause -till the tears were swallowed somehow. “It will be less hard, on the -whole, to go home by ourselves, than with any one else.” - -The doctor was struck by this argument. He looked at them anxiously, -fragile as they were, looking like shadows of girls after the long -anxiety and strain of these ten days. - -“Do you think,” he said, doubtful, “that you are able for it?” - -“Able!” said Grace with the petulance of grief. “What is there to be -able for now? We have borne the worst. If it had been a week ago, and I -had known what was coming, I should have said, No, we were not able. But -now!” the girl cried with a kind of disdain, “now we have suffered all -that can be suffered, doctor. We can never lose our father again.” - -Here Milly broke out into hysterical cries. - -“Oh, papa, papa! Oh, Grace! What shall we do? What shall we do?” - -Grace took her sister into her arms standing by the bedside, while the -other sat up, her hair hanging about her, her face distraught with a -passion of grief over which she had no control. The tears rained from -Grace’s eyes, but she stood firm as a rock. - -“We must bear it,” she said; “we must bear it, Milly. We cannot have -that to bear again. We will not make it harder for mamma.” - -This scene upset the kind doctor for the day; he could not give his -attention to the other cases which awaited him for thinking of this -heartrending picture. And as for the nurse, whose services were -imperatively demanded for another “case”--she could not bear to take -leave of them at all, but stole away as if she had done them a wrong. - -“How could any woman with a heart in her bosom leave them in their -trouble?” she said, sobbing, to the doctor; “but I am not a woman, I am -only a nurse----” - -“And there is a life to be preserved,” the doctor said. The woman, -after all, was only a woman, petulant and unreasonable. - -“We are all fools and know nothing. We could not save this life,” she -said, “though there were no complications.” - -Dr Brewer, too, felt a little ashamed. What was the good of him? He had -done everything that his science was capable of, but that had been -nothing. Old Death, the oldest of practitioners and the most -experienced, had laughed at him, and out of his very hands had taken the -prey. - -The girls never knew what happened till the funeral was over; and yet it -troubled them in the midst of their distress that there was nobody to -ask to it, no train of mourners to do honour to their father. They went -themselves, following the lonely coffin, and the doctor, half ashamed, -half astonished at his own emotion, went with them, to see the stranger -buried. He had sent the introductory letter to the Colonial office, -accompanied by a statement of the circumstances; but the Minister was up -to his eyes in parliamentary work, and his aides knew nothing about Mr -Robert Yorke of Quebec. The landlord, out of respect for what had -happened in his own house--though at first he had been very angry that -any one should have taken such a liberty as to die in his house at the -beginning of the season--followed at a little distance. He came by -himself in the second mourning coach which the undertakers felt to be -necessary, and in which it was well there should be some one for the -sake of respectability. Notwithstanding all that had been said and done, -it did not seem to the girls that they had ever realised what had -happened till they came back that dreary afternoon, and sat down hand in -hand in their sitting-room, the door closed upon all things, the murk -evening closing in, and nothing to look forward to now--nothing to think -of but their own desolation. They “broke down;” what could they do else? -But when there are two to break down, it is inevitable that one of the -two must see the vanity of tears and make an effort to check them. - -“We cannot go on like this,” Grace said. “We will only kill ourselves -too; that will not be any comfort for mamma. In the first place, we must -find out whether there was anything that--papa wanted done while he was -in England. Yes! I mean to talk of him,” she said, “just as if he were -in Canada, as if he were next door; he must not be banished from his own -because he is dead. Mamma will never let him be forgotten and put aside. -We must accustom ourselves to talk about him. Perhaps there was -something he wanted done. Do you recollect, Milly? he went away by -himself that night?” - -“Oh, Grace,” cried her sister, “whoever they are, I hate those people. -They were the cause of it. He would never have caught cold but for----” - -“Hush,” said Grace, “we must not hate anybody. I should like to go and -ask about them; they must have been old--friends.” - -It was at this moment that the waiter came in--the waiter who had always -been so kind to them. He came in with a countenance regulated to the -occasion. - -“Young ladies,” he said, “here’s a gentleman below inquiring for a party -as has come from Canada. It’s not a name as ever I heard before. Mr -Crosthwaite, he’s asking for. I said as I did not like to disturb you -such a day; but if so be as you might have heard speak of the name--from -Canada.” - -Grief is irritable, and Grace turned upon the questioner with quick -resentment. “Oh, how can you come and ask _us_?” she cried. “Is there -nobody in your house to be disturbed but my sister and me?” - -“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said the waiter, “I hope I’m not unfeeling. -Nobody could have felt more--if it ain’t disrespectful to say -so--according to their station in life. If it hadn’t a been that the -manageress is that cantankerous about a death in the house I’d have -followed the poor gentleman willingly to his last ’ome, and never -grudged no trouble; but when a gentleman comes to me and asks for a -party as arrived from Canada a fortnight ago----” - -The two girls looked at each other. Was this, perhaps, the clue for -which they were looking? They felt that it was wrong and a breach of the -decorum of their sorrow that they should see any one on this day: but -if, perhaps, this might be the clue they sought. “Arrived from Canada--a -fortnight ago?” it seemed years--but they gulped down that thought. “We -did so, you know,” said Grace, “but that is not our name. I know no one -of that name. Did you say----?” - -“I told him all as had happened, miss,” said the sympathetic waiter who -brought the message, “and the gentleman was very sorry. He’s a feeling -gentleman, whoever he is. He said, ‘Poor young ladies!’ as feeling as I -could have done it myself; but he’s very anxious about this name -Crosthwaite, or whatever it is. I said you was very considerate, and -that if you could help him I made sure I might ask you. He would have -liked to speak to any one as was from Canada,” the waiter said. - -Again the girls looked at each other. Any one from Canada! Perhaps, -though they did not know any Crosthwaites, they might know the gentleman -who was inquiring for them; and even the sight of some one from home -would be a kind of consolation. Grace, with a look, consulted Milly, who -had no counsel to give, but only appealed back again to Grace with her -beautiful eyes. Then the elder sister said, tremblingly, “We are not fit -to see any one; but if he thinks it will help him you may let him come -up-stairs.” She said this with a sigh of what she felt to be extreme -reluctance; but yet even the vaguest hope of an unknown friend and of -some succour in their trouble gave a new turn to their thoughts. - -In a few minutes the door opened again and the visitor came in. The -girls were sitting together at one side of the table, two faint candles -throwing a white light upon each white face. They looked small and -young, almost childish, in their black dresses, and there was an anxious -look upon the two little wan girlish countenances. The stranger came in -with some diffidence. They could scarcely make out his face, but they -saw at once that it was somebody unknown; and the look of expectation -faded at once out of their eyes. They looked at each other with a -piteous mutual disappointment. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I fear this is an intrusion for which -there is no excuse. I am looking for a gentleman who has been long in -Canada--Robert Leonard Crosthwaite was his name: but I have some reason -to suppose----” - -“We never heard the name,” said Grace. “We are very sorry. We came from -Quebec. Canada is a large place. It might be in another part.” - -“He had been a very long time out of England. He came back only a few -weeks ago. We were sure--we thought we were sure--that he came to this -hotel.” - -The girls both shook their heads. “If there had been any other Canadian -person here we must have heard. They would have come to us,” said Grace, -with a sob only half concealed. - -“It is very important,” said the young man. “There is property -concerned, and the comfort of several people. Everybody thought he was -dead. It will upset the arrangements of a family--and make those poor -who were well off,” he said in an undertone, to himself, rather than to -them. - -The girls looked at him with interest. There seemed a story involved, -and that gave them a sensation that, if not pleasure, was, at least, -relief from the pressure of their own continuously painful thoughts. -Milly even ventured a little “Oh!” of wistful interest. Then he went on -hastily-- - -“Pardon me: I ought not to disturb you. You can give me no clue? This -gentleman must have arrived about the same time as I hear you did. I -know--I know how painfully your time has been occupied. I am ashamed to -trouble you: but do you not think you could give me a clue----” - -“We never heard the name,” said Grace. “We could write home and ask, but -that would not be of much use. We are going back,” she added with an -explanatoriness which perhaps was not necessary, “as soon as----” But -here her little strength broke down, and she could not say any more. - -“I beg your pardon, I beg a thousand pardons,” the young man cried. -“Forgive me for intruding upon you.” And he turned with a respectful -bow; and opened the door; but when he had done this he turned again and -looked at them once more. “You will excuse me,” he said in a voice which -was full of emotion, “but I have a mother. If she could be of any use to -you----” - -Here the girls, being so weeping-ripe, again lost their self-control -altogether. Milly began to sob audibly, throwing herself upon her -sister’s shoulder, and the tears dropped heavily one by one from Grace’s -eyes. She put one arm round poor Milly, and turned, with a tremulous -smile through her tears, to the stranger. - -“Thank you for being so kind,” she said. “You are very kind; but we are -not quite so miserable as perhaps you think. We have got our mother too. -We are waiting till she tells us what to do.” - -He said nothing but “Oh!” and stood for a moment uncertain, not knowing -what to say. But what could a stranger say? He was obliged to turn again -and go away, after a great many fumblings with the door. - -Next morning they began, sadly, the necessary work of putting away their -father’s papers and his little personal possessions. In his -writing-book there was a letter half written to their mother, which -they put aside carefully as a sacred thing, not looking, for love, at -his last words. But on one of the pages of the blotting-book they found -once more the address which had excited their curiosity before, “3 Grove -Road, Hampstead,” written obliquely across the page. It was repeated on -a scrap of paper which marked his place in the book which they -remembered he had been reading, and on which, besides, there were some -jottings of dates and names which they did not understand. These -were--“Left July ’45---- U. A. died ’55---- due with interest for 20 -years----.” The word “interest” discouraged the girls; it must be -something about business, they thought. This perpetually recurring -address, however, bewildered them. They went on with their sad -occupation without saying much to each other, but when they sat down to -rest and to take the food which their youthful appetites began to -demand, notwithstanding their trouble, Grace suddenly broke the silence. - -“It must be some old friend, who lives there,” she said. - -Milly made no reply in words, but she looked up with instant response -and comprehension. - -“I think,” said Grace, “we ought to go and see who it is. It might be a -relation. It might be some one who would stand by us: we are so very -lonely here. It might be some--lady. I think we should go--directly--as -soon as you are ready, Milly.” - -“Oh, I am ready,” Milly said, starting up. The new idea gave them a -little spring and energy. They almost ran to put on their little crape -bonnets and their out-door jackets--which had been made for them at the -pleasure of the dressmaker, hastily summoned and allowed to work her -will--and which were heavy and laden with crape. They were like -monuments of woe, from head to foot, in these garments; their two little -pale faces, so white and so small, looking out with increased pallor -from their heavy black. Milly had a good deal of gold and a good deal of -curl in her light brown hair, which shone out with double force from -these gloomy surroundings, like a protest of nature. Grace’s locks were -darker and smoother. She was the least pretty of the two, but her eyes -were larger and more expressive than those fawn eyes of Milly’s, which -at present wore but one look, that of startled wistfulness and -pleading--an entreaty to all the world to be pitiful. They went off upon -their new mission, however, with a little consolation in the relief of -the novelty, stealing quietly downstairs that nobody might come out upon -them to ask questions or offer help. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -It did not occur to the girls in their inexperience to make any attempt -to find out who lived at No. 3, Grove Road. They got out of their cab at -the door of the house with a flutter of anxious and excited feeling, but -still without any thought that the stranger or strangers they were about -to see were anonymous, and that their only warrant in thus invading an -unknown house was the scrap of paper which they had brought with them as -their credentials. The house was a kind of villa, such as abound in the -suburbs, with shrubberies around it, and high hedges, and a green door, -between two smooth green lines of privet. They stood for a moment and -looked round them at the bare tree-tops rising all round against the -chilly blue sky; and the unfrequented road all overgrown with grass; and -the houses nearly hidden by these jealous hedges. The girls did not -understand this jealous privacy of suburban life, and they shivered a -little as they looked round, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. In the -morning Grove Road was alive with tradesmen’s carts, with nursery-maids -and children setting out for their walk on the heath, but in the -afternoon a dead silence fell upon it. The rooms in which the inmates -lived were on the other side, and here nothing was visible except a -blank range of windows over those green lines of hedge, broken only by -the still more absolute enclosure of the shut door. They looked at each -other, and thought of their father coming out here into the dark, into -the rain on that fatal night. They understood now how impossible it -would be for him to get either shelter or a carriage to bring him back. - -“You would think there was spite in those dreadful doors,” said Grace, -“wouldn’t you, Milly? As if it would give them pleasure to shut -themselves tight and refuse all shelter; not a porch that any one could -stand under. Oh, when we used to hear of the English liking to be -private, we never thought of this!” - -Milly looked at them mournfully too, and they both thought of the -different scenes they had been used to, with that comparison which it is -almost impossible for strangers not to make. Then Grace turned round -with a sudden impulse and pulled the bell, which they could hear make a -long but subdued tinkle just over the green door. But they had to wait -still for some minutes before there was any response. The moment the -deed was done, the bell rung and entrance demanded, Milly turned to her -sister with her usual “Oh!” of appeal. - -“Who will you ask for?” she said. - -It was a difficulty that never had occurred to them before; and in their -sense of this extraordinary deficiency they had almost fled, shyness -taking possession of them, and a sense of being altogether wrong and out -of all respectable use and wont. But, on the other hand, it was shabby -to run away, a trick not worthy of girls--a schoolboy crime. So they -stood trembling, half with cold, half with terror, and by-and-by heard -the opening of an inner door and steps approaching. If it had been a -solemn butler who had opened to them, even at that moment they would -have run away; but it was a pretty, smiling maid, with a white cap and -white apron, over whose countenance there passed an indefinable -sympathetic change as she saw first the two young faces, and then the -deep crape of their dresses. They were cheered and encouraged by this -mute sign, the freemasonry of youth and kindness. - -“Is ---- at home?” said Grace falteringly. - -The maid was too intent upon the aspect of the young creatures before -her to note that no name was uttered, but only a tremulous counterfeit -of sound. - -“Missis is not at home, miss,” said the girl, with an air of sympathetic -regret. Then she added, “But Miss Anna is, and Mr Geoffrey, if one of -them would do.” - -The girls looked at each other again with a swift mutual consultation. -“We should like to see Miss Anna, if you please,” said Grace. - -And next moment they were within the house. They went along the shadowy -green passage into the hall, and through another corridor to the -drawing-room at the other side of the house, feeling as if they were in -a dream. This, then, was an English home--the first they had ever -penetrated into. It was an old house, not fresh and bright like those to -which they were accustomed; a house full of old furniture, old hangings, -old books. One or two doors were open, and they could not help glancing -in as they passed, with a spring of youthful curiosity not yet quenched. -When they got to the drawing-room they could scarcely restrain a cry of -surprise. It had three long windows opening to a garden at the other -side of the house. In front of them lay--all the world, as Grace -thought--a great blue distance, in the centre of which rose a smoke, and -a vision of distant towers and roofs--great London lying far below; and -close at hand a slope of green lawn, with further slopes beyond of -heath, and gorse, and dotted trees forming the foreground. This -wonderful panorama quite unreasonably lightened their hearts. They had a -long time to wait, but it was so full of curiosity and interest that it -did not seem long. At length they became aware of the sound of a step -coming slowly along the passages, a step accompanied by a little tap as -of a stick on the door. It kept them in tantalising expectation for a -minute--then turned aside, and there was again a pause. Finally the -little maid came again to the door and led the way into another room. - -It was a smaller room, with the same extended landscape before the -window--a room very daintily furnished, lighted up with pretty china, -pictures, everything full of delicate colour and glimmers of reflection; -little mirrors hidden away in corners, shelves upon the dim walls with -dainty vases and cups, everything delicate, everything bright. They took -this in with one startled glance before their attention concentrated -upon the occupant of the room--a lady who rose slowly, supporting -herself with a stick, from a large easy-chair beside the fire. She rose -with difficulty, yet there was a sort of slow stately grace in the very -stiffness with which she moved. Was this Miss Anna? The hearts of Grace -and Milly leaped into their throats: they were awed, and dared scarcely -draw their breath. Ah, certainly this was England, the old country where -queens and princesses were possible. They almost forgot themselves, and -their trouble, and their sorrow, and all the strangeness of their -circumstances, as they gazed upon this unexpected sight. - -Miss Anna was a woman about sixty, with perfectly white hair, and keen, -large, dark eyes. She was pale, but with a little evanescent colour, the -colour of weakness, as if the slight movement she had made had set the -blood in motion, and brought a faint rose tint to her cheeks; otherwise -she was like ivory finely cut, her nose a little aquiline, her forehead -softly shaded with the white, silvery lines of her hair. She was dressed -in soft satin, clinging to her in long folds, which was not the fashion -at the time, and, therefore, all the more impressive, and had on her -head a sort of lace veil, half shrouding her hair and falling over her -shoulders. Her dress had all the air of being studied and thought of, -though the faint, yellowish tinge of the lace, and the dark sheen of the -satin, wine-colour or plum-colour, were all the elements out of which -this effect was produced. But the simple girls who stood before her had -never seen anything like her, and the wonderful apparition took away -their breath. She, on her part, looked at them keenly with her -penetrating eyes--then she waved her hand towards two chairs set out in -front of her throne. - -“You asked for me,” she said. “Sit down; I fear I have kept you -waiting.” - -Grace and Milly were far too much excited to notice it--but, as a matter -of fact, this stately lady was excited too, and the look with which she -perused them, their faces, their mourning dresses, their whole -appearance, was unquestionably anxious--though this would have seemed to -them incredible, impossible. It was only when they sat down that they -perceived some one behind at the other end of the room--a man leaning -over a writing-table with his head turned away from them. Miss Anna sat -full in the light between the window and the fire. She repeated, with a -faint tremour of impatience, “You asked for me?” - -“No,” said Grace--she would have liked to say madame, or my lady, or -something that would have shown her reverence; but was too shy, with all -her self-possession, to venture out of the beaten way. She sat down -timidly and folded her hands, and looked at her questioner with that -wistful, propitiating look, a faint smile quivering about her lips, her -eyes cast upwards with a shy but earnest appeal, which sits so prettily -upon extreme youth. “No,” she said, “indeed we did not even know your -name. We are very unfortunate girls in great trouble, and we found your -address among papa’s papers.” - -“Who is your papa?” - -Grace saw nothing but the old lady who gazed at her fixedly and riveted -her eyes; but Milly, who had no responsibility of speech, saw more than -her sister. She saw the man at the writing-table turn hastily round at -the sound of Grace’s voice, then rise and approach nearer. When he came -into the light she recollected that it was he who had come to them at -the hotel the day before. - -“Ah,” said Grace, her mouth all quivering; “papa is----. We came over -from Canada----” Here, even she, absorbed in her story and the emotion -it occasioned, made an involuntary pause, seeing the lady start and look -over her head as if at some one behind with a curious look of alarm and -trouble. Was it only sympathy? Grace paused while you might count ten, -and then went on again--“only a fortnight since; and on Monday he died, -and left us all alone, all alone in this strange place. We thought--we -imagined that it was you he went to see the first night he was in -England----” - -Here she stopped again; the lady’s mouth seemed to quiver too. “Many -people come to see me,” she said. “What was his name?” - -“His name was Robert Yorke. We are his daughters; I am Grace, and this -is Milly--we are the two eldest,” said the girl, still with the same -pathetic smile about her mouth, and a look which appealed unconsciously -for help and pity. - -Miss Anna eyed them all the time with eyes that seemed to pierce them -through and through. “This is a very sad story,” she said. There was a -quiver in her voice which meant real suffering, not mere pity; but her -words were not so tender as this emotion might have indicated; there was -no effusiveness of kindness in them. “You are left, then, without -friends, without resources? I feel for you very much; but I have a great -many applicants----” - -Grace started to her feet, pressing her hands together almost with -violence. “Oh!” she said, “If you think we are coming to you for -charity----” - -“Aunt Anna,” said the young man, coming forward, “these are the young -ladies whom I saw yesterday; if they are so kind, in their own trouble, -as to bring us some information, some clue----” - -Miss Anna made him an almost imperceptible sign, in which an anxious -desire to keep him silent was mingled with the utmost intolerance of -impatience. The young man stopped short suddenly; and Milly, who was the -spectator of all, taking no other part, saw vaguely this transaction -carried on over their heads, and wondered, though she did not know what -it could mean. - -But Grace perceived nothing at all: for once her perceptions were -dulled; the tears in her eyes blinded her, scalding as they were with -indignation, and the quick passionate shame with which so young a -creature is apt to feel and resent a humiliating judgment. She continued -vehemently, “We are not asking anything--we have money enough; we are -rich enough: if that is what you mean.” - -“I did not mean to be unkind,” said the stately lady. “Sit down, do not -be impatient. Geoffrey, I think we can dispense with your presence. -These young ladies will be more at their ease with me alone.” - -He had pressed forward, in spite of her prohibition. He was a little -like her, though not so handsome; but there was no mistaking the honest -sympathy and feeling in his eyes. Both the girls turned to him with a -conviction that here at least was a friend. A sort of faint half-smile -of recognition passed between them. “Oh, is it you?” said Grace -unawares. They seemed in this enchanted house, in this strange -audience-chamber, to have encountered at last some one of their own -species, some one who would stand by them. They looked at him with an -anxious, unspoken entreaty not to go away; and he reassured them by the -faintest movement of his head. - -“I think,” he said, “it will be better if I stay.” - -“I think otherwise,” said Miss Anna; but she said no more to him, and -made no further objection. “Sit down,” she said, touching the chair from -which Grace had risen, with her stick. “You must not be offended; I -meant no harm. I should not have thought any worse of you had you come -to me for help, and I don’t think any better of you for being well off. -I am sorry for you all the same. But tell me why you came to me. No, -wait a little, you can tell me presently. In the meantime, Geoffrey, you -can ring for tea.” - -He did it without a word, standing before the fire contemplating the -group. The girls did not know what it all meant; but gradually it dawned -upon them with a strange sensation that they were not the principals -here, but that a veiled and hidden conflict was going on between the -two strangers, who appeared to share this luxurious home, and who were -somehow, they could not tell how, connected with themselves and their -concerns. The innocent commonplace request to ring for the tea had, they -felt, if they could but understand it, a much more serious meaning than -appeared. Geoffrey obeyed, but they felt very grateful to him that he -showed no intention of going away. - -And then there was a curious pause. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Of all innocent domestic entertainments there is none more innocent, not -to say tame, than the recent institution which is now so universally -popular, of afternoon tea. The virtuous dulness, the gentle talk, is -seldom enlivened by any dramatic interest going on under the surface. -Now and then, indeed, a mild love affair will give a little excitement -to the circle round the tea-table: but this is the utmost stretch to -which the imagination can reach as connected with that mild -entertainment. And among all the pretty suburban houses, surrounding -London with endless circles of comfort and brightness, there could not -have been found a more attractive group than that which occupied Miss -Anna’s pretty sitting-room in Grove Road. But underneath this innocent -seeming how many elements of tragedy were working! Miss Anna’s motive -was known to none of them; but, whatever it was, it was strong enough to -make her exert herself in a way which startled her nephew and gave him -the watchful, suspicious, gloomy air which entirely changed the -character of his face. Grace and Milly for their part soon began to feel -the strange fascination exercised over them to be intolerable, yet what -with their shyness, and strangeness, and bewilderment, suddenly plunged -into a scene so new to them, did not know how to break the spell--though -Grace became every moment more sensible of the false position, and even -felt it a reproach to her in her sorrow to be turned aside out of her -serious course by the light and graceful current of Miss Anna’s -recollections and anecdotes. Geoffrey, who kept a sort of neutral place -between them, was not really aware, save by the instinct which made him -divine something wrong underneath the surface, of half the seriousness -of the situation. It had not yet occurred to him to identify the dead -father of the girls with the visitor who had caused so much commotion in -the house some time before. He thought nothing more now than that they -had generously come, though in grievous trouble, to convey some -information respecting that stranger; and he saw clearly enough that the -same motive which had induced his aunt to disown and dismiss the visitor -then, was impelling her now to refuse to listen to anything about him. - -“I have a great deal of fine Sèvres,” Miss Anna said. “Many people tell -me I should exhibit it. There are continual exhibitions nowadays to -which people send their treasures. There is South Kensington, you know; -there is always something of the kind going on there. What! you have not -been at South Kensington? Oh, that is very great negligence on the part -of your friends. You must really make them take you before you go away. -Yes, I was very much urged to send my china there.” - -It was Milly who murmured the little response which civility demanded; -for Grace’s impatience was getting the better of her. She felt that she -must speak, though the words were taken out of her mouth. But still the -old lady went smoothly on. - -“Now that I cannot walk I take a great deal of pleasure in having all my -pretty things about me. If you ever should be in such a position--which -I trust may never be the case--you will understand what a pleasure it is -to have bright surroundings. What, going? It is really quite dark. You -must let Geoffrey get a cab for you. Geoffrey, go, dear, and look for a -cab.” - -Grace had got up with an irrestrainable impulse. She came forward a step -with her hands tightly clasped. “It is not that we are going,” she said. -“It is that I must talk to you about the thing that brought us here. -I--I--do not know your name--except Miss Anna, as the maid said. Oh, -will you please for a moment listen to me? The last night my father was -well, before he took his illness, he was, so far as we can tell, here. -We found your address among his papers; and he went out and left us for -a long time that afternoon saying he was going to see old friends. We -cannot think of any other interpretation; we feel sure that he must -have been here. If you are our dearest father’s friend--anything to -him--we should like--to know you,” said Grace, once more unconsciously -clasping her hands. “We do not want anything from--we only want to know -you, if you were dear papa’s friend.” - -There was another pause, for the fervour of strong emotion with which -the girl spoke, her clasped hands and wet eyes, impressed even the -vigilant woman who was prepared for everything. It required a moment’s -resolution even on her part before she could crush the hopes of the -young forlorn creature who thus appealed to her. She made a pause, and -drew a long breath. Then she said, “Who was your father? You forget that -I know nothing about him----” - -“Robert Leonard Yorke,” said Grace. The familiar dear name almost -overcame her courage, but she held herself up by main force with her -hands clasped. “There is nobody better known where we come from--Robert -Leonard Yorke, of Quebec----” - -“My dear young lady,” said Miss Anna--and she sank back in her chair -with a certain relief--a relaxation of the strain with which she had -kept herself up to be ready for any emergency, which was not lost upon -her nephew at least--“you have made some mistake. I never heard the name -in my life. I never knew any one, or, to my knowledge, saw any one of -that name.” - -“A fortnight ago, on Tuesday: and it rained very much in the evening,” -Grace said eagerly. “He told us he could not get a cab, it was so far -out of town; and he got very wet.” - -“He caught cold--and it was that--it was that----” Milly added her -contribution to what her sister said: but her voice broke, and she could -not conclude her sentence. - -Miss Anna sat and looked on politely attentive, but at the same time -ostentatiously indifferent. “It is very sad,” she said. “It is -impossible to tell you how sorry I am; but I never heard of Mr Yorke in -my life. Geoffrey, that is true, it is very difficult to get a cab; go -and look for one. I cannot permit these young ladies to wander away -alone in a strange place. Go, Geoff, go!” - -She was very anxious to be rid of him; her voice took the imperious -tone, which he had obeyed so often, but he did not seem disposed to obey -now. - -“A fortnight ago,” he said, “on a dark afternoon, turning to rain?” - -“Yes, yes! you remember--oh, do you remember?--and afterwards we saw you -at the hotel.” The two girls spoke both together, one saying the former -part, the other the latter of the sentence, both turning upon him with -the most anxious eyes, gazing, trying to penetrate into his inmost soul. - -“Geoff, why do you stand there?” cried Miss Anna. She, too, became -energetic, and more and more imperious. “Go, I tell you, and get a cab -for them. Two strangers, and far from where they are living. You know -what your mother will think of such visitors. Go, directly, as I tell -you.” She stamped as she spoke, first her stick and then her foot, -impatiently on the floor. - -“This cannot be settled so summarily,” said Geoffrey; “there is more in -it. It is not necessary that we should stay in your room, Aunt Anna, if -you dislike it; but I wish these ladies to remain till my mother sees -them----” - -“Your mother, who always believes everything that is said to her! Let -there be an end to this folly at once, Geoff; go and get a cab.” - -“Aunt Anna, there had better be no struggle between us--yet. What I ask -is very simple--that they should see my mother.” - -“Do you want to see his mother?” she said, suddenly turning upon the -astonished girls. “You have made acquaintance with him, I can see; but -mothers have sharp eyes, and his mother thinks every girl she sees is in -love with her fascinating son. Can’t he see you at some other place? I -warn you my sister will give you no pleasant reception if she finds you -here.” - -“Grace, Grace, let us go away,” cried Milly, rising to her feet, scarlet -with shame; but Grace had other things to think of, and paid no -attention to this assault. - -“I don’t want to be harsh,” continued Miss Anna; “but if you are good -girls it will be much better for you to go away at once. I don’t say -you are not good girls, far from it. I don’t pretend to judge; but girls -of your age should not be going about to strange houses without -invitation, especially where there is a young man. It has a strange -look--your people would not like it. I advise you as your friend to go -away.” - -Here Milly clasped Grace by the arm, and drew her back a little; perhaps -some passing communication from Geoffrey’s eyes had made the younger -sister the more keen-sighted of the two for once. Grace turned round a -little, moved by her earnestness, and there was the usual consultation -by looks between them; the result of which was that Grace’s pale -countenance became also suffused with colour; but she held her ground, -though her sister drew her back. - -“I do not think, if you were kind,” she said, “that you would speak so -to two girls like us. You would protect us rather from every evil -thought. We came here because we have no friends, thinking that they -must have been friends to whom papa went on his first day in England: -thinking, perhaps, you were relations--somebody who would take a little -interest in us. If it is not so, there can be no reason why we should -stay.” - -Geoffrey put out his hand with an eager gesture. “Till my mother comes,” -he said. - -“Young ladies,” cried Miss Anna, “I will tell you what that boy means; -he wants to make you out to be the children of a sort of madman who was -here some time ago--an impostor: a fellow who gave himself out as--who -represented himself to be--a man who has been dead for years. Would you -like to have a slur put upon your father, who appears to have been a -respectable person?” she added more calmly. She had yielded to an -impulse of anger, and had flushed passionately. But at the last words -she calmed down, and spoke with distinct and slow utterance, with a -slight curl of contempt about her mouth. - -“Grace, Grace,” cried Milly, “let us go away!” - -Grace’s face varied every moment as one emotion after another swept over -it. “I don’t know what to do,” she said piteously, “Milly”: “But I think -there is something to find out,” she added--“I think there is something -more!” - -“If you wish to have your father’s character taken away, and the cheat -he attempted found out----” cried Miss Anna, with sudden fury. Then she -stopped, seeing the mistake she had made. “I beg your pardon, I am -sure,” she went on, with fictitious amiability. “You are making me -identify this respectable person from Canada, poor man, for whom I am -very sorry--with a wretched impostor, a fellow that never came back, or -made the slightest effort to support his ridiculous claim. Of course, if -you like to stay till my sister comes back,” she added, “I can have no -objection. She is a silly, credulous woman; she will believe any story -you like to tell her, so you may give the rein to your invention. But -one caution I will give you: say nothing about her son. Make believe, at -all events, that you know nothing about her son.” - -“Oh, Grace, why should we be insulted? What can it matter to us? Let us -go away,” Milly cried. - -But if there was one thing better known among the young Yorkes than -another, it was that Grace was obstinate. Nothing, the boys said, would -make her give in, even when she was beaten. She turned round to -Geoffrey, even while her sister was speaking. - -“Sir,” she said, “we don’t know you, not even your name; but if you -think your mother will understand better--if you think she will know -anything about us, I would rather wait till she comes. We do not want -money, or help, if that is what Miss Anna supposes; we want nothing -except to know----” - -“Then why in heaven’s name do you insist on staying? against my will, -who am the mistress of the house? I say I will not have you here. I will -have no adventurers here. I do not believe there is a word of truth in -your story. That man is not dead. Impostors never die. It is all a -got-up affair from beginning to end. Look here!” cried Miss Anna, -striking her stick on the floor, “as I don’t want to have the whole -story raked up in a court of justice, where you would not have a chance, -not a leg to stand upon, you or your precious father--I’d rather come -to terms with you, and let it go no further. How much will you take to -give up your claims altogether? They are false, utterly false; but I -don’t want to be made a talk of. I would rather settle it and be done -with it, if you will say how much you will take, and start by the next -steamboat. There is a steamboat every week, every day perhaps, for -anything I know.” - -The girls stood close together listening aghast, Milly thinking nothing -less than that Miss Anna must be a mad woman, and that now her insanity -was becoming visible. But to Grace’s more active mind, this strange -proposal conveyed an impression quite different. She looked at Geoffrey, -whose turn it now seemed to be to blush. He had made an effort to -interfere, and stop Miss Anna, but, failing in that, had drawn a step -back, and stood with a painful flush on his face listening to her. As -she ended, he stepped forward again. - -“With this proposal,” he said, “please to remark, neither I nor my -mother have anything to do.” - -“There is something, then, upon which we have a claim,” Grace cried; -“and we are not mistaken after all!” - -“Oh, Grace,” cried Milly, “come away--come away! What does it matter to -us? We don’t understand this country, or its ways. Oh, how we used to -think of England, how delightful it was to be! but now it is dreadful. -If you went to the poorest house in Canada,” cried the girl, “and said, -We are in trouble, we are all alone, our father is dead, they would take -you in, they would be kind to you; but here they say we are impostors, -and offer us money. Oh, Grace, Grace, come away!” - -With her eyes sparkling through her tears, her soft cheeks flushed with -resentment and shame, her hands clasping her sister’s arm, whom she -endeavoured to draw away, Milly turned towards the door. It was not -often she took the initiative, or even gave utterance to so many words; -but Milly was not quick enough to divine any secret meaning, or to see -anything but offence and insult in what had been said. Her only thought -was to escape--all the more as she had felt a secret confidence that -they had fallen among friends on seeing Geoffrey; and the disappointment -made her revulsion of feeling more complete. - -The door opened behind as she spoke, and another lady came in. The -newcomer had her bonnet on, and brought with her a waft of fresh air -from out of doors. She was not beautiful, like Miss Anna, but she had -the same white hair and dark eyes--eyes not so penetrating, but kinder. -She came in with an untroubled air, as a woman comes into her own house, -expecting nothing but the ordinary domestic calm. She stopped short, -however, when she saw the visitors, and uttered a little exclamation, -“Oh!” somewhat tremulous, like Milly’s own. She was a shy woman for one -thing, and for another, having been so lately excited by an unusual -visitor, she felt slightly nervous of every new figure. “I did not know -you had visitors, Anna,” she said. - -“These are not my visitors,” said Miss Anna; “if they are anybody’s -visitors, they are your son’s.” - -Then the friendly face before them clouded over. She cast one -reproachful look at Geoffrey, and turned her back upon the two dark -figures in their depth of crape. This was her weakness, but it was a -weakness which was full of compunctions. Her son was all she had in the -world; and though she would say now and then that to see him married was -the height of her ambition, yet this good mother feared and almost hated -every feminine creature under thirty, and turned her back upon the whole -race lest Geoffrey’s future wife might be found among them. When she had -done this, however, her heart always melted, as now. She was, in -reality, one of the most womanly of women, and liked nothing so well as -feminine companions when she could put confidence in them that they -would not take her son from her. The two faces, however, upon which she -cast a remorseful glance now, after she had turned her back upon them, -were of the most dangerous type. They were the faces of two predatory -creatures against whom she felt she had no means of defence. Either of -them was capable under her very eyes of sweeping Geoff away from her -for ever and ever. Never did hen look upon fox with more dismay; but Mrs -Underwood was not a consistent or firm woman. She looked and trembled; -but then looked again, and was touched in spite of herself. They were -very young; they were in deep mourning; and _they were not paying the -slightest attention to Geoffrey_. Perhaps that last was the most moving -circumstance of all. - -“Visitors of my son’s? That means, I suppose,” said Mrs Underwood, with -a little gasp, yet a heroic effort, “Visitors to me?” - -“I am glad you think so, Mary. It is no concern of mine,” said Miss -Anna, turning pointedly away. - -And then politeness compelled Mrs Underwood to offer civilities she had -very little mind to. “Won’t you sit down?” she said. “Geoff, you will -perhaps introduce me to your friends.” - -She sighed; there was something half-ludicrous in the pathos of her -tone. - -“I hope we may be friends hereafter,” said Geoffrey; “but at present -there is something to be settled which is more than friendship. Mother, -you remember your cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite, and his sudden visit here -a fortnight ago?” - -“Leonard Crosthwaite?” she said the name trembling, and turned -involuntarily with a frightened look to where her sister sat. - -“He means,” said Miss Anna, without turning her head, “the impostor, or -madman, who assumed the name of--our relation who died twenty years -ago.” - -“Mother, listen,” said Geoffrey. “It is a terrible story, so far as I -can make it out. He went from you, to die: and these are his daughters.” - -Mrs Underwood turned from one to another as her son spoke, now reading -his face, now Miss Anna’s, now throwing an anxious glance at the sisters -who stood together in the centre of the room, not knowing what new turn -their affairs might be about to take. - -At this an exclamation burst from all three at once. The girls said, -“No, no!” while Mrs Underwood cried out, “Leonard’s daughters!” “No, no, -no, no!” the others said. - -“So far as I can see,” repeated the young man, “he is dead, and cannot -tell us how it stands. These are the young ladies whom I found at the -hotel to which I went in search of him--his hotel, the address he gave -you. And their father came out on a wintry afternoon a fortnight ago, a -Tuesday, to visit friends--old friends of whom he told them nothing. He -went home drenched--you remember how it rained, mother?--and took to his -bed. Now that he is dead, they found our address among his papers. This -is the story, and what can you want more? It seems to me that it is -clear enough!” - -“But,” said Grace, “there is one great mistake you make. Our name, it -is not Crosthwaite--oh, nothing like it; we never heard that name -before. Papa was not a man to go by a false name. Oh, no, no; he was -true in everything. There must still be some mistake.” - -Miss Anna, who had turned her chair away, turned round again at this. “I -told you,” she said; “this young fellow wants to prove you to be the -daughters of an impostor or a madman. Of course, your father was not a -man to go by a false name. Nobody would do that who was, as you say, a -respectable person, a man thought well of in his own place. You know -better than to think so. Of course: that is exactly what I said.” - -But this support sent Grace instantly into opposition. She paused to -consider, when she found herself suddenly embarrassed by this unexpected -backing up. Miss Anna’s eyes fixed upon her seemed to have a baneful -influence, and oppressed her soul. - -“Does it make any difference to you,” she said, with the trenchant -simplicity of ignorance, “what was my father’s name?” - -The question was so entirely unexpected that each of the three showed -its effect in a different, yet characteristic way. Miss Anna, listening -with the complacency and satisfaction with which Grace’s denial of the -name had filled her, received this stray shot full in her breast, and -without any preparation. She wavered, drew back, contracted her -features involuntarily in the effort to preserve her perfect calm. Mrs -Underwood gasped as if some one had seized her by the throat. As for -Geoffrey, he was the only one who replied. - -“If,” he said, “you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s daughters, as I believe, -it will make a great deal of difference to us all.” - -“The question was addressed to me,” said Miss Anna, with a slight -trembling that ran over all her person; “and it is for me to answer it. -Young lady, whoever you are, if you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s daughter, -which I don’t believe for a moment--I have no doubt your father was a -much more respectable man: but if you are, and can prove it, you will be -able to give rise to a great lawsuit, which will be fought out on both -sides for years; which will cost you every penny you have, if you have -anything, and ruin everybody belonging to you: besides bringing out a -great many things about the family you claim to belong to, which we -would all much rather keep to ourselves; and in all likelihood it would -be a failure at the end. That is the true state of the case, whatever -that boy may tell you--or anyone else,” she added after a moment, with a -glance at her sister, “or any one else. This world is full of fools.” - -“Oh, Grace, come--come away!” cried Milly in her sister’s ear. - -But Grace was less easily moved. She was bewildered, and confused, and -alarmed. It seemed to her that the rights of her family were in her -hand, and her mind leaped to great things--far greater than this simple -house and its riches. Perhaps Lenny--yes, certainly, she remembered now, -though it had not occurred to her before, her father had Leonard in his -name, and her boy-brother was also Leonard--might be the heir of some -great property, and only she to defend his rights. Grace stood and -looked at them all with a swelling of her breast, yet a dazzled dimness -in her eyes, as if she were about to faint. She never had done such a -thing in her life; but then she never had been in such an extraordinary -strait, and with nobody to advise her. No wonder the light which she -wanted so much within to clear up the way before her, should seem to -fail without. - -“I can’t see my way,” she said faintly. “I cannot tell what to do. Yes, -Milly, we will go away; but for all that, it is not finished,” she said, -turning to Miss Anna with a gleam of dim defiance in her eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -The girls were now as eager to go away as they had been to come; they -would scarcely wait for the cab which was sent for, and they paid very -little attention to the anxious civilities of Mrs Underwood and -Geoffrey, who conducted them to the door and put them into the carriage, -making every kind of wistful endeavour to obliterate the impression made -upon their minds by the other member of the family. Grace and Milly were -in too great haste to consult each other, to compare notes, and to -realise this strange new complication in their lives, to have their ears -open to Mrs Underwood’s apologies. - -“You must not mind Anna,” she said in an undertone, as she led them into -the hall, with its dark oaken furniture and scanty light, out of the -warm and softened brightness of Miss Anna’s room. “She has always been -used to having her own way; she cannot bear to be contradicted. When she -takes anything into her head it is so difficult to convince her; oh, she -is a great deal cleverer than I am, that is true; but she will not be -convinced when she has taken a thing into her head.” - -This little explanatory stream of talk seemed to flow round them as they -went to the door, but they paid very little attention to it. They -scarcely heard Mrs Underwood’s promise to go and see them at their hotel -next day; and they submitted with a little surprise rather than accepted -with any pleasure her offer of kindness, when she took each in -succession by the hand and kissed her, with a mixture of nervous -timidity and affection. “If it is so, we are relations,” she said almost -under her breath; “and if it is not so, my poor dears, my poor children, -my heart bleeds for you all the same.” The water trembling in her eyes -and the quaver of her voice showed the good woman’s sincerity; but the -girls were scarcely moved by it, so full were their minds of this -discovery, which they did not understand. As for Geoffrey, he said -nothing at all; he shut the door of the cab and lingered for a moment -looking at them wistfully, but that was all. There was in his face a -pained consciousness of the difference between his own position and -theirs. He, with his home behind him, and all the long-established -household gods which had protected him all his life; while the other -two, so much younger, feebler, and less able to shift for themselves, -had nothing but the cold foreign shelter of a hotel to go back upon. He -stood bareheaded in the rain, which, to complete the resemblance with -their father’s visit to this place, began to drizzle down continuously -out of the dim persistent skies; and his face was the last thing they -saw, gazing compassionately after them as they disappeared into the -darkness. They were too much preoccupied even to notice this--at least -Grace was too much preoccupied. Milly for her part saw him very well, -but said nothing. Her mind too was full of other thoughts--yet not so -full but that she could remark this quietly to herself. - -But though they thus left Grove Road in great excitement they were not -disappointed. If they had found themselves simply mistaken, and that -nothing was known there of their father or his visit, they would have -fallen from an eminence of hope, which in present circumstances they had -by no means lost. Had they been received with kind indulgence as -strangers, rousing no hostile or any other kind of feeling, but simply a -little surprise, they would have been cruelly disappointed; but the -excitement of seeing themselves regarded with alarm as dangerous -intruders, so important as to be perilous to family peace, flattered -them in the most subtle way. As they went slowly down the hill, jolting -over the stones, their hearts were fluttered by a sense of dignity which -they had never felt before. They laid their girlish heads together as -they had been longing to do since ever they set foot in that strange -enchanted place. What could it be? what solemn inheritance, what great -fortune, to justify the panic which they had seen by movements beneath -all the glitter and bravado of Miss Anna’s words? Between that exciting -and wonderful idea and the associations with their father of which the -darkling road seemed full, their minds were transported altogether out -of their own trouble and raised into an atmosphere of high interest and -responsibility. It would depend, they thought, upon how they now behaved -whether their whole position might be changed. They were well off -enough; there was no want in their house, nor had they any reason to -suppose that their father’s death would leave them destitute. But there -was a great difference between that state of ordinary and commonplace -comfort, and this dazzling probability. It might have been a vacant -principality, almost a throne, from the way in which Grace and Milly -contemplated it. They felt as if their former life had been stopped, and -that something new, altogether unrealised and unrealisable, awaited them -in the future. “If we only knew what to do; if we could only decide on -what is best,” Grace said. That was the difficulty now. This morning -there had seemed nothing before them but a patient, melancholy waiting -for their mother’s sad letter, and the news of her arrangements for -their return to her; now they thought no longer of the voyage home or of -anything connected with it, but of what to do and say as representatives -of their father, and heads, so to speak, of the family, working on -their behalf. “It will change everything,” Grace said again -thoughtfully. “Instead of all of us being alike, Lenny--Lenny will be -the heir. That is one thing that gives a likelihood to it,” she added, -sinking her voice as if the cab-driver might perhaps hear and report the -matter. “His name, Milly! I never thought of it till a few minutes ago. -Lenny; of course he is Leonard; and when you think of it, papa had -Leonard in his name too.” - -“I thought of it directly,” said Milly, with a little satisfaction. - -Grace, in her excitement, threw her arms round her sister. “It is you -who ought to be the first of us two,” said Grace admiringly. “It is true -that I am the eldest--but so many things occur to you that never come -into my head.” - -“It is because I have the time to think while you are talking,” Milly -said with modesty; but she was not displeased with this testimony to her -superior insight. She added, with a little awe: “Gracie, I wonder if -_that_--is our real name?” - -This was a question that took away the breath of both. They looked at -each other almost with an inclination to laugh, then stopped short and -mutually contemplated the impulse with horror. “It is dreadful,” said -Milly, “isn’t it, to have a false name?” - -“I don’t know,” said Grace, who had been so indignant an hour ago at the -suggestion; “it cannot be so very dreadful if papa did it. He must have -had his reasons for taking another name. There are reasons that account -for everything.” Her momentary humility had disappeared by this time, -and she felt equal to explaining all mysteries to her sister in her -usual way. “He must have been wronged somehow when he left home. I -suspect that Miss Anna, Milly; I am sure she is at the bottom of -everything. She must have told lies of him, or invented stories; and -then perhaps he was disinherited, and the money given to her. It would -not be money; it would be lands or an estate--perhaps a fine old house.” -Then they paused and looked at each other for a moment. “If that was how -it was, and we got it back, mamma would certainly have to come home -_then_.” - -“But it could not be for all of us; it would only be for Lenny,” said -Milly doubtfully. - -“Lenny is only fifteen; he would not be of age for ever so long. And -then it is always stipulated,” said Grace, “that when people have -estates, what is called a great stake in the country, they should be -educated in the country and made to understand it.” Insensibly she drew -herself up, holding her head higher at the thought--“Mamma would not -like it; but she would do what was best for Lenny----” - -“Then I suppose--” Milly said, and now in spite of herself the smallest -little laugh, instantly repented of, burst from her. She looked at her -sister in great alarm, with a portentously serious countenance. “I -suppose,” she repeated, as if, instead of something ridiculous, this had -been the most solemn suggestion in the world, “that Lenny--will be the -one of us that will be important now.” - -So full was Grace of the seriousness of this thought, that she replied, -without taking any notice of that guilty laugh, only by an inclination -of her head: “We will have to learn all about the English laws, and how -things are managed, for Lenny’s sake,” she said seriously. “He will be a -magistrate, you know, and most likely in Parliament; and he will be -rather behind by losing so much time in Canada. We will have to coach -him up.” - -“Oh but, Gracie, I don’t know things myself; I never was able to do -that.” - -“I must begin directly,” said Grace with a little sigh--the sigh of the -self-devoted. “It was such a business--don’t you remember, Milly?--to -coach him for school; and England--England is a great deal more -difficult. I think I must begin Greek directly, and law--or he will -never know his lessons. I hope mamma will see that it is her duty, -Milly, to come at once,” she added still more seriously. Milly for one -second was inclined to laugh again at the portentous and preposterous -importance of her young brother, but then she recollected herself, and -the tears filled her eyes. - -“Oh, poor mamma!” she cried, “poor mamma! to come now!” - -This turned once more the current of their thoughts. But when they got -back to their hotel the argument was resumed: for it soon became an -argument maintained with great heat on one side, with an unimaginable -gentle obstinacy on the other. Milly, who never went against her -sister’s will, was for once in opposition, and though she was not strong -enough to subdue Grace, she did not yield to her. - -They had begun languidly and mournfully to arrange their father’s papers -in the morning. Now Grace betook herself to this pursuit with passion. -She found nothing: some fragments of torn letters, torn up into very -small pieces, on one of which the name of “Anna” occurred, lay in the -bottom of his dressing bag; but Grace was not sufficiently skilled in -the art of detection to join them together as a more experienced -investigator might have done. And it revolted her to pry into what the -dead man had thus wished to conceal. In all his other stores there was -not a word which even suggested any information. He had scrawled, “3 -Grove Road,” on a page of his blotting-paper, and twice over in other -places, as if afraid of forgetting it. When she came to a little diary -he had kept she paused with a sensation of awe. She had seen it a -hundred times--had seen it lying open, and knew that no special sanctity -was attributed to it. It was nothing but a little record of events and -engagements; but when the hand is still that has scribbled these -careless memoranda, how strangely their character changes! She took it -to where Milly sat, and placed herself on the sofa beside her. “I cannot -read this by myself,” she said. - -“Oh, why should we read it at all, Grace? If papa had wanted us to know -he would have told us.” - -“Hush! even papa shall not make me suffer injustice!” cried the excited -girl. But when the little book was opened it gave but the scantiest -information. There was one entry since the landing in England, and no -more; and this was all it contained:-- - -“Same name in directory, at old address; to go first thing and inquire.” - -Grace gave a little cry when she read this; it seemed to her to tell all -she wanted--and yet it told nothing. “It is quite clear,” she cried in -her mistaken little triumph. Milly looked at it too with all the feeling -that it was an important revelation. Then they cried a little over the -foolish little events of the voyage, all set down there, with that -strange unconsciousness of what was coming, which makes death so doubly -terrible to the survivors. If he had but known, surely he would have put -something in that little record to console, to elevate, to calm the -survivors, to whom his every word was so soon to be sacred! But he did -not know, and put down nothing except “Wind so-and-so; a little fog in -the morning. Captain’s birthday; champagne at dinner,” and such other -trifles. They folded it carefully away in paper and sealed it, with an -ache at their hearts. Oh, if he had but known! and so told them -something, left them some information, if it had only been a task to do! -“But there is something to do!” Grace cried; “this that he began; and I -will never, never give it up till Lenny has his rights! He is papa’s -heir.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -These vague gropings after an unknown fact were very different from the -discussions which took place in Grove Road when the girls were gone. Mrs -Underwood and her son lingered together for a moment in the hall. She -took hold of Geoffrey’s arm with both her hands, and leaned for a moment -upon his shoulder and shed a few tears of agitation and distress. - -“You must not be frightened, mother. We can get on together, whatever -happens,” he said in her ear. - -“Oh, Geoff, how can I help being frightened? I would not wrong -anybody--not by the value of a straw.” - -“I am sure you would not, mother. I know you would not.” - -“But what a difference it will make--oh, what a difference!” cried poor -Mrs Underwood. - -She cried for a moment on her son’s shoulder. Was it to be expected that -she could give up the greater part of her living without a sigh? - -“And then Anna,” she said, “Anna!” in a tone of mingled fright and pain. - -It would seem almost as if her sister had divined, for she could not -hear, this reference to herself; for she called sharply in a keen voice -which penetrated through the closed door. Mrs Underwood started -immediately, dropping her son’s arm. - -“Must you always fly the moment she calls, as if you were her maid?” -said Geoff indignantly. - -His mother put up her hand to his mouth. - -“I have always done it: and could I stop it now when perhaps she is -going to lose everything? Oh, hush! hush! I am coming, I am coming, -Anna,” she cried. - -“She will never lose you, mother,” he said, detaining her. “I can see -already what will happen. You will make yourself her slave, and give up -every comfort in your life.” - -“What can I do? What can I do? I have you, but she has nobody. I am -coming, Anna, I am coming,” she said. - -Miss Anna still sat in her easy chair, with the tea-table before her. -Her forehead was slightly contracted, her lips parted with a quickened -breath; but these faint indications were all that showed any agitation -in her. She addressed her sister when she appeared in a sharper tone -than usual. “You two have been having a little consultation,” she said. -“Oh, quite right; quite right. Two heads are better than one. It might -be considered a little ungenerous, perhaps, to the other who has no one -to consult with--but I am used to it. I know what a single woman has to -expect in life.” - -“Oh, Anna!” her sister said, with a faint remonstrance, “when you know -that you are always our first thought.” - -“Your first thought! I did not know I was of so much importance,” said -Miss Anna with a laugh. “One would scarcely think it to see how little -attention you pay to me--either you or Geoff. But I must not complain: -for it is your money as well as mine that he is so anxious to make a -present of to the new claimants. And I can see very well what his motive -is--very well. Oh, I know men and their motives, though I have never -married. I can see through them well enough.” - -“My motive! what motive can I have but justice?” the young man said. - -“Oh, Geoffrey! hush, my dear. When you know it is your aunt’s way. Why -should there be any quarrelling, to make everything worse?” - -“Yes, it is his aunt’s way. I am not the sort of fool that accepts -everything,” said Miss Anna. “I can read him like a book. He has had to -have his living doled out to him through you and me, and now he sees a -way of getting the better of us--of turning the tables upon us. Oh, it -is clear enough. Two girls--two silly creatures that will believe every -word he says; but take my advice, Geoffrey, and choose the little one. -She is the one that you can turn round your little finger; the other has -a will of her own. Though it is against my own interest, you see, I can -still give you good advice.” - -Geoffrey made no reply to this speech. His mother fluttered between him -and Miss Anna with her hands spread out like the wings of a protecting -bird, ready to burst in and forestall him had he attempted to reply; but -he did not speak for some minutes. Then he said coldly, “We must not -quarrel, as my mother says. We are all threatened with a great danger. -For anything we can tell, the girls you are talking of so lightly can -take the greater part of our living from us. The question not only is, -have they a real claim? but can they establish it? and how far are we -ready to go in the way of resistance? Rather, how far are _you_ ready to -go? Will moral certainty be enough for you, or do you demand legal -proof?” - -“Moral fiddlestick!” said Miss Anna. “Morals have nothing to do with it. -We were always as near in blood as Leonard was; we had as good a right -as he had; indeed, we had a better right, being girls, to be provided -for. Uncle Abraham thought of the name when he chose his nephew instead -of his nieces. And that showed his folly--for the nephew seems to have -thrown off the name the moment he left the country: and of all the -claimants there is only one Crosthwaite, and that is me. I do not care a -brass farthing for your moral certainty. All it means is, that you have -made up your mind to stand by your opinion through thick and thin. It -is your opinion that the man who came here the other night was Leonard. -Well! you think so, and he said so--but that is no proof.” - -“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, “speak of him kindly. Poor Leonard! when -you have just heard that he is dead----” - -“What is his dying to me?” she cried, with a glance of fury. “That’s the -man that was held up to us all as the image of faithfulness. Not one of -you but has told me if I had not treated him so badly, this and that -would not have happened; and the hound had changed his name, and -married, and been happy all the time!” Then she stopped and looked at -Geoffrey with a contemptuous laugh. “Mind you, I don’t acknowledge that -he was Leonard Crosthwaite. It suits my purpose a great deal better to -believe that he was the pink of fidelity, and died of a broken heart.” - -“Very few people, they say,” said Mrs Underwood, in a reluctant voice, -“die of broken hearts.” - -Miss Anna’s bright eyes seemed to give out gleams of malice and scorn -and indignant ridicule. “But I believe in them,” she said. “I am -romantic, not prosaic like you. When you know it’s for your sake, then, -naturally, you believe in it.” She stopped to laugh, her bosom panting -with a mixture of contempt and fury. “If Leonard did not die for me as -he promised he would, he was a poor creature. Heirs! what had he to do -with heirs? If he did not die he was a traitor and a liar. Geoff, there -is no poetry in you; you are a commonplace being; that is why you are -capable of believing that Leonard Crosthwaite lived, and throve, and -married, and had heirs. I do not believe a word of it,” she said. And -again she laughed. After all, there was something behind the -self-interest that determined her resistance--something which the more -honourable people who gazed at her with so much wonder and alarm did not -understand. Her laugh was not of merriment but of that last scorn of -humanity which is despair. It made her furious, it transported her -beyond all limits of nature. She had believed in this one man as true -and faithful beyond all question; and he had been the greatest deceiver -of all. This put such fierce scorn into her breast that she could not -contain herself. The more selfish a nature is the more is it lacerated -by desertion. This was a woman who had put herself above others all her -life, and had been punished by the gradual failure of all whose worship -she had once believed in. It was the final blow to her self-esteem, and -she resented it with wild wrath and frantic ridicule of the traitor. But -nobody knew the tragic element in it, or that her belief in the -possibility of honour and truth went with this discovery. She appeared -to the others like an unscrupulous woman, firmly determined to hold by -her inheritance against all claimants--which she was: but also -something more. - -“All that is beyond the question,” said Geoffrey; “it is very possible -that legal proof may be hard to get. We might fight it out at law for -years; we might ruin them and ourselves too in the effort to make it -quite clear. The question is for you, mother, as well as Aunt Anna. If -you are sure these are the heirs, though they cannot prove it in law, -what will you do?” - -Poor Mrs Underwood was taken entirely without preparation. She turned to -her son with a gasp, clasping her hands together in dismay. She was a -woman who had always been told what to do by somebody--her husband, her -sister, her son, had managed her mind for her. When she knew what was -expected of her she did it faithfully, holding by her _consigne_ -whatever happened. She had kept steadily to her orders under the most -trying circumstances already: struggling against the glimmerings of -right judgment in her own breast, even while silenced by Anna’s -casuistry. Since Geoffrey grew up her course had been easier, though -even with his support her sister’s older influence was sometimes too -much for her. But now to be asked instead of being told--to have a -decision demanded from her instead of made for her, took away her -breath. - -“Oh, Geoff,” she said, “my dear! how can you expect me to understand -anything about the law? I should like to be kind to the girls, poor -things. Of course I should like to be kind to them. I would not ruin -them, poor fatherless children, for all the world. How could you think -such a thing of me?” - -“That is not what I am asking you, mother. If you are sure they ought to -have the money, though they cannot prove it legally, what will you do?” - -Mrs Underwood turned a frightened look towards her sister, who laughed; -then her eyes returned to the face of her son, which was very serious, -and gave her no guidance. “Do?” she murmured faintly, “I will -do--whatever is thought right, Geoff.” - -“But what do _you_ think right, mother?” - -Geoffrey felt that if he had not put a powerful control upon himself, he -might have turned round upon the laughing spectator behind him and taken -her by the throat. - -“Poor Geoff!” said Miss Anna; “between his mother, who cannot -understand, and I who understand better than a woman ought, he is in a -hard case. You had better have it out with me. What shall we do in case -there is no legal proof? You know very well there is but one thing to -do. Keep ourselves on our guard and refuse any concession. What else? -Fancy is one thing, but property is another. You can’t go chucking that -about like a ball. It must stay in the hands it is in, until others have -proved a right to it. You who were brought up for the bar, and you need -me to tell you that?” - -“This is how the case stands, mother,” said Geoffrey. “The money which -is the greater part of our living was left to your cousin, Leonard -Crosthwaite, and only to you failing him and his heirs. You thought he -was dead, without heirs, and you have enjoyed it all this time with an -easy mind. But a fortnight ago Leonard Crosthwaite appeared. You did not -know him at first, but before he went away you were convinced it was he. -Is not this all true?” - -“She fancied it was he, being a silly woman who believes everybody’s -story, and never knew a lie from the truth all her days.” - -“And you, Aunt Anna,” said Geoffrey, turning upon her with quick -impatience, “did you always know the truth from a lie?” - -“I have had no practice to speak of,” she answered; “lies have been told -me ever since I can remember. The other is a great deal more uncommon. -Don’t puzzle your mother with sophistries. Tell her what you want, that -is the shortest way.” - -“Indeed, dear,” said Mrs Underwood, with deprecating looks, “your Aunt -Anna is right; it would be better just to tell me what I am to do. I -would have done anything for poor Leonard. Poor fellow! to die among -strangers, far from his poor wife and everybody that knew him! My heart -bleeds for _her_, Geoff. If they had sent for me I would have gone in a -moment to nurse him and take care of him. You don’t suppose I would -have been so cruel as to let him die by himself if I had known? And now -these poor girls. Oh, what a change for them! to come here for pleasure, -and to have all their amusement, poor things, turned into misery and -sorrow!” Here the kind woman’s voice was choked with tears. - -“Mother! mother!” said Geoffrey, “you are the best woman in the world: -but I think you will drive me out of my senses all the same.” - -Mrs Underwood dried her eyes after a moment and looked up in his face -with a tremulous little smile. “That is what your poor father used to -say,” she replied with great simplicity. “I am not one to see the rights -of everything at a glance like Anna; but if you will explain to me what -it is best to do, you will see I will always do it, Geoff. You may trust -me for that.” - -What was Geoffrey to do? He did his best to shut his ears to Miss Anna’s -laugh and her remark, “You perceive it is always a great deal better to -talk things over with me.” It was quite true, though he never would own -it: and to discuss this matter with her was impossible to him. He stood -for a little while by the fire, staring into the mirror, where his own -troubled countenance appeared in the centre of all the little carved -shelves covered with china, which were reflected on every side. He felt -himself, as he had done so many times before, altogether out of place in -the house, where he was sometimes the master and sometimes of less -account than the dog. So far Geoffrey was always the master. His tastes, -his comforts, and even his convenience were the subjects of endless -study. But between his mother’s incapacity for any mental exertion, and -his aunt’s too keen and casuistical intelligence, it often happened that -Geoffrey was driven to the end of his patience, and felt himself no -better than a puppet between them, vainly struggling against Miss Anna’s -false logic and his mother’s shifty feebleness. At these moments a sort -of sickness of despair came over the young man. He thought with longing -of any wild scene of emigrant life, any diggings, or sheep-walks, into -which he could escape, to encounter the grosser elements of life, and be -free of this feminine atmosphere. To plant him here between these two -ladies seemed a freak of fate which was unaccountable. Their motives, -their ideas, were all different from his. Geoffrey stood for a few -minutes staring at himself, thinking what a gloomy ruffian he looked, -and how much out of keeping with all those dainty surroundings; then he -went hastily out, notwithstanding the appeal of both ladies to him. “You -are not going out in the rain, Geoff?” cried his mother; while Miss Anna -bade him recollect that it was past six o’clock. Geoffrey paid no -attention to either. It would be almost a satisfaction, he felt, to make -her wait for her dinner. Not his mother, who cared as little for her -dinner as any woman could do, but Miss Anna, who was _gourmande_, and -could not bear to wait. He was glad, too, of the sting of the rain, -blown in his face as he stepped out from all the comfort and warmth of -the too warm, luxurious house. The chill air and the darkness refreshed -him--they were such a contradiction to all the conditions of his life. - -He went out upon the borders of the heath, and looked down through the -rain upon the distant lights, the smoke of great London lying spread out -before him. Though he had been bred among women, and luxuriously cared -for all his life, he was not without some knowledge of what existence -was outside. And now, when he set himself to think of it, the prospect -gave him a shiver. It was almost as discouraging, as dismal as the wet -world upon which he looked. He had been called to the bar a few years -before, and he had got one or two briefs, which had been a matter of -much pride and amusement to the household. But this was a very different -thing from living by his work. He tried to realise what the consequences -would be of giving up the fortune of which he was aware he had thought -lightly enough. If it was all he could do to put up with that feminine -atmosphere now, in the midst of abundant space and the many pleasant -engagements which relieved him from its monotony, what would it be when -he was shut up with it in a few small rooms--when his only relaxation -would be home, and his home still, in its scantiness and -impoverishment, the domain of Aunt Anna? There flashed before him a -vision of one small sitting-room, with her chair in the chief place, her -work occupying the table, her nerves affected by every sound, her quick -ears catching every word that was said. Geoffrey felt himself able for -other kinds of privation, for hard work if need was, for the resignation -of most things that were pleasant in life--but when he thought of this -his heart failed him. And there was no help for it. Anna had been the -tyrant of her sister’s life as long as she remembered, and to withdraw -from her now when she was poor would be impossible. To suffer is always -possible; there is nothing in life so likely, so universally put up -with--but to abandon those who have shared our lives is not a thing that -can be done. It is a bond which the worst recognise, which it does not -even require heroic virtue to be faithful to. To do it may be heroic, -but not to do it is miserable. In prosperity Aunt Anna might by -possibility--though by so distant a possibility that Geoffrey hitherto -had always felt it hopeless--have been shaken off; but in trouble or -poverty she would be the absolute sovereign of his life, and his mother -would be her slave. As the young man stood with the rain beating in his -face, seeing by times, as the blast permitted, the glimmer of the -distant lights through the wet mist, he perceived and consented to this -with a sort of desperation. He must work for them both, he must hold by -them both. He could never emancipate himself till he or they should die. - -If, after this terrible realisation of what was before him, he looked -upon the loss of the money with less composure, could any one be -surprised? When he got home he went into his study, the room which was -sacred to him, where he was free from all intrusion, where, however -oppressive the domestic atmosphere might be, he could always escape from -it, and feed himself alone. No such refuge would be his were he poor. He -would have to sit and do his work at the same table where Aunt Anna -spread out her beads and her wools, and worked her impossible, useless -fancy work. Was it a duty, after all, to throw all his comfort, all that -made life tolerable, at the feet of these two strangers? Geoffrey’s -heart was rent in two. His way was no longer clear before him, but -covered with doubt and darkness and bewildering clouds. - -With all this there was a something unsaid which had glanced across his -mind many times in the course of the afternoon--a compromise, a way out -of the worst of the trouble, a new life--but he did not dare to think of -that. He pushed it away forcibly from the surface of his thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -“It is pouring rain,” said Mrs Underwood, “and he will get his death of -cold. Oh, how can boys be so incautious; and just when he has heard what -comes of it! Poor Leonard! I have not had time to think of him yet, with -all you have been saying; but when one thinks how well one knew him -once, and that he was our own flesh and blood! And Geoff doing the same -thing, the very same thing, in spite of such a warning!” - -“You are insufferable,” cried Miss Anna; “hold your tongue, for Heaven’s -sake. Do you think the man died, whoever he was, only to give a warning -to your son?” - -“I think nothing of the kind, Anna. Poor Leonard, there never could be -anybody more sorry: and his poor wife, I am sure my heart bleeds for -her: but Geoff ought to take example by him, all the same.” - -“His wife?” Miss Anna said; and she laughed; “the wife of the man who -left England thirty years ago with a broken heart. It has been on my -mind ever since that I might have been kinder to him. I thought at first -I had killed him.” She laughed again. “I might have saved myself the -trouble. He is dead now of a wet night--a great deal more deadly a -thing than a love rejected; and here are you maundering about his poor -wife. His poor wife! I have no doubt she’ll marry again before the -year’s out. It’s the way of the world.” - -“It is not the way of all the world, Anna,” said Mrs Underwood. She -would not make a direct claim of superiority on account of her -faithfulness, but she drew up her head a little and sighed, with a look -of conscious merit; at which Miss Anna laughed the more. - -“That is true,” she said, “you’ve never married, Mary, nor wished to, I -believe. You are a superior creature. I ought to have made an exception -for you.” - -“Not so superior as you think, Anna,” said the simple woman; “there is -many and many another like me, that would not, could not--oh, no, no, -for nothing in the world! Yes; I thought too that he never would have -got over it, he was so devoted to you; but he was young; if you will -remember, he was two years younger than----” - -“Have done with these absurd recollections, Mary,” said her sister -angrily; “I want to hear no more of him. He’s safely out of the way now -at last; and there’s his--there’s these girls to deal with. If I had -only been by myself and had all my wits about me I should soon have -settled these girls; but I never have it in my power to act for myself. -There was Geoff standing by with those glaring eyes of his--not that I -am afraid of his eyes. They don’t know a single thing, these girls. If I -had taken my own way I should have asked them here, and made much of -them.” - -“Oh, Anna, dear! I always said you had such a good heart!” - -Miss Anna paused to look at her sister with contemptuous toleration. -“Was any one talking of my good heart?” she said. “But, never mind, I -should have taken them in--in every sense of the word. I would have been -Aunt Anna to them. I would have packed them off to their mother with my -love and a little present. To have to do with fools blunts the sharpest -intellect. That is what I ought to have done. And it was all they -wanted. To find their English relations, to get up a little sentiment; -that was all they wanted; they have money enough; and they did not know -a thing, not a thing! To think I should have missed my opportunity like -that! A bit of china that would have got smashed on the voyage out, and -our love; they would have written us gushing letters and talked of our -kindness all their lives.” - -Mrs Underwood, good woman, was puzzled. She did not understand what this -meant. “If they had known you, Anna, I am sure they would have--loved -you,” she said, faltering a little. This was not always the result of -more intimate knowledge in Miss Anna’s case, but her sister had a -robust faith. Miss Anna cast a contemptuous glance upon her, but it was -not worth her while to argue. - -“If it had not been for your son I would have done it,” she said; “what -could have been more easy? If Geoff had been out in the world, as I -always said he ought to have been, in chambers of his own, not tied to -our apron-strings, out of my way----” - -“Anna! you never said such a thing before! You have always said you -liked to have him at home.” - -“I like a man in the house,” said Miss Anna; “I don’t deny it. There is -an advantage in having a man in the house, if he would hold his tongue -and do what he is told; but as you have never known how to hold your own -tongue about anything, Geoff understands all our affairs. What is the -use of talking? I could have done it, but the opportunity is over. Now -there is that little spitfire with her imagination all aflame. I should -not wonder if she thought there was a dukedom dormant in the family, and -a romantic vast estate that we are keeping from her; and Geoff with his -ridiculous ideas and all that false nonsense about honour----” - -“Geoff has no ridiculous ideas,” said his mother, flushed and tearful; -“there is nothing false about Geoff. He is honour itself, and sense and -judgment; and he is as true as the day--and----” - -“Everything that is perfect, we all know.” - -“I did not say that; he has his little faults, like all of us. He is a -little hasty; he is perhaps too generous; but as for interfering with -any kind thing you meant to do, Anna, you are mistaken, quite mistaken, -my dear. Let me go and see them to-morrow; poor things, poor things! of -course one wants to be kind to them. And to think that Geoff would have -had any objection! For that matter,” the mother said, faltering a -little, “he has always so many invitations; people are always asking -him; he might go away upon a visit while they are here.” - -“That is an idea,” said Miss Anna; “but no, things have gone too far -now; besides,” she said with conscious malice, “that would balk me in -one of my plans. If the worst comes to the worst we might marry him--to -the youngest of them.” - -Mrs Underwood sat bolt upright in her chair; the colour went out of her -comely cheeks; her very voice failed her. “Ma--arry him!” she said with -a gasp. - -“They are both pretty,” said Miss Anna; “and especially the little -one--the younger one. I saw him cast many a glance at her. Oh, I notice -that sort of thing always. Though I never married like you, I was not -without my experiences. And I think I know. It would not have wanted -much on his side; and that would have saved your share of the money, -which would always be something if the worst came to the worst.” - -Geoff’s mother had become incapable of speech as this dreadful prospect -was placed before her. She made a little movement with her hand, as if -to clear it away. - -“Geoff is thinking of nothing of the kind, Anna. Geoff--has his heart -entirely in his home. He is just as simple-minded and as--pure-hearted -as when he was a boy.” - -“Dear me!” said Miss Anna, “I thought it was the height of purity and -simplicity to marry early; I have always been told so. Some French young -men, who you know are the types of everything that is improper, can’t be -got to marry. But Geoff, being the best of good boys, of course will -want to marry as soon as possible; and here is a capital chance for him. -That was my plan, Mary--if the worst comes to the worst. If you have a -better, of course I have nothing to say.” - -Mrs Underwood sat all limp and downfallen, every line of her showing the -droop of dismay and depression which her sister’s words, spoken in mere -mischief--for the idea of Milly, though it had glanced across her mind, -had gone no farther--had produced. “I----” she faltered, “Anna--I have -got no plan. How should I have any plan? If they have a right to--the -money, we shall have to give it up to them. And we will have to give up -our pretty house, and live in--the poorest way. He says, Never mind, -dear boy. He will work for us, he will never forsake us, Anna! Now you -will see what my Geoff is made of. He has the best heart; but it will -be a dreadful change, a dreadful change for him--he that has been used -to have everything he wanted all his life.” - -“And you will rather let him fall into poverty, and be compelled to -work, and have us two old women hanging upon him and cramping him--than -save his share of the money for him and get him a nice young wife? -That’s what mothers are! I have always said, when they made such a fuss -about their children, it was themselves they were thinking of. Now, what -concerns me,” said Miss Anna with only the malicious gleam in her eyes -to contradict her dignified assumption of superior virtue, “what -concerns me is Geoff’s real advantage, not the selfish wish of keeping -him for ever at my side.” - -Mrs Underwood’s countenance fell more and more. She looked haggard in -the sudden severity of the conflict set up within her. “I--thinking of -myself?” she said, almost weeping. But the accusation was too terrible -to be met with mere tears, which are fit only for lesser matters. She -gazed at her sister with large round eyes full of wretchedness. No crime -in the world was so dreadful to her as this of thinking of one’s self; -it is the thing of all others which cuts a virtuous Englishwoman to the -heart. “For Geoff’s good, you know, you know, Anna,” she cried, “I would -submit to anything. I would go to the stake; I would give myself to be -cut in pieces.” - -“Nobody is the least likely to cut you in pieces, my dear,” said Miss -Anna coolly. “The stake is not an English institution. It is easy to -promise things that never will be asked from you. The question is, will -you let Geoff be happy, poor boy, in his own way?” - -“Happy!” the poor lady cried in a lamentable voice; but then her voice -failed her, though a dozen questions rose and fluttered through her -mind. Could Geoff be happy in abandoning his mother? Would he give her -up for a bit of a girl who never could love him half so well? Was it -possible that there was anything wanting to his happiness now, watched -over and cared for as he was? She sat gazing aghast into the vacant air -before her, suddenly brought face to face with a question which was far -more serious even than the loss of the money. If the money was to be -lost, Mrs Underwood felt in herself the power of enduring everything. To -be housemaid and valet to Geoff would be, in its way, a kind of -blessedness; it would knit the domestic ties closer. She would have more -of her boy if they lived in a smaller space, in a poorer way; and with -that happiness before her, what did she care for poverty? But her -sister’s suggestion brought in an entirely different circle of ideas. -She saw herself dropping apart from Geoff’s life altogether. He, happy -with his young wife: she, set aside from his existence: and she looked -at that visionary picture aghast. To be cut in pieces was one thing, to -stand aside and let him go away from her was another. Was it all -selfishness, as Anna said? - -“I see I have startled you,” said Miss Anna; “but it is too late for -anything now; that eldest girl is not to be taken in. She will fight it -out; she will drag us through the mire. Never mind, it was Geoff’s -fault, and Geoff will have to bear the brunt. But you will be able to -keep him to yourself, and that will be a consolation,” she added with a -sneer. “Never mind what he has to put up with as long as you can keep -him to yourself: that is everything to you, I know. And there’s the -dressing bell, Mary. We must have our dinner, whatever happens,” Miss -Anna said. - -But Mrs Underwood, poor lady, did not have much dinner that day. She -came down to the meal in her pretty cap, but it was a haggard -countenance that showed beneath the lace. She could not talk nor eat, -but sat mute at the head of the table choked with natural tears. To -Geoffrey, who had come in hungry and full of thought from his wet walk, -there seemed nothing wonderful in his mother’s woebegone condition; it -chimed in with the tone of his own thoughts. To some certain extent she -would feel for him, she would sympathise with him, though even she could -never know the whole extent of the sacrifice he would be called upon to -make. The dinner was a very silent one. Miss Anna tried a few sallies of -her malicious observation, but in vain. The others were too much -depressed to take any notice, even to resent them. The old butler made -his solemn rounds about the table with a gradual increase of curiosity -at every step. Whatever was the matter? the worthy servant asked -himself. He was a north-countryman, and knew a little about the family -history; but an unfortunate chance had taken him out at the moment when -the strange visitor arrived who had caused so much commotion in the -house a fortnight since. The twilight hour, when it was too late for -visitors (as he chose to think) was Simmons’ hour for taking a little -walk, sometimes to the post, sometimes to the fishmonger’s, who had a -way of forgetting. He had missed the young ladies too, of whom the -housemaid had told such stories downstairs. But he saw there was “summat -up,” and he bent the whole powers of his mind, as was to be expected, to -make out what it was. When Miss Anna’s speeches met with no response she -turned to Simmons, as she had a habit of doing when she was in want of -amusement. “Did you hear any news when you were out for your walk?” she -said. “If it were not for Simmons I should know nothing about my -fellow-creatures. You never bring in a word of gossip from year’s end to -year’s end, Geoff; and what is the use of a man with a club to go to -every day if he never brings one any news? Simmons, you are a person -with a better sense of your responsibilities. Tell me something that is -going on outside. What’s the last news in Grove Road?” - -“There is no news, Miss Anna, as I am aware of,” said Simmons, coughing -a little behind his hand by way of prelude. “There is nothink that is of -any consequence;” and then he began to tell of the gentleman at No. 5, -whose conduct troubled the entire neighbourhood. Miss Anna had an eager -interest in everything that was going on. She asked about the gentleman -at No. 5 as if she had no greater interest in life. Her beautiful eyes -sparkled and shone with eagerness. All the details about him were -acceptable to her. A spectator would have vowed that she never had known -a personal anxiety in her life. - -Geoff sat late that night thinking over all that had happened and was -going to happen. He had begun to ask himself what he could do to make a -little money, and the answer had not been a satisfactory one. It is very -common in novels, and even in society, to represent every young man who -is without occupation as doing literary work and finding it always ready -to his hand. And, naturally, Geoff thought of that among other things. -But he did not know what to write about, nor to whom to take his -productions if they were written. He knew what he had learned at school -and at Oxford, but he did not know very much else. Classics and -philosophy are very excellent things, but it is hard to make money of -them immediately, save by being a professor or a schoolmaster, which -were occupations Geoff did not incline to and was not fitted for. He did -not understand much about politics; he was not deeply read in general -literature; he had no imagination of the creative sort. In short, like a -great many others, though he had all the will in the world to embrace -the profession of literature, which seems such an easy one, he did not -know how to do it; and to hope to support his mother and her sister upon -the few briefs which he was likely to get was ridiculous. As well -attempt to support them by sweeping chimneys. He reflected with a -doleful smile that even that required, if not special aptitude, at least -special training, of which he had none. He was thinking of this drearily -enough long after the rest of the household had, as he supposed, gone to -bed, and all was still. - -Suddenly his door creaked a little, softly opened, and his mother stole -in. She was dressed in an old-fashioned dressing-gown, of what was then -called a shawl pattern, with a muslin cap on her head tied round with a -broad black ribbon. She had been going to bed, but had not been able to -go to bed without a little reconciliation and kind good-night to her -boy. “Did we quarrel, mother? I did not know it,” he said. - -“Oh, quarrel, Geoff! we never quarrelled in our lives. You have always -been the best of sons, and I hope I have always appreciated you. I -couldn’t go to bed, my darling boy, if there was the least little thing -between me and you.” - -“But there is nothing, mother,” he said, caressing the hand she had laid -upon his. - -“Yes, there is something; I could not rest for thinking of it. Oh, is it -true, my darling, is it true that you want to be--married? If you had -that in your mind I would never stand in your way, you may be sure -never, whatever it might cost me. What is my happiness but in seeing -yours, my boy? I would never say a word. I would give up and go away; -oh, not far, to vex you, only far enough not to be spying upon you and -her; to leave you free, if you are sure it is really, really for your -happiness, my own boy.” - -“Mother!” cried Geoff, staring at her, “I think you must have taken -leave of your senses. I--marry? at such a moment as this?” - -“Anna thinks it would be the only thing to do. She thinks, Geoff, she -says, it is--the youngest of the two.” - -Here Geoff, unable to quench entirely the traitor in him, blushed like a -girl, growing red up to his hair under his mother’s jealous eyes. “This -is mere folly,” he said, trying to laugh. “Why, I have only seen her -twice.” - -“Sometimes that is enough,” Mrs Underwood said mournfully. “Things look -so different at my time of life and yours. I dare say you think it is -very fine to fall in love at first sight; but oh, when you think of -it--on one side those that have loved you and cherished you all your -life, on the other somebody you know nothing about--that you have only -seen twice!” - -“My dear mother,” the young man said. He made this beginning as if he -intended to follow it up with a warm disclaimer and protestation of his -own superiority to any such youthful delusion. But when he had said -these words he stopped short suddenly and said no more. - -His mother had her eyes fixed upon him, anxiously expecting to hear -something in his defence; but when he thus broke down, and it appeared -that he had no plea at all, no justification to offer, her heart sank -within her. She stood by him for a minute waiting, and then she put her -hand tremblingly upon his shoulder. “Have you nothing to say to me, -Geoff?” - -“I don’t know what you would like me to say, mother,” he replied -somewhat impatiently. “What you are speaking of is preposterous. What -might have happened in happier circumstances I can’t tell--but that I -should think of marrying anybody just now, and above all one of the -people whose fortune we have taken from them----” - -“Geoff! we never meant to take anybody’s money. We never dreamt that it -was not our own; we don’t know even yet,” said his mother, faltering. - -“No; we don’t know even yet; and perhaps I am wrong in urging you to a -decision. Perhaps we ought to wait and see what evidence there is. It is -a hard thing to contemplate, anyhow, mother.” - -“Oh, my dear! very hard, very hard! and if it separates you from me!” - -“I do not see how it can do that in any case,” he said coldly. It -chilled him to think that her chief terror in the matter was lest there -should be any opening of happiness to him in it. It was preposterous, as -he had said; but still, was that the chief thing she feared--that he -should have a life of his own, that he should be happy? It made him -recoil a little from her. “Go to bed, mother; there is nothing that need -disturb your rest, at least for to-night.” - -She would have stayed and questioned and groped into every corner of his -heart, if she could, and protested that it was for him, not herself, -that she feared anything; but Geoff was not so tractable as usual -to-night. He opened the door for her, and kissed her and bade her -good-night with something like a dismissal. Then Mrs Underwood perceived -by a logic peculiar to herself that Anna was right, and that her worst -fears were true. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Dr Brewer came in upon the girls that same evening somewhat abruptly. He -was a busy man, with little time to spare, and he thought his sudden -arrival like a gale of wind was a good thing for them in the languor of -their grief; but there was no languor about them as he found them. The -table was covered with papers, dispatch boxes, and writing materials. -Grace had turned out all the contents of her father’s boxes, and was -gathering together and examining every scrap of written paper, while -Milly, with a pen in her hand, obediently wrote down the description of -each. One little pile of business papers had been put by itself; letters -were lying open, innocent little account books, memoranda of all kinds. -It was like a man’s mind turned inside out, with all its careless -thoughts, and those futile recollections of no importance which stick -fast in corners when all that is worth remembering fades away. The -doctor was astonished by the sight, and alarmed as well. He knew that -the scrutiny of a couple of innocent girls innocently spying thus into -every recess of the thoughts, even of the most virtuous of men, might -not be desirable. - -“Hallo!” he cried, “you are so very busy, I fear I am an intruder. Is -this necessary, do you think? Would it not be better to take all these -things home?” - -“Oh, doctor, you are our only friend--you can never be an intruder,” -cried Grace. “Yes, we intended to take everything home; but something -has happened since--something that makes every scrap important. We are -obliged to do it. It is for the sake of the children!” - -“You are giving yourselves a great deal of pain, and you have had enough -already,” he said, seating himself at the table between them. “My dear -young ladies, you are sure I don’t want to interfere in your family -affairs; but I feel responsible to your poor mother for you.” - -“What does it matter about us? Dr Brewer, we have made a great discovery -to-day!” - -“I heard you were out,” he said. “I was very glad to hear that you had -been out--a little change is what you want. A great discovery! Well, so -long as it is a pleasant one----” - -“I don’t know whether it is a pleasant one or not.” - -“You shall have my opinion if you will trust me with this important -secret,” said the doctor, smiling. He was a man with daughters of his -own. He knew the exaggerations, the excitements of youth; and he was -very tender of these fatherless children. His friendly countenance, the -very breadth and size of the man was a support to them, as they sat -slim and slight on either side of him. But when he said this, they -looked at each other with that look of consultation which had amused him -so often. The doctor thought it was an unnecessary formula on the part -of Grace, who always had her own way; but he liked her the better for -thus consulting the silent member of their co-partnership before she -spoke. To his surprise, however, that silent member returned a glance of -meaning--a sort of unspoken veto upon the intended disclosure. - -“We have been to the place where papa was when he caught his cold--the -same place; and in the same way.” - -Here again little Milly, shy and acquiescent as she was, signalled her -disapproval. “Don’t,” she seemed to say, with those soft lips which -never before had expressed anything but concurrence. The spectator was -much more interested, perversely, than if the sisters had been as usual -in perfect accord. - -“Then you have found your relations?” he said. - -“We don’t know if they are relations. Yes, I think so; we had the -strangest reception. Doctor, I don’t know how to tell you. We are sure -there is something underneath--an inheritance, of which papa has been -cheated, which we, or rather our Lenny, is the right heir of. I suppose -such things are quite common in England?” cried Grace, full of -excitement. “You will be able to tell us what people do?” - -“An inheritance!” the doctor said, amazed. And then he laughed a little, -and shook his head. “No, my dear child, I don’t think such things are at -all common in England. They happen in novels, but not anywhere else, so -far as I know.” - -This disconcerted the girls for a moment. For to be told that your own -story is like a novel is always disagreeable, and throws an air of -contempt upon the sternest facts. “It does not matter,” said Grace -shortly, “however much it may be like a novel, it is nevertheless true. -We found the address in papa’s letter case--nothing but the address--and -we felt sure that was where he had gone, to see old friends, he said. We -went there this afternoon thinking we too, perhaps, might find friends, -or at least hear something about that last visit. We were received by -the strangest, beautiful old lady--oh, she was like a novel if you -please!--who would have nothing to say to us. But the others,” said -Grace, getting somewhat confused, “acknowledged that there was some one -who had gone to see them that day, Tuesday, and had left in the -rain--who was a relation--who was--or, at least, they said, pretended to -be. Only it was quite a different name.” - -Dr Brewer held up his hands to stop this broken flood of disclosure. -“Stop a little, and take me with you,” he said. “A beautiful old -lady--and the others who said--but it was quite a different name. Now, -tell me what all this means.” - -Then they both began to talk together explaining to him. “There was one -lady, and her son, who were very kind,” Milly said. - -“She told us it was an impostor or a madman who had come, and said he -was--somebody,” cried Grace; “but that _that_ person had died long ago; -and that our father was far more respectable; and that we could raise a -great law-suit if we liked; but the others said if we were _his_ -daughters, it would make a great difference--oh, a very great difference -to them.” - -“But they were very kind, and kissed us, and promised to come and see -us,” cried Milly, breathless, coming in again at the end. - -“This is a very curious story,” said Dr Brewer. “I don’t pretend to -understand it very well, but so far as I can make out---- What was the -name? Of course there are family quarrels now and then, and sons who -bring a great deal of trouble upon everybody----” - -“That could never be the case with papa,” cried Grace proudly; “I am -sure he must have been wronged.” - -“Many an excellent man has been foolish in his youth,” said the doctor; -“we must not take things too solemnly. If you will tell me the name, -perhaps I may recollect if it has figured in the papers.” - -Here both the girls were up in arms. They confronted him with flaming -eyes, and a blaze of anger. - -“Doctor, I think you don’t understand at all! If you think our dear -father, whom we have just lost,”--and here Grace’s voice wavered, and -Milly dried her eyes--“was likely to do anything that would be in the -papers----” - -“Why, my dear children,” cried the doctor, “how unreasonable you are! Of -course, he was in the papers a hundred times over. A man of note in his -community--a public man with letters to the Colonial Secretary, and who -entertained the Prince, as you told me yourselves----” - -Here they looked at each other again, and blushed at their mistake. - -“Yes, to be sure,” said Grace. “Dr Brewer is right, and we are silly. I -was thinking of something else.” - -“Probably, for instance,” said the doctor, “there were advertisements in -what people call the agony column, entreating him to go home. You don’t -know the agony column? Oh, it is very easy to laugh; but there are -sometimes appeals there that remind one of sad stories one has known. A -doctor, you know, hears a hundred stories. What was the name?” - -Once more that consulting look, and once more a blush of excitement -tinged with real diffidence, and a little embarrassment of shame. They -could not bear to think of a name which was fictitious, of anything -that was untrue about their history. “You know,” said Grace, hesitating, -feeling for the moment as if no inheritance, not even an old castle or -even a title, which had vaguely glanced across her mind as a -possibility, could make up for this falsehood--“you know, we are not at -all sure that it was papa. He never mentioned anything of the kind, nor -did we ever hear it before. The name was Crosthwaite. It is not pretty; -it is an odd name.” - -“Crosthwaite--Crosthwaite: where have I heard it? It is not pretty, as -you say; it is a north-country name, Yorkshire perhaps, or--where did I -hear it? Ah, I remember, some one had been making inquiries -down-stairs.” - -“It was Geoffrey,” cried Milly unawares: and then blushed more deeply -than she had hitherto blushed either for shame or anger, and caught -herself up, and drew back a little, in embarrassment which did not seem -to have any adequate cause. - -“Then you know the people?” the doctor said in surprise. - -“We know only their Christian names,” Grace, somewhat startled too, -explained eagerly to cover her sister. “The son is Geoffrey, and the old -lady is Miss Anna.” - -“Bless me!” cried the doctor, “this is very peculiar. Oh! but you said -there was another lady--a lady and her son? Yes, yes, I see--a Mrs -Somebody--and this Miss Anna.” - -“Mrs Underwood,” Grace said. - -Dr Brewer’s surprise grew more and more. “I know a Geoffrey Underwood,” -he said, “a young barrister--a very nice young fellow. To be sure! he -belongs to two ladies who live up Hampstead way. This is very curious. -He is an excellent young fellow. He will tell me at once what the -mystery is--if there is any mystery; but, my dear young ladies, I am -afraid your romance will come to nothing if Geoffrey Underwood is in it; -for you may be sure he is not a young fellow to lend himself to any bad -business. Your beautiful old lady may be cracked, you know; she must be -off her head--a harmless lunatic perhaps. I very much disapprove of it,” -said the doctor, with professional warmth; “entirely, in every way--but -still there are people who, out of mistaken kindness, insist upon -keeping such cases at home--a thing that never ought to be done.” - -Grace had listened with some dismay, feeling her house of cards tumbling -about her ears. “She was not insane, if that is what you mean. They were -afraid of her. She was the one who talked the most. I am sure she was -not insane; and then Mrs Underwood, too--you remember, Milly?--she said, -‘If it is so we are relations;’ and then her son, he said, ‘It will make -the greatest difference to us all.’” - -“He said so? then perhaps after all there is something in it,” said Dr -Brewer. The doctor began to look serious. “One can never understand the -outs and ins of a family. So many people that have a good deal of money -to leave make foolish wills. It may be something of that kind. Bless me! -poor young Underwood, a fine young fellow. It will be hard upon him. You -must excuse me if I see both sides of the case,” he added gravely; -“young Underwood is----” and here he came to a dead pause. - -It would be impossible to imagine anything more uncomfortable than the -sensations of these two girls. They were silent for a little, and -nothing was said round the table except a faint sound from the doctor of -concern and sympathy, accompanied by the shaking of his head. Grace -burst forth at last, unable to restrain herself. - -“But, doctor, if it belongs to us rightfully, if it ought to come to my -brother Lenny--a family estate.--I don’t know what it is--perhaps -something that has belonged to us for hundreds and hundreds of years, -perhaps something that would change his position altogether, and make -him somebody of importance: is it not my duty to stand up for my -brother, to get him whatever he has a right to--although other people -may have to suffer?” the girl cried, with passion. - -Milly by this time began to cry quietly, with her hands over her face; -and Grace stood alone, the champion of the family rights. - -“Yes, yes,” the doctor said--“yes, yes; of course everybody should have -their rights; other people must always be a secondary consideration.” He -added, after a moment’s pause, “But don’t take up any false ideas about -family estates. Young Underwood is sufficiently well off, I have always -heard. He has had a good education. I don’t suppose he makes very much -money by his profession, so he must be able to live without that. But -his people are very quiet people. They live quite out of the way; they -are scarcely in society at all. Dismiss from your mind all idea of -hereditary estates or important position. All the same, money in the -funds is very nice--when there is enough of it.” - -“Money in the funds!” said Grace, her countenance falling; while Milly -took one of her hands from her face, and looked over the other like a -sort of woebegone and misty Aurora from behind the clouds. - -“Nothing more romantic than that, I fear,” said Dr Brewer; “but that’s a -very good thing, a very nice thing. No, life in England is not romantic -to speak of; it’s a very businesslike affair. If people have enough to -live on, it doesn’t trouble them very much how it comes. Land is dear. -It’s very nice if you have enough of it, but it’s an expensive luxury. -You get better percentage for your money even in the funds--and no -risks.” - -“But, perhaps,” said Grace, “as--Geoffrey--is not the right heir--it -might be something different. Perhaps if it came back to the old family -there might be something more. Sometimes--things pass away, don’t they, -when it is not the direct line?” - -“Peerages?” said Dr Brewer with a laugh. “Oh, yes; but I never heard of -property going astray. Money must find its level, you know; it must go -somewhere; it cannot just be spilt upon the earth like water and made an -end of. It must turn up somewhere. When a man dies intestate, I believe -his money goes to the Queen; which is hard, I have always thought. If it -were divided among the poorest of his neighbours it would be more -sensible. Sometimes a title drops by reason of a failure in the direct -line. But I don’t suppose you thought----” Here he stopped short, and -gave vent to a sudden laugh. “I do believe, my poor dear girl, that this -is what was in your mind----” - -“I never said there was any such thing in my mind,” said Grace, growing -crimson. She felt as if she could have sunk into the earth. She had -nothing to say to defend herself, except this simple denial, and to hear -the doctor laugh was terrible. He laughed so frankly, as at the most -apparent nonsense. The girl did not know what to do. Was she such a fool -as he thought? - -“It is very romantic,” he said; “but I fear, Miss Grace, in modern days -such things happen very rarely. Life was a great deal more picturesque -in the past. Now people are very thankful for such small mercies as -money in the funds.” - -Grace made no reply. She too felt very much disposed to cry; it seemed -cruel that anybody should laugh at them in their circumstances, in their -deep crape. The sound of laughter even was out of place in the room from -which so lately the chief inhabitant had gone. She felt herself hurt, as -well as ashamed, by being made the cause of merriment; and even little -Milly, though she had not agreed with her, uncovered her little tearful -face, and was indignant in Grace’s cause. - -“I don’t think there is so much to laugh at, Dr Brewer,” Milly ventured -to say. “You were not there to see what happened. You would have thought -it very, very important if you had seen how they looked, and heard what -they said.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, “was I unmannerly? I didn’t mean -to be. Why we should laugh at simplicity I cannot tell, but everybody -does. I have not the least doubt it was a most natural mistake.” - -Simplicity! when everybody had always thought her so sensible, so -superior to all delusions. Grace shrank back into herself. She would -scarcely reply to any further questions. - -“But, you know,” Dr Brewer said, with great gravity, “it is no laughing -matter. Where there is a question of taking their living from another -family, you must be very sure of your facts. It is such a hard case that -a jury would give every advantage of a doubt to the people assailed. It -would prefer to see what they did in the very best light. There would be -a prejudice against the claimants, however much _dans leur droit_ they -might be. The evidence would have to be very exact, as clear as -daylight. Any lawyer would tell you this. He would tell you, if your -evidence was not beyond question, to accept, or even offer, a -compromise. Such things are of every-day occurrence. You may have a -strong case, but if you can’t support it, and make it all as distinct as -clockwork, they will suggest a compromise. Have you found anything among -these papers to support the claim you are intending to make?” - -“No.” - -“You say your father never spoke about it, never referred to his former -name; gave you not the slightest hint of any rights of his in England?” - -“No.” - -“In short, you have no proof at all?” the doctor said. - -“Not any, that we know of,” said Grace. - -She sat, dogged and obstinate, answering only in monosyllables, or with -as few words as possible, sitting bolt upright against the high back of -her chair. Her heart had sunk, and her confidence was failing her; but -she would not yield, or at least seem to yield. - -“That is not very hopeful,” said Dr Brewer, “any lawyer would tell you. -But you are determined, notwithstanding, to make out your case?” - -“Yes,” said Grace. - -She no longer felt amiably disposed towards the doctor. He had cast down -her dream-castle; he had represented her to herself as a vulgar -money-seeker; he had overthrown all her romantic hopes of gaining -advancement for her family, and making of Lenny a pattern English -gentleman, perhaps nobleman. She saw now what a slender foundation she -had built it all upon; but as nothing in the world would ever make Grace -give in, she hardened herself over her inward confusion, and stood like -a rock though her heart was quaking. The doctor made two or three sharp -little speeches; but he was half-angry, too, that the girls upon whom he -had been spending so much feeling should be so impervious to his -influence. He got up hurriedly at last, and said something about still -having some patients to see, though it was getting late. - -“Good-night,” he said. “I should say I would be glad to do anything I -could to help you, if I did not think you were embarking upon a most -perilous undertaking. I think, permit me to say so, you should take your -mother’s advice first.” - -“I shall do nothing mamma will disapprove of,” said Grace; and she -parted with stateliness from this friend who had been the only one to -succour them in their trouble. - -As for Milly, she was very deprecating and tearful as she held out her -two hands to him. “Do not be angry!” she said with her beseeching eyes. -It was all the doctor could do not to stoop down and kiss this -peace-maker as he went away. He had thought her a little nobody at -first, but he did not do so now. “I declare she is as like Laura as one -flower is to another,” he said to himself as he went down-stairs. Now -Laura was the doctor’s favourite child--and what more could be said? - -When he was gone, Grace returned to her previous occupation with her -father’s papers; but her heart was gone out of her search. “We might -have asked him at least to recommend some lawyer to us,” she said, which -was the only observation she made to Milly on the subject. Milly, -indeed, was dismissed altogether from the employment she had been -trusted with before Dr Brewer came in. Grace continued to look over the -papers, to put one on this heap, and the other on that; but she no -longer required Milly’s pen to write down and describe what each was. -For at least an hour they sat silent, the younger sister looking -wistfully on, the elder rustling the papers, bending over them with -puckers of careful consideration over her eyes, affecting to pause now -and then to deliberate over one or another. At length Grace gathered -them all together, with a sudden impatient movement, and, putting them -back into the despatch-box, concluded suddenly without any warning by an -outburst of tears. - -“To think,” she cried, when Milly, greatly alarmed, yet almost glad thus -to recover her sister, hurried to her--“to think that we should be going -over all these things that were his private things just the other -day--not for love, or because it was necessary, but for business, and -about money! Oh, how hard we are, how heartless, what poor wretched -creatures! I could not have believed it of myself.” - -“Dear,” said Milly, soothing her, “it is because everything is so -strange; and to do anything is a little comfort; and for the children’s -sake.” - -“I wish now,” said Grace, with her head upon her sister’s shoulder, -“that we had telegraphed at once to mamma.” - -“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Milly; “but you thought it -would be so dreadful for her, without any warning.” - -Grace wept less bitterly when this instance of her own self-denial was -suggested to her. “It is so long to wait--so long to wait,” she cried. -And then a sense of their desolation came over them, and the two forlorn -young creatures clung to each other. Their nerves were overwrought, and -they were able for no more. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -There was not very much more happiness under the roof of the house in -Grove Road. Geoffrey, as has been said, sat half the night through in -his study, with his head in his hands, pondering vainly what he ought to -do. Though he said to himself that it was only just that they should -produce their proofs, that they should establish their claim before -anything was done, he jumped at the conclusion all the same, and took it -for granted that the claim would be established, and that his own fate -was certain. And after that what was he to do? He was as confused, as -down-cast as ever, when, in the middle of the night, he made his way -through the darkness of the sleeping house and went to bed, but scarcely -to rest. His mother, whose thoughts also had kept her awake, and who had -cried, and pondered, and dozed, and started up to cry and doze again, -heard him come up-stairs, and with difficulty restrained herself from -going to him, to see that he was warm in bed, and had taken no harm from -his vigil. She did not do it, fortunately remembering that Geoff was not -always grateful for her solicitude; but her fears lest he should have -cold feet mingled with and aggravated her fears lest he should fall in -love, and marry and go from her--and altogether overshadowed her concern -about their fortune and the chances that their money might be taken from -them. Miss Anna, on her side, was wakeful too. That is, she lay among -her pillows in profoundest comfort, with the firelight making the room -bright, and candles burning in dainty Dresden candlesticks at her -bedside, and one or two favourite books within reach, and turned -everything over in her active mind, until she had decided what course to -pursue. Not one detail of all the luxury round her would Miss Anna part -with without a struggle. She was determined to fight for her fortune to -the very last; but if there was any better way than mere brutal -fighting, her mind was ready to grasp it and weigh all its -possibilities. She, too, heard Geoff, so late, a great deal too late, -come up-stairs to bed, but only smiled at it somewhat maliciously, not -without an enjoyment of the uneasy thoughts which no doubt had kept him -from his rest, and no concern whatever about his cold feet. She lay -thus, with her eyes as wakeful as the stars, till she had concluded upon -her plan of action. As soon as she had done this she carefully -extinguished the candles in an elaborate way of her own, so that there -might be no smell, turned round to the fire, which had ceased to flame, -and now shot only a ruddy suppressed glow into the curtained -darkness--and shutting her eyes fell asleep like a baby. But even she, -the most comfortable in the house, was far outdone, it need not be said, -by the two poor young agitators in the hotel who had filled Grove Road -with so many anxieties and cares. Hours before, Grace and Milly, crying -and saying their prayers in one breath, had fallen asleep in each -other’s arms, and knew no more about their troubles nor about the -possibilities before them, nor anything else in the world, till the -morning sunshine awoke them after eight long hours of perfect repose. - -Miss Anna never appeared down-stairs till mid-day. She had enjoyed a -great deal of bad health since she had ceased to be a young woman and -queen of hearts. Latterly it had settled into rheumatism, which had made -her a little lame, and justified a great deal of indulgence. Her -attendants said that even this she could throw off when occasion -required. But there could be little pleasure, one would imagine, in -making-believe to be lame. Her general delicacy, however, gave rise to a -hundred necessities which people in health manage to dispense with. Mrs -Underwood and her son had eaten a troubled breakfast long before her -dainty meal was carried into her daintier chamber, and she returned to -wakeful life under the influence of fragrant coffee and delicate roll, -and some elegant trifle of cooked eggs or other light and graceful food. -We say cooked eggs with intention, for boiled eggs, or even poached -eggs, were vulgarities which Miss Anna would not have tolerated. She ate -her pretty breakfast while her sister went through her household duties -with a heavy heart, and Geoffrey took his way to town, striding along -through the muddy streets, for it had rained all night. A little before -noon she sent for Mrs Underwood, who came up with a somewhat haggard -countenance, ready to cry at a moment’s notice, and with a cap which, in -sympathy with her condition of mind, had got awry, and had greatly tried -the nerves of the cook, who had a strong sense of humour, and felt her -inclination to laugh almost too much for her. This was the first thing -Miss Anna remarked when her sister came into the room. She uttered a -suppressed shriek of horror. - -“Did you give poor Geoff his breakfast with a cap like that upon your -head? Good gracious! and then you think it wonderful the poor boy should -want to marry and have a trim, neat little wife of his own.” - -“What is the matter with my cap?” cried Mrs Underwood in alarm, putting -up her hands and naturally making bad worse. She almost wept with -vexation when she saw herself in one of the many mirrors. “Why didn’t -somebody tell me?” she said piteously, with dreadful thoughts of Geoff’s -disgust, and of the comparison he must be making between that trim, -neat little wife and a mother with her cap awry. - -“Set it right now, and come and sit down here,” said Miss Anna. - -There could not have been a greater contrast than between these two -sisters. One of them seating herself, timid and anxious, by the bed, -with no confidence either in her own judgment or in her powers of -understanding, or capability of satisfying her imperious critic and -companion--her anxious little mind on tip-toe of troubled solicitude to -catch what Anna should mean, which was always somewhat difficult to her; -while the other, with all her wits about her, seeing everything, -noticing everything, lay amid her luxurious pillows and laughed at her -sister’s agitation. - -“I wish I could take things as easily as you do, Anna--oh, I wish I -could take them as easy!” Mrs Underwood said. - -“You were always a goose,” was Miss Anna’s remark; but she took the -trouble to push aside her curtain and to draw close to the chair at her -bedside on which the other sat, before she unfolded to her the plan she -had formed--which Mrs Underwood received with great surprise and many -holdings up of her hands and wondering exclamations. - -“Why, it was just what I thought I ought to do,” she said. “It was all -in my head, every word. I made it up in my mind to say to them, ‘Anna -may be against you, but you will never find me against you; and as the -house is mine, and I have a right to ask whom I like----’” - -“Stick to that,” said Miss Anna with a laugh. “It was very impertinent -and treacherous of you to think of saying it out of your own head; but -now that we have settled it together, stick to that--it is the very -thing to say.” - -“I don’t see how you can call it impertinent, Anna: and -treacherous!--me--to you! I have always been true to you. I can’t think -how you can say so. But it is true: the house is mine, however you -please to put it. It was left to me expressly by dear papa. Of course, -he made sure you would marry; and me a widow with one dear child, it was -so natural that he should leave it to me. It will be all we shall have,” -she added with a sigh, “if this dreadful thing comes true.” - -“It will never come true if you play your cards well, Mary. You have got -it all in your hands,” Miss Anna said, “and it will be a fine thought -for you that you have saved your family: though you never thought a -great deal of your own powers--I will do you that justice.” - -Mrs Underwood shook her head. “My own family--that is, my boy,” she -said. - -“So it is,” said Miss Anna. “Of course I don’t count; but you will have -the satisfaction, my dear, if you should live to be a hundred, of -feeling that you have saved your boy.” - -At this Mrs Underwood shook her head once more, and two tears came into -her eyes. “He will be lost to me,” she said. “Oh, I remember well enough -how I felt myself when I married Henry. ‘What does he want with his -mother? he has got me,’ I used to say. I never liked him to go too often -to the old lady. And now I am the old lady, and his wife will think the -same of me.” - -“Let us hope she will be a better Christian than you were,” said Miss -Anna, with a laugh. - -“A better Christian! I hope I have always been a Christian at heart, -whatever else I may have failed in. I hope I have always remembered my -duty to my Maker,” said Mrs Underwood, offended. This assault dried the -tears in her eyes. “And, Anna, though I’m sure I am not one to find -fault, I don’t think that you--never going to church, and reading French -novels and things, and making schemes to keep your neighbours out of -their rights----” - -Miss Anna laughed with genuine enjoyment. “I acknowledge all my sins, my -dear,” she said. “I am not the person to talk, am I? But, never mind, -perhaps there will be no need to hope that Mrs Geoff should be a better -Christian than her mother-in-law. Perhaps there will be no Mrs Geoff. It -may come to nothing after all.” - -“Oh, Anna, how cruel you are!” cried Mrs Underwood. “If it comes to -nothing, what is to become of my boy?” - -“Anyhow, let us be thankful that you will get a good deal of misery out -of it, which will be a satisfaction. Go and put on your bonnet--your -best bonnet--and make yourself look nice; we all like you to look nice; -and go off, my dear, upon your charitable mission,” Miss Anna cried. - -Was it a charitable mission? The good woman quite thought so as she -drove down the Hampstead slopes and made her way into the heart of -London. She was fluttered and anxious about what she was going to do. -The possible consequences to Geoff were like a tragedy in front of her; -but as for anything else, she was too much confused to realise that this -was not the kindest thing that could be done. Two lonely, fatherless -children--orphans they might be called, for they had nobody to care for -them. It was not right even that two girls of their age should live in a -hotel, without so much as a maid to be with them. To offer them a home, -to stretch her own protecting wing over them, was the natural thing for -a woman to do. Certainly it was the right thing to do. The other -question about the property was very vague in her mind. She could see -that her sister was scheming to keep it in her own hands, but her mind -was so confused about it that she could not feel any guiltiness on the -subject. And then the question about Geoff would come uppermost. She -wept a good many quiet tears over this as she drove along the streets. -She had always felt herself a good Christian, but she had not been -pleased when her husband had paid too many visits to the old lady. The -old lady! Looking back, Mrs Underwood, with an effort of memory, -recollected that the old lady had not been so very aged a person. She -was but sixty when she died, and she had lived ten years at least after -her son’s marriage. “About my age!” This conviction surprised Geoff’s -mother more than can be described. She was the old lady now; and this -girl would grudge her her son’s visits, would not let Geoff come to her, -would persuade him that his mother was silly, that she was -old-fashioned, that she wanted a great deal too much attention. She had -done all that in her day, and had not thought it any harm. - -These were her thoughts as she went to Piccadilly, crossing through all -those endless streets. When she came near the hotel some one passed her -quickly, holding up an umbrella, so that she could not see his face. But -her heart gave a thump at the sight of him. If it was not Geoff she had -never seen any one so like him. Down to the very coat he wore, the spats -which she had herself buttoned for him, his walk--all was Geoff. Had he -been here forestalling her? Had he come and made his own advances -already, without losing a moment? Her heart sank, but a wild curiosity -took possession of her. She would see for herself how he had been -received, what had happened. What could happen but that this girl, any -girl, would throw herself at the first word into the arms of Geoff? It -was not often a girl had such a chance. “Look at Anna,” she said to -herself, “so pretty, so clever, and never married at all.” Besides, -since Anna’s time there were, everybody said, twice as many women as -there used to be, and a man like Geoff, if such a thing was to be found, -was more and more precious than ever before. Ah, there could be no doubt -how he would be received. Perhaps by this time it was all settled, and -the girls were talking of her as the old lady, and planning how she was -to be kept at arm’s length. She wept once more, then dried her eyes, and -armed herself for what might be awaiting her. What if that little thing -should rush into her arms and tell her--giving her kisses that would not -be genuine, that would mean no affection to her? But even that she would -have to put up with. She remembered--with how many compunctions, though -thirty years too late--how the old lady--poor old lady!--had made little -attempts to propitiate her, and tell her pretty things that Henry had -said of her, and give her to believe that nothing but praise and -sweetness was ever spoken of her between the mother and the son. It -would be her turn now to show herself in the best light to her -daughter-in-law, to conciliate her, and appeal to her tolerance. Alas! -how time goes on, turning triumph into humiliation, and the first into -the last. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -Geoff had not thought it necessary to say anything about his intention, -but he had made up his mind during the vigil of the night to act for -himself. He did not go to the chambers, which he shared with a friend, -or to his club for his letters, or to any of his usual haunts; but went -direct to Piccadilly, which is a long way from Grove Road. A long walk -is sometimes an advantage when you are going to have a decisive -interview; but Geoffrey, it is to be feared, did not do himself much -good by thinking of the hostile party whom he was about to meet. They -were not only not disagreeable to him, but the very sight of them -stilled every warlike inclination in his breast. Not only he did not -want to fight with them, but his desire was to take up their cause and -fight it for them, against himself and all belonging to him--which it -will readily be perceived was not a way to do any good. He saw them only -too clearly in his mind’s eye: the one sister standing a little in -advance of the other; the eyes of Grace shining with courage and high -spirit, while those softer lights under Milly’s soft brows rose upon him -from time to time, always with a new eloquence of appeal. “If she were -to ask me for my head, I think I would give it her,” Geoff said to -himself; but there was no chance that she would ask for his head. He -thought of them as he had seen them first, seated close by each other, -turning two wistful, pale faces and eyes wet with tears upon him as he -stood at the door, alarmed by his own intrusion. Their black dresses and -their piteous looks had made an impression upon him which would never be -effaced; and he had heard their story with a knot in his throat, ready -to weep for very sympathy. When the same wonderful pair had arrived at -Grove Road, he had been too much startled to know what to do or say. But -now he was going to them with all his wits about him, no surprise -possible, to open up all the question, and discuss it amicably, and help -them, if it was possible to help those whose cause was so entirely in -opposition to his own. - -Grace and Milly were together as usual in the sitting-room, which had -become by this time so intolerable to them. They were both very much -surprised when he came in. They rose to their feet in wonder and partial -dismay. They had been talking over all their affairs, and had come to a -kind of conclusion between themselves; but this was a circumstance upon -which they had not calculated. They had thought it very unlikely that -they should hear anything more of Grove Road unless they themselves took -the initiative. They gazed at each other with their usual mutual -consultation, bewildered; but as soon as they came to themselves they -too were very anxious to be polite to the enemy. - -“I hope you will not think me intrusive,” he said. - -“Oh, no; we do not know any one--” This was intended to mean that a -visitor was welcome; but the speech was broken off in consequence of the -embarrassment of the speaker. - -“If what we think is true, we--my mother and I--should be more to you -than anybody else in England,” Geoff said. - -“But if what we think is true,” cried Grace, “or rather what you -think--for we know nothing--we are enemies, are we not?” - -“I don’t see why we should be. I have come to tell you all I know. You -ought to have at least what information we can give you in order to find -out who you really are, Miss----” - -“Yorke,” cried Grace, “Yorke! that is our name; and as for finding out -who we are, that is quite unnecessary. We may be strangers here,” the -girl cried, holding her head high. “We have been very unhappy and very -unfortunate, oh, miserable here! But when we are at home everybody knows -who we are. We are as well known as you or any one. The Yorkes of -Quebec--you have only to ask any Canadian. If you think it is necessary -to find out a family for us, you are very, very much mistaken! England -is not all the world. We are unknown only here.” - -Her eyes flashed, her cheeks coloured as she spoke; all her pride was -roused; and Milly held up her head proudly too. They had not been used -to be nobodies, and they did not understand nor feel disposed to submit -to it. This was a totally different thing from claiming their rights. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You know I don’t mean anything -disrespectful; but you know also that there is another question. It is -not as Miss Yorke that there can be any question between you and me. It -is as the daughter of my mother’s cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. Will you -let me explain to you how the matter stands between us, if you are his -children? This is how it is. Abraham Crosthwaite, an old unmarried -uncle, died twenty years ago, leaving his money to Leonard, who had -disappeared some time before. It was an old will, and it was supposed by -everybody that Uncle Abraham had altered it in behalf of his nieces, -Anna, and Mary, who is my mother. But he did not alter it; and when he -died this was the state of affairs. Leonard Crosthwaite had not been -heard of for ten years: everybody thought him dead; he had been -advertised for, and had not replied. My mother and Aunt Anna were the -next of kin. They succeeded without a question. Everybody had expected -them to succeed. Uncle Abraham had announced over and over again his -intention to give them everything he had. My mother had taken care of -him for some years; of Aunt Anna he had always been proud. I never in my -life heard any question of their rights, until all at once, a fortnight -since, some one appeared at our house calling himself Leonard -Crosthwaite----” - -“Mr Geoffrey, papa would never have said he was any one, unless it had -been true.” - -“I cast no doubt upon that. I tell you only of our wonder, our alarm. My -mother thought she recognised something in him like her cousin. Aunt -Anna from the first said no; but you will take these statements for what -they are worth. Aunt Anna would naturally resist anything that -threatened to interfere with her comfort. My mother, on the other hand, -is easily persuaded. I, of course, could say nothing on one side or the -other. The gentleman I saw had every appearance of being a gentleman, -and a man of truth and honour----” - -Milly gave him a grateful glance behind her sister--a glance of tender -thanks which made his heart beat. As for Grace, she bowed her head with -a sort of stately assent. - -“He was to come back; but we heard no more of him, until I came here to -this hotel, and was entirely puzzled, as you know. I saw you, and -thought you were very kind to interest yourselves about a person whom -you had never heard of. When I saw you yesterday at Hampstead, I thought -again it was kindness merely--that you had heard of the man of whom I -was in search----” - -“You must have thought us very extraordinary to interfere.” - -“I thought you,” he said somewhat incoherently;--“but it does not matter -what I thought you. Circumstances make us, as you say, almost enemies, -who might have been--who ought to have been, dear friends.” - -They both looked at him with melting eyes. “Yes,” said Grace, with a -beautiful flush of sympathy, “cousins, almost like brothers and sisters. -And perhaps, that may be still!” she cried. “Listen, this is what we had -made up our minds to----” - -“Let me say out my say first,” he said with a not very cheerful smile. -“You are strangers, and you are too young to know how to manage such a -complicated case. If you are Crosthwaites, and my cousin Leonard’s -daughters, it will be best for us in the long run, as well as for you, -that it should be proved--that the question should be settled. And you -cannot know of yourselves what is necessary. I have brought you the -names of two good lawyers--respectable, honourable men, either of whom -will advise you wisely.” He took out a piece of paper as he spoke and -handed it to Grace. “With either of these you will be safe,” he said. - -The girls looked at each other for a moment; then Grace rose up and held -out her hand to her adversary, seeing him through wet eyes. “Cousin -Geoffrey,” she said, “I am sure you must be of the same blood with our -father, for this is exactly what he would have done. Let us call you -cousin: it is all we want, Milly and I. We had made up our minds this -morning to forget it altogether, never to say another word or think of -it any more.” - -Milly’s hand was held out too, though more timidly. She did not say -anything, but she looked a great deal more than Grace had said, he -thought. He had risen too in a tremulous state of excitement and -generous enthusiasm. It was only his left hand that he had to give to -the younger sister, but even in that fact there seemed to both of them -something special--a closer approach. - -“I do not know what to say,” he said, “dear, brave, generous girls! To -have you will be worth a great deal more than the money. We are friends -for ever, whatever may come of it.” Then he kissed first one hand and -then the other with quivering lips, the girls, blushing both, drawing -close to each other, abashed, yet touched beyond description with a kind -of sacred joy and awe. The emotion was exquisite, novel beyond anything -in their experience; and the young man, thus suddenly bound to them, -was as much affected as they. - -“But we cannot accept this, all the same,” he said at last. “I should -say all the less:--it must be investigated, and everything found out -that can be found out.” - -“We do not wish it; we will not have it,” the girls cried both together. -But Geoffrey shook his head. - -“You have nobody else to look after your interests. I am your next -friend,” he said. “Don’t you know that is how we do in English law? -Those who are too young or too helpless to plead for themselves plead by -their next friend. And that is the most fit office for me.” - -“Then that makes England a little like what we thought it: not like the -cruel, cruel place,” cried Grace, “that it has been to Milly and me.” - -“It has been cruel,” he said tenderly, with a voice which had tears in -it, like their eyes. And there was not much more said, for they were all -touched to that point at which words become vulgar and unmeaning. He -went away shortly after, his heart swelling with tender brotherliness, -friendship, and all the enthusiasm of generosity. The mere suggestion of -their sacrifice had made him capable of that which had seemed so -terrible to him an hour ago. He went out with his heart beating, full of -high purpose and inspiration, quite happy, though that which had made -him so miserable yesterday appeared now assured and certain. Such is -the unreasonableness of youth. - -When he had gone the girls turned to each other half laughing, half -crying. They were happy too in this little encounter of generosity and -impulsive feeling. “That is what we thought Englishmen were like,” said -Grace. - -“And he is the first Englishman we have known,” said Milly. - -“Very different from Dr Brewer,” cried the elder sister. - -Milly looked up, wondering, with a little “Oh!” of startled, almost -wounded feeling. To compare Geoffrey to Dr Brewer!--or to any one, she -whispered deep down in her being, out of hearing even of herself. - -They had scarcely recovered from the commotion of this crisis when some -one again knocked at the door. “It will be _that_ doctor,” Grace said -under her breath; and she was in no hurry to reply. It was only upon a -second summons that she went forward slowly, reluctantly to open the -door. And there outside stood Geoffrey’s mother, somewhat fluttered, -somewhat red, not knowing very well how to meet the two enemies of her -peace. She came in with a little eagerness and kissed them both; and -then she delivered herself breathlessly of her mission. - -“I said I would come and see you to-day. Oh, my dears! I am afraid you -thought Anna was not very kind yesterday. She is an invalid, you know; -she has tempers now and then. Oh, I don’t mean you to think she has a -bad temper or is unkind. Nothing at all like that; but only--you can -imagine if she had a bad night or a little extra ache. We ought all to -be very forbearing, you know, and put up with people who are often in -pain. Dear children! when I see you here in an inn, and think how many -empty rooms we have got at home--there are more rooms, a great many more -rooms than you would think in the Grove Road houses. And though Anna -lives with me, the house, you know--the house is mine.” - -They did not know very well what answer to make, but they put her in the -best chair the room contained, and sat round her listening, which was, -of course, the best thing to do. - -“Yes, the house is mine. I am the real mistress of it, though Anna often -takes a great deal upon her; but I don’t mind, I really don’t mind. And -when I have set my heart upon anything she never interferes. Do you know -what I have come for now? I have come to take you both back with me -home.” - -“Home!” the girls drew a long breath after the word. They seemed -scarcely able to realise to themselves what it meant. - -“Yes, home. I have set my heart upon it. If you are Leonard -Crosthwaite’s daughters--I declare,” cried Mrs Underwood, her real -feelings breaking in through all the flutter of words that had been put -into her mouth--“I declare I don’t know whether I wish you to be -Crosthwaites or not! Two nice girls--two dear girls; I am sure you have -been nicely brought up, and that your mother is a nice woman. Poor -dear!” said the kind soul, wiping her eyes and forgetting her rôle -altogether. “My heart bleeds for her, poor dear!” - -This brought the girls, who could doubt, clinging round her, hanging -about her. Their soft touch, their tender faces went to her heart. No -woman who is good for anything, not even the jealous mother of an only -son, defending him from all feminine wolves, can resist the contact of -innocent girls--creatures of her own kind. It was a novel pleasure to -Mrs Underwood, who never had a daughter, and had always been an -exclusively devoted parent, absorbed in her son. She put one arm round -each and kissed them again, this time in all truth and tenderness, and -with her heart full of natural feeling. “Will she have heard of it yet?” -she said in a tone of tender awe. - -“Oh, not for nearly a week yet,” the girls cried. And Mrs Underwood wept -in sympathy. - -“Poor dear! Oh, God help her, poor dear! I know what it is myself; but I -was with him till the last moment. She will think if she had been here -it would never have happened. Oh, God help her, poor dear! Then,” she -added a minute after, as if this had been a reason, “you must get your -boxes ready and come with me at once, my poor children; I cannot leave -you here. I tell you I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry, if -it is settled that you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s children. Sorry, I -suppose, because I shall lose my money; but now that I know you I should -be almost as sorry to lose you.” - -This, though it was sudden, was real and true; for the kind woman felt -that she had done them injustice. They were not dangerous adventuresses, -hunting Geoff, but good girls, breaking their hearts for their mother, -and counting the days till she should hear that terrible news. Mrs -Underwood jumped into enthusiasm for them because she had been so much -afraid of them before. - -“You shall not lose either us or the money,” said Grace. “We had -resolved before Mr Geoffrey was here, that we should do nothing more and -think nothing more about it. If papa had meant us to do anything he -would have said so. We made up our minds to this--this morning, before -Mr Geoffrey was here.” - -“My dears!” said Mrs Underwood, bewildered. She had no head for -business, and she could not understand more than one thing at a time. -She withdrew her arm a little and said doubtfully, “Then Geoffrey has -been here?” - -“He came--in the most generous, noble way. I am so glad, I am so -thankful,” cried Grace, “and so is Milly--that we had quite made up our -minds before.” - -Mrs Underwood breathed forth a sigh of resignation. “I must hear all -about this after,” she said, faltering; “but, my dears, the fly is -standing at the door, and it is no use keeping it waiting. Put up your -things as quickly as you can. Anna thinks--I mean I feel quite sure that -you ought not to be staying at an inn in your circumstances. If your -luggage is too heavy for the fly the heavy boxes can be sent afterwards. -Of course you have all your coloured things, poor dears; and to go into -such deep mourning with nobody to advise you! The best thing will be to -bring just what is necessary. Run and put your things together and I -will wait here.” - -Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several -volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with -you--to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace -with quivering lips. - -“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna--well, we need -never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever -people, and you are clever; at least _you_ are clever, my dear,” Mrs -Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little -silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through -Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what -to make of it. They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs -Underwood’s ears--her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always -be going to see the old lady--when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s -face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find -fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my -dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am -quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a -surprise for Geoff.” - -Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when -she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the -young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that -Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the -only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -It was, as his mother foresaw, a great surprise for Geoff, to see Grace -and Milly established under her wing when he reached home. They seemed -to have each got her corner of the drawing-room, as if they had been -there all their lives. The windows with that great distance stretching -blue and far underneath, and the smoke, which was London, at their feet, -attracted them both--a standing wonder and miracle; but Milly had -brought down her little work-basket, and placed it on a corner of Mrs -Underwood’s special table, and there she had settled herself as if she -belonged to it; while Grace had got to the books which stood in low -bookcases on either side of the fireplace. For the first hour Geoffrey -really believed, with a wonder which he could hardly restrain, that his -mother had broken loose from her life-long bondage to her sister, and -that this bold step had really been taken by herself on her own -responsibility. It was herself who undeceived him on this point. When -the dressing-bell rang, and the girls went up-stairs to prepare for -dinner, he put his arm round her and thanked and praised her. “It was -like yourself to do it, mother,” he said warmly. “When you follow your -own kind heart, you always do what is best.” - -“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs Underwood, faltering; “indeed, indeed, I hope -it is for the best. At least, that has been my meaning, dear. And Anna -said----” - -“Anna?” cried Geoff, with a cloud coming over his face. - -“She thought it was the only wise thing. But she is not to be supposed -to know anything about it,” his mother said, lowering her voice and -holding up a finger at him. “You must be very careful. If she looks as -if she did not like it, you are not to take any notice. I was not to -tell anybody she had a hand in it; but of course I never meant to -conceal it from you.” - -Geoff was so angry and disconcerted, and so sick of the domestic fraud -into which his mother had been beguiled, that he went off to his room -without a word, leaving her sadly put out, but quite unable to divine -what could have offended him. However, by the time he had changed his -dress, Geoff, all alone in his room, burst out into a sudden laugh. “She -is an old witch,” he said to himself; “she is as clever as--the old -gentleman himself.” He was ashamed of the artifice, but could not help -being diverted by the skill of that unseen helms-woman who managed -everything her own way. - -Miss Anna came to dinner as usual, leaning on her stick, and she -received the girls with stately surprise, as if their presence was quite -unlooked for but gradually unbent, and by degrees grew brilliant in her -talk, and amused and delighted them. Geoffrey looked on with a mixture -of shame, amusement, and contempt, at this pretended thawing and -acceptance of what she could not prevent. She acted her part admirably, -though now and then he surprised a glance of satisfaction and secret -triumph which made him furious. But she kept up her show of reluctance -so far that no one was invited into her boudoir that evening. They went -back to the drawing-room again after dinner, where Geoffrey found both -the girls standing within the half-drawn curtains of the window, looking -down upon the London lights. They stood close together, talking low, -talking of the great city all muffled and mysterious in mist, and smoke, -and darkness, at their feet. When Geoffrey joined them, they stopped -their conversation. “I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said. - -“Oh no, no! We can’t help talking of one thing. It is wearisome to other -people; but after all it is only a few days. We were wondering where it -was that _he_ is lying,” said Milly. - -Geoff pointed out to them as well as he could where the spot was. - -“We have so often talked of seeing London, and thought what it would be -like and what we should like most in it,” said Grace. “We little -thought----” - -He seemed to be taken into their confidence as they broke off and stood -gazing with brimming eyes towards the place where their father lay. - -“And now you will have no association with London but that of pain,” he -said. - -There was a pause, and then it was Milly who replied, “People have been -very kind to us. We can never forget the kindness wherever we may be.” - -To this Grace assented with a little reservation. “Yes, we shall never -forget Grove Road--your mother and you, Mr Geoffrey.” - -“What!” said Geoff, “are you drawing back already? I was Cousin Geoffrey -this morning; and I do not think I have done anything to forfeit the -name.” - -There was a little murmur of apology from both; and there is no telling -how long they might have lingered there, with the light and warmth -behind them, and the wide world of sky and air, and distant mighty -multitudinous life before, had not Mrs Underwood come forward anxiously -to see what was going on. She had begun to feel herself deserted, and to -remember again what she had once felt and said about the old lady. She -had not so much as thought of the old lady since she brought them into -the house; but now the murmur of voices behind the curtain; the -natural, inevitable manner in which Geoff found his way there, the -solitude into which she was herself thrown, brought back all her alarm. -“Geoff,” she said, “you must not keep them in the cold: there is a great -draught from that window: we always have the curtains drawn. Come in, my -dears, come in to the light; there has been so much rain that it is -quite cold to-night.” - -They came directly, obedient to the call; there was no undutifulness, no -resistance. They must have felt they were doing wrong, they obeyed so -quickly, she thought. But then Mrs Underwood had a very happy hour. -Geoffrey took up the evening paper which had been brought in for -him--Miss Anna having previously finished it and sent it with a message -that there was nothing in it--while Grace returned to her examination of -the books, and Milly settled herself by Mrs Underwood’s side. She was -glad to see that he could still think of politics, although they were -here. Miss Anna, in order that she might come down gradually from her -eminence, had left the door of communication open between her room and -this one, and sometimes launched a word at them, stimulating their -somewhat languid talk. For neither Mrs Underwood nor Milly were great -talkers; they sat together, finding great fellowship in this mere -vicinity, now and then exchanging a word as they lent each other the -scissors or the thread. And Geoff read his newspaper calmly in this -calm interior, where there was still no appearance of any power or -passion which might either break old ties or form new. - -Thus the soft evening sped along. It gave Mrs Underwood a little tremor -to see that when Geoff laid aside his paper he went to the table at -which Grace was seated with a number of books round her, and began an -earnest conversation. But she reflected within herself that it was not -Grace but the little one, and took comfort. Perhaps she would not have -been so much consoled had she known what the subject of the conversation -was. Grace was so buried in the books which she had collected from the -shelves, that she scarcely noticed, till he spoke, the shadow which was -hovering between her and the light. - -“I want to tell you,” he said--and she started, looking up at him with a -little impatience, yet--as remembering the calls of politeness, and that -she was his mother’s guest--with a smile--“I have laid the whole matter -before the lawyer whose name I gave you to-day,” Geoffrey said. - -“The whole matter!--there is no whole matter; nothing but guesses and -perhapses. We do not want anything more said about it, Cousin Geoff.” - -“But we must have something more said about it, Cousin Grace. Who can -tell? It might be dragged to light in the third or fourth generation,” -he said with a smile. “Your grandson might question the right of mine, -to any small remnant that may be left by that time.” - -“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace. - -“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong, -hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know -what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that -throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about -the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.” - -“But I told you we had no information whatever--none. I never heard the -name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and -there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.” - -“These will be of the utmost value.” - -“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his -little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it -into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only -the little things that--that are more hard to look at than great ones,” -said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day--that we never -shall do any more.” - -There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not -think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be -handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.” - -“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,” she said; but -finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in -Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First, -the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go -first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes -written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45. -U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years--but forgiven;” and -the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated -on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and -sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light. -He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It -seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against -a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no -legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was -not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see -his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for -what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty -still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly -shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own -home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened, -nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings -like it. - -A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how -rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most -delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long -delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief -which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion. -This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could -have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was -she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from -them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards -amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they -enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings, -and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which -Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his -voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father, -about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in -London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff -listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful -freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks -were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit -fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of -the old lady left alone, and scarcely able to restrain her trembling -anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss -Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming -with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her -sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see -everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are -getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but -Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again. -“My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is -happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister, -sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood -dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned -within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her -son from her. She liked the little one well enough--nay, very much, as -she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was -always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers, -and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by -instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all -very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna -thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never -been so happy--though she had devoted herself to him all her life--this -was indeed too much to bear. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -A week after their settlement at Grove Road, while the girls were -expecting every day to receive at least by telegraph some news from -their mother, Geoffrey made his appearance in the middle of the day, and -with a face of much serious meaning. He asked his mother and her guests -to come with him to Miss Anna’s room; and then having gathered them all -around him, he took out some papers and made a little speech to them -with great seriousness. “I thought it was of the utmost importance that -we should all know exactly how we stood,” he said, “and I put the whole -case into Mr Furnival’s hands. We all trust him who know him, and Grace -and Milly were willing to take him on my word. He has had all the facts -before him for some days; with such scraps of evidence as you could -furnish us with,” he added, turning to Grace: “and he took counsel’s -opinion. I informed him that it would be in any case an amicable suit to -settle our respective rights. I have brought you their opinions now.” - -“I thought there was something going on,” said Miss Anna, “something -underhand, a conspiracy, concealed from me.” - -“Conspiracies are not in my way,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps you would like -me to read what they say. It confirms my own opinion--though perhaps my -advice would have been different.” - -He spread out his papers on the table, and the women round him turned -their eyes to him with expressions as different as their characters: his -mother proud of the position her boy was assuming, yet a little nervous -as to how Anna would take it, and suspicious of the look which she -thought she detected him directing towards Milly; Grace a little -reserved, holding her head erect, looking at him with an interest -which had not much curiosity in it, but a rising impulse of -resistance--although she could not tell as yet what it was she was to -resist; Milly with milder interest and a gentle admiration of Geoff -which was like a shy shadow of his mother’s. But Miss Anna, all alert, -turned eagerly towards him as if she would have snatched the papers out -of his hands, her dark eyes blazing, her whole figure full of energy and -latent wrath, which she was ready to pour out upon him should the -lawyers’ opinion go against her own. - -“I need not read it word for word,” said Geoff; “I will give it -afterwards to my cousin Grace. The lawyers think, after close -consideration, that there is--no case----.” (Here there was a movement -on the part of Miss Anna and a quick “I told you so.”) “Wait a little,” -said Geoffrey, “They say there is scarcely any case to go to a jury; -but they say also that if it did go to a jury the strong moral -probability and the touching character of all the circumstances might -lead to a verdict for the claimants notwithstanding the weakness of the -evidence. Law would be against it; but the jury might be for it.” - -“I understand that reasoning,” said Miss Anna: “most men are fools, and -jurymen are men--therefore it is likely that fools being the judges, the -verdict would be preposterous. Is that all your wiseacres have got to -say?” - -“Not quite,” said Geoff; “the lawyers advise a compromise.” - -“A compromise? I object--I object at once. I will not hear of it. Let it -go into court. If I am compelled to yield to the sentiment of a dozen -British idiots, I must do so; but consent to rob myself, for no reason? -oh no, no! I will never do that.” - -“Aunt Anna, you are not the only person concerned.” - -“I am,” she said; “I have the largest share. I am the eldest. Your -mother has never gone against me in her life, and she will not now.” - -“Anna,” said Mrs Underwood tremulously, “I always have followed your -advice--oh, always, it is quite true; but Geoff, you know--Geoff is a -man now; and he has been bred up to the law, and he ought to know -better, far better than we do.” - -“Should he? but he doesn’t; he’s a poor weak sentimental creature not -strong enough to be either one thing or another, a swindler or an honest -man. He naturally takes refuge in compromises. I haven’t known him so -long without knowing that. I believe the lawyer’s opinion is his own, it -is so like him. A compromise? no! I will have no compromise,” cried Miss -Anna, striking her stick upon the floor. - -“And we reject it too,” cried Grace--“we will have nothing, nothing! we -settled upon all that before we came here. If we had not decided so, we -should never have come.” - -“Let it go to a jury if you like,” said Miss Anna, paying no attention -to this. “I am not afraid. I take the risk of sentiment. Yes, of course, -they are a pack of sentimental fools: two pretty girls in deep mourning -will get anything out of a British jury. Still I’ll risk it. But -nothing, nothing in the world will make me consent to a compromise.” - -Grace had risen to her feet, with her usual eagerness of impulse, “Do -you not hear me--do you not understand me, Miss Anna? We will take -nothing; we will have no compromises, no more talk even, not a word -said. We will have nothing, nothing to do with it! We have a right to be -heard as well as you----” - -“And I think I also have a right to be heard,” cried Geoff--he was calm -between the excitement of the others; “I am not without a voice. -Whatever you say, justice must be done, and justice suggests this -course. Yes, Aunt Anna, whatever you say, I have a right to be heard. It -is for our own comfort, without thought of them.” - -“I want no such comfort,” she cried. “I gave in to your mother’s -nonsense, and allowed them to be asked here. I allowed them to be asked -because they were----” - -“Aunt Anna! do you wish me to tell them in so many words why you wanted -them----?” - -“Geoff, Geoff!” cried his mother, in alarm. - -The girls paid but little attention to this quarrel as it raged. They -did not comprehend even what it was about. “We had better go away as -this is not our affair,” Grace said, with a stately little bow. And -Milly, too, rose to go with her sister--when the conflict around -suddenly ceased, and the two girls, who seemed to have been pushed aside -by the other more energetic emotions, suddenly became again the centre -of the scene, and the chief persons in it. What was it? only the -entrance of old Simmons with a yellow envelope in his hand. - -The others stopped short in their conflict. They acknowledged with a -little awe the presence of something greater which had come into their -midst. They looked on in silence while the girls, clinging together, -read their telegram. Then there was a little pause. - -“We must go home at once,” said Grace, as well as she could speak for -tears. “We do not require to wait. There are steamers every day, I -suppose. Would you answer this for us, Cousin Geoffrey? and say we want -no one. We will come.” - -It required some power of divination to make out the last words, which -were almost choked with the weeping to which Milly had entirely given -way. - -“Go at once?” said Miss Anna, “without an escort--without seeing -anything?” - -The girls gave her, both together, an indignant look; and then they -turned and went out of the room, moving in one step, like one creature, -with a soft sweep as of wings. So at least Geoffrey thought, looking -after them with the tenderest pity in his eyes. They did not walk but -disappeared, flying to be alone and get some comfort from their tears. - -“What does the telegram say--who sends it--is it long or short--is it -from the mother herself, is it--?” Miss Anna put out her hand and tried -to take it from Geoff. Both the ladies were full of curiosity. Mrs -Underwood, indeed, in sympathy with the trouble of the girls, dried her -eyes as she looked up eagerly for news--but Miss Anna owned no trace of -tears. She was full of interest and keen curiosity. “Give it me. The -very wording of it will tell us something more about them,” she cried. - -Geoff’s first movement was to hurry away, carrying this communication -with him; but he paused as a new idea took possession of him. He was too -good a man to be altogether a free agent. He paused, and looked at the -mother upon whom he knew he was about to inflict a great blow. She was -not a wise woman, and the instinct of curiosity which had possession of -her at the moment was not one to please that critical faculty which is -so exaggerated in youth. He did not like to see in her eyes even a -shadow of the hungry appetite for news which burned in her sister’s. -Nevertheless, he read the telegram slowly. - -“Your terrible news just received. Mother utterly prostrated. Wire if -wish me to come for you--otherwise return first ship.” - -The name of the sender was a strange one--it was evidently an uncle or -some relation who could speak with authority. Geoff paid no attention to -what the ladies said, but went on. “Mother, I am going to say something -which will vex you. You must try to remember that I am old enough to -take care of myself. I am going with them, to take them to their -mother.” - -“Geoff--Geoff--by sea!--to America!” Mrs Underwood gasped; she could not -get her breath. - -“Of course it must be by sea if he goes to America,” said Miss Anna. -“There is no land passage invented yet.” - -“It is my plain duty,” said Geoff, colouring a little, “if, as I -believe, they are our near relations; and in any case there is a -question between us which they are too young in their generosity to -settle. We cannot take advantage of the generosity of two children, -mother----” - -“Oh, Geoff! but for you to go--to go to America--a long voyage, and at -this time of the year----” - -“The equinoctials coming on,” put in Miss Anna quickly. - -“The equin----, yes; nothing but storms and shipwrecks, and every kind -of danger. If you mean me never to have a night’s rest more--to go -distracted every wind that blows--to have neither peace nor comfort of -my life! Oh, Geoff! all that, for them that you never had seen a -fortnight ago! and me, your mother, that have never had another thought -but you for eight-and-twenty years----” - -“Surely, mother,” cried poor Geoff, “there is no need to put it so -tragically. I am not going to abandon you. I am only going to do what -half the men of my age do for pleasure--and I shall have a real motive -in it. In the first place, a duty to Grace and Milly: if they were your -children, how should you like them to go over the sea all alone, when a -great idle fellow calling himself their cousin was here doing nothing? -And then this business, which otherwise may worry us for years, which we -never can be sure about--for if these dear girls, in the generosity of -their hearts, refuse to have anything to do with it, who can tell that -their mother, their brothers will be of the same mind?” - -Mrs Underwood had fallen into tears and broken exclamations. She was -incapable of any connected words. “Oh Geoff--my boy--all I have--all I -have in the world!” and “a sea voyage--a sea voyage to America,” was all -she said. - -Miss Anna got up to her feet, and struck her stick emphatically upon the -floor. “Listen, Mary! I have said your son was soft, and a dawdle like -yourself. I retract. He’s a clever fellow, and sees the rights of a -matter when it’s put before him. There, Geoff! go, and you have my -blessing. I’ll give you a hundred pounds, too, if you want it, that you -may have a pleasant trip. Your mother’s talking nonsense. I never knew -her lose a night’s rest, except when you were teething; and then that -was your doing, not hers, for you squalled all night. Go, my boy, and -success to you. It’s the wisest thing you ever thought of in your life.” - -“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, “how can you be so cruel?” She had dried -her eyes at these accusations, and sat up with a flushed countenance. -“If you knew, if you only knew half what a mother goes through! Do you -think I have always told you when I lay awake thinking of him--or any -one? Geoff, I have never denied you anything; but I think this will -break my heart!” - -“Mother,” said Geoff, half pleading, half angry, “I run no more risk -than half the women’s sons in England--no risk at all; you make me feel -a fool to talk like this.” - -“Never mind,” said Miss Anna, while Mrs Underwood relapsed into weeping; -“I’ll bring her round. Go off at once, there is plenty of time, and see -about your berths. You’ll find her quite reconciled to it when you come -back.” - -“But, Aunt Anna, I don’t understand the change on your part. You who -rejected all idea of a compromise----” - -Aunt Anna laughed. “I have no objection to one kind of compromise. Bring -us back that little dove-eyed thing as Mrs Geoff. I’d rather have had -the other; but you could never have managed her. Settle my money upon -Milly in her marriage settlements; and don’t mind about our absence from -the ceremony. Go and see Niagara, and all that, and bring us back your -wife--that’s the kind of compromise I want; that’s all I stipulate for, -Geoff.” - -“If I can, Aunt Anna.” - -“Pooh--can! With a week under the same roof, and a fortnight in the same -ship. Rubbish! If you can’t, you are a poorer creature than I thought. -Go, go, off with you, Geoff--before your mother comes to herself.” - -“Where is Geoff going? Oh, Anna, help me, help me! don’t let him go. -Geoff!” cried Mrs Underwood. - -Upon which Miss Anna confronted her sister with her most imposing looks. -“Mary! don’t be a fool. The boy is doing precisely what he ought to do. -I never had such a good opinion of him before; let him alone. He is -fifty times better able to take care of himself than you are to take -care of him. Here’s the telegram; let us see what it says.” - -“It says, I suppose, just what he read to us, Anna,” said the other, -frightened into some degree of self-denial, and with a little curiosity -re-awakening in her blurred overflowing eyes. - -“A thing never says anything to you when it’s read aloud. Here it is. -‘Stephen Salisbury, Quebec, to Grace Yorke, Montague Hotel, London.’ -(Then it was sent on from the hotel.) ‘Terrible news received; mother -prostrated; wire if wish me to come.’ Of course it must be the mother’s -brother. The people must be well off, Mary. There cannot be any doubt -about that. You see he says he will come if they want him; and even the -message shows it. The man would never have sent such a long message if -he had not been well off.” - -“I always knew that,” said Mrs Underwood feebly, “from what Grace and -Milly said. Why shouldn’t their uncle (if it is their uncle) come for -them? I don’t know why they should be in such a hurry to get away?” - -“It is a great deal better that Geoff should go with them,” Miss Anna -said. “Pluck up a heart; or if you can’t do that, get a little -common-sense, Mary; common-sense will do just as well. Why should -anything happen to a Cunard steamer because your boy happens to be in it -more than another? Do you think God has a special spite against _you_?” - -“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, horrified; “me? I know God is merciful and -good: but----” - -“But you would rather not trust Geoff in His hands, lest He should take -a cruel advantage? That is the way of people like you.” - -“I never said so; I never thought so. I--I hope I have always put my -trust in God.” - -“But you think, all the same, if He had a chance like this, that He -would like to do you an ill turn? Oh, I understand what you mean. I have -heard a great many people--pious, devout people--speak just like you.” - -Mrs Underwood relapsed into speechless misery. Against such an -accusation as this, what could she say? She who never missed church, nor -ceased to profess her belief in Providence. She was silenced altogether. -She wept and sighed the name of Geoff now and then; but there was -nothing more to say. - -Geoff went down to the City without loss of a moment. He secured berths -in a steamer which was to sail in three days; and with a bound of -pleasure and conscious pride in his heart found himself engaged for his -passage across the Atlantic. He went home very soberly, but with the -blood coursing in his veins. He had taken such an initiative now as he -had never been able to take in all his life before. He had emancipated -himself at last. It was, however, with a little apprehension that he -turned homeward. Whether his mother would impede his way with weeping, -whether the sisters would reject his escort, he could not tell; but his -fears in both cases were unnecessary. Mrs Underwood had been reduced to -subjection some time before he got home. And as for Grace and Milly, -they were neither excited about his proposal nor disposed to refuse it. -They took it as the most natural thing in the world. There was a gleam -of brightness, he thought, in Milly’s face, but Grace paid very little -attention. Geoffrey was a little cast down when he perceived that they -saw nothing at all heroic in his mission, nothing that anybody would -think twice about. But he had to console himself with Miss Anna’s -declaration that a fortnight on board ship would settle all questions. -He himself felt a great confidence that everything would come right in -the end. - -Thus the difficulty was brought to a conclusion, in a way little -contemplated by the Canadian who once had been Leonard Crosthwaite, and -had broken his heart for his cousin Anna. When the young people were -gone, the two ladies from Grove Road made a little pilgrimage to the -great, grey, dismal London cemetery in which all that remained of him -lay--where Mrs Underwood laid some flowers, and Anna gazed with eyes -that looked as if they could penetrate the very secrets of the grave, -upon the mound under which the lover of her youth slept in peace. What -were the thoughts that had lain concealed within his breast for thirty -years, yet which had brought him, carrying fear and confusion which he -little anticipated, to her dwelling, the first day he spent in England, -no one could tell. He had carried all that mystery with him to the other -world. - -And after a while Geoffrey Underwood came safely back from the terrible -voyage which had so much alarmed his mother, bringing with him, exactly -as Miss Anna had foreseen and commanded, his young wife. She was far too -young a wife, her mother thought, to venture so far; but Milly did not -think so. How to do without Grace, and to think for herself, was more -difficult to Milly than the distance and the voyage. But she did what -was a great deal easier than thinking for herself--she transferred all -the responsibility to her husband. Nothing could be handsomer than the -marriage settlement which Miss Anna made. She made the little bride her -own representative, with the larger share of the fortune. And the -Canadian family were well pleased, and asked no more. Indeed, all that -Mrs Yorke desired was that nothing should be said about this strange -illumination thrown at the last upon the husband who had been hers for -twenty years, and who now seemed to be stolen from her and changed into -another man. She would not listen to any explanations on the subject; -the sound of the other name was odious to her. She took even from her -boy, Leonard, that name of his which came from his father’s old life, -and jealously called him Robert, which was his second name. - -Almost a year elapsed before the young pair came home. They arrived on a -bright April afternoon, when the sun was shining over the great smoke. -The windows were open: the lawn all green with spring, and set in a -frame of English primroses, looked as fresh as the bride herself, who -recognised it, and the difference in it, with a little cry of pleasure. -Mrs Underwood threw herself, as was natural, upon the wonderful son who -had been delivered from the seas, who had not been drowned, or swallowed -by a whale, who had come safely through marriage, and all the other -terrific dangers to which he had been exposed; but Miss Anna walked -across the room with a little stately limp, casting aside her stick, -and took little Milly in her arms. “Welcome!” she said, “little girl -with the dove’s eyes. I always said I would accept one, but only one, -compromise!” - - TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Two Marys, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO MARYS *** - -***** This file should be named 52615-0.txt or 52615-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/1/52615/ - -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 Two Marys - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 23, 2016 [EBook #52615] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO MARYS *** - - - - -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" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="321" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -THE TWO MARYS -</p> - -<h1> -THE TWO MARYS</h1> - -<p class="cb">BY -<br /> -MRS OLIPHANT<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “THE WIZARD’S SON,”<br /> -“THE PRODIGALS,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /><br /> -METHUEN & CO.<br /> -36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.<br /> -LONDON<br /> -1896<br /> -<br /><br /> -<small><i>Originally published in</i><br /> -<br /> -“MACMILLAN’S MAGAZINE” AND IN “GOOD WORDS”</small><br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#THE_TWO_MARYS">THE TWO MARYS—</a></td><td colspan="2"> </td></tr> -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#I_MY_OWN_STORY">I.</a> </td><td><a href="#I_MY_OWN_STORY"><span class="smcap">My Own Story</span></a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#I-2m">I</a>, -<a href="#II-2m">II</a>, <a href="#III-2m">III</a>, -<a href="#IV-2m">IV</a>, -<a href="#V-2m">V</a>, -<a href="#VI-2m">VI</a>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><a href="#II_HER_STORY">II. </a> </td><td><a href="#II_HER_STORY"><span class="smcap">Her Story</span></a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_085">85</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c" colspan="3"> -<a href="#VII-2m">VII</a>, -<a href="#VIII-2m">VIII</a>, -<a href="#IX-2m">IX</a>.</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c" colspan="3">————</td></tr> -<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#GROVE_ROAD_HAMPSTEAD">GROVE ROAD, HAMPSTEAD</a></td><td class="rt"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c" colspan="3"><a href="#I-gr">I</a>, -<a href="#II-gr">II</a>, <a href="#III-gr">III</a>, -<a href="#IV-gr">IV</a>, -<a href="#V-gr">V</a>, -<a href="#VI-gr">VI</a>, -<a href="#VII-gr">VII</a>, -<a href="#VIII-gr">VIII</a>, -<a href="#IX-gr">IX</a>, -<a href="#X-gr">X</a>, -<a href="#XI-gr">XI</a>, -<a href="#XII-gr">XII</a>, -<a href="#XIII-gr">XIII</a>, -<a href="#XIV-gr">XIV</a>, -<a href="#XV-gr">XV</a>.</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1><a name="THE_TWO_MARYS" id="THE_TWO_MARYS"></a>THE TWO MARYS</h1> - -<h2><a name="I_MY_OWN_STORY" id="I_MY_OWN_STORY"></a>I. MY OWN STORY</h2> - -<h3><a name="I-2m" id="I-2m">CHAPTER I</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>Y name is Mary Peveril. My father was the incumbent of a proprietary -chapel in that populous region which lies between Holborn and the New -Road—a space within which there is a great deal of wealth and comfort, -and a great deal of penury and pain, but neither grandeur nor abject -misery. I like those streets, though I know there is no loveliness in -them. I feel that I can breathe better when I come out into the -largeness and spacious width of the squares, and I take a pleasure which -many people will laugh at in the narrow paved passages—crooked and bent -like so many elbows, with their bookstalls and curious little shops. How -often have I strayed about them with my father, holding on by his -coat-skirts when I was little, by his arm when I grew tall, while he -stood and gazed at the books which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> could so seldom afford to buy. -When he found a cheap one that pleased him, how his face brightened up! -While he looked at them I was not often thinking what the thoughts might -be in his mind. What was I thinking of—swinging by the skirts of his -coat, or by his arm when I grew a great girl? How can I tell? Thinking -how bright the twinkling lights were; how funny life was, so full of -people passing whom we never saw again—of paving-stones and -shop-windows; and droll with whispering airs that blew round the -corners, and always seemed to want to tell you something; and again more -lights and more faces and more shop-windows. In winter these passages -always felt warm and comfortable, and I had some theory about them which -I scarcely remember now—something like the theory of the poor man whom -I once heard saying that he went into the streets by night because the -gaslights made them so warm. The desolateness of such a forlorn being, -seeking warmth in the lighted, streets, did not strike me when I heard -that speech; I only felt I understood him, and had frequently been -conscious of the same feeling. But I remember very well how once, when I -was swinging back a little upon papa’s arm, clinging to him, proud of -showing that I belonged to him and was old enough to take his arm, yet -separate from him, as youth so often is, thinking my own thoughts, -living in another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> world, I all at once caught the illumination on his -face as he fell upon a book he wanted which was cheap enough to be -bought. To think he should really care about such a trifle—he—papa, -the clergyman whom everybody looked up to; that he should look as -pleased about it as Ellen our servant did when she got a new dress! I -was half humiliated, half sympathetic. Poor papa! What a pity he could -not buy a great many books when he cared so much for them! But yet, I -think, there was a little sense of shame on his behalf, and of -humiliation, mingled with that more amiable thought; that he should care -so much about anything, seemed somehow a derogation from his dignity, a -descent on his part into a less lofty place.</p> - -<p>We lived in Southampton Street, in the end where there are no shops. We -had two very white steps before our front-door, which was the brightest -point about us. When anyone asked in that street where the clergyman of -St Mark’s lived, the house was always pointed out by this: “No. 75, the -house with the white steps.” I used to think for years and years that -they were a natural feature, and had nothing to do with any work of man, -or rather, woman. It was a shabby house inside. There were two little -kitchens in the basement, two little parlours on the ground-floor, two -little bedrooms above that, and on the top storey I think there were -three divisions instead of two. One of the little parlours—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> back -one, which looked out upon a little square yard about the same size—was -papa’s study. It was not a cheerful room, with that outlook upon four -brick walls, and a little square bit of mouldy black soil in which -flourished some poor tufts of grass, and the big water-butt in the -foreground, where the water was black with soot—when there was any -water at all. The room had a writing-table in it, always covered with -books and papers, and papa’s chair—black haircloth, beginning to wear -white at the edges—between the table and the fire, and two other black -chairs standing against the opposite wall. It was divided by folding -doors from the parlour, in which we lived. This room was furnished with -a haircloth sofa, half-a-dozen chairs, a round table with a -close-fitting oilcloth cover, and, thrust up into a corner, an old -piano, upon which I practised sometimes, and which on other occasions -served as a sideboard. There was a short Venetian blind at the lower -part of the window to keep people from seeing in, and a chair in the -recess, on which I used to sit and darn papa’s stockings and dream. -Sometimes I read, but, generally, dreaming was more fun. I made out such -nice new lives for myself and papa. Sometimes I would dream that we were -quite different people from what we appeared to be—great people, rich -and noble, with all kinds of grandeur belonging to us, though no one -knew; and how it would be found out all of a sudden, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> the confusion -of everybody who had ever been uncivil. I used to trace out, as minutely -as if I had seen it, every detail of what we were to do. I was Lady Mary -in these visions; and if anyone had called me so I should have been, I -am sure, more shocked to think that <i>it</i> had been prematurely discovered -than struck by the unreality of the title. It was not unreal to me. -Sometimes it would take other shapes, and my imagination would content -itself with the notion of someone dying and leaving us a fortune, and -how we would wear mourning and do our very best to be sorry; but the -other idea was much the favourite. It was very sweet to me to think -that, for all so humble and so unknown as we were, things would appear -very different <i>if people but knew</i>! The old life comes round me as my -thoughts go back to it, the afternoon sounds in the street—vulgar -sounds, but softened by summer air as much as if they had been the -sweetest; the drowsy tinkle of the muffin-man’s bell, the prolonged cry -of “water-cre-e-e-sses!” the sound of children’s voices and dogs -barking, and distant wheels that always ground out an accompaniment; and -myself in the window, poor Mr Peveril the clergyman’s daughter, to my -own knowledge Lady Mary, and a very great, small person. I wonder which -was the real Mary—she or I.</p> - -<p>I have heard that in poor mamma’s time we were so fine as to have a -drawing-room upstairs<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> on the first floor, like Mrs Stephens next door; -but that splendour was long, long over, for mamma died soon after I was -born, and I was left all alone—a small baby, with papa on my hands to -look after. I do not think, however, that I was at any time very sorry -for this. I was sorry for her, who died so young, but not for myself; I -felt instinctively that, had she been there, always poking between papa -and me, I should not have liked it, and that on the whole things were -best as they were. The room which had been the drawing-room was papa’s -bedroom, and I slept in the room behind, over his study. Ellen had the -three little places up above all to herself, though one of them was -called—I don’t know why—the spare room. In this little place we lived, -and never asked ourselves whether it was dingy or not. The walls were -dark, with papers which had not been renewed so long as I could -remember; and the curtains were dark, and always had the look of being -dusty, though, thanks to Ellen, they never were so in reality. We had no -pictures, except two old prints from Raphael’s cartoons. One was the -“Miraculous draught of fishes,” and the other “Peter and John at the -beautiful gate of the Temple.” How I remember those twisted pillars, and -how many dreams have they twisted through! But I never admired them, -though they were part of my life. I should have liked a landscape -better, or some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> pretty faces like those one sometimes sees in the -shop-windows. When the people who went to St Mark’s talked of having a -lithograph of papa the thought made me wild with excitement; but the -lithograph was never done.</p> - -<p>It must not be supposed, however, that papa and I lived in that state of -ecstatic delight in each other’s society which one hears of often in -books. There were no great demonstrations between us. I led my own life -by the side of his, and he, I suppose, lived his by me, like two -parallel lines which never meet whatever you may please to do. I do not -know that it occurred to me to think articulately that the happiness of -my life depended on him. I did not seek to sit in his study or to be -near him while he worked, as I have heard of girls doing. I was quite -satisfied to be in the parlour while he was busy on the other side of -the closed doors; indeed, until he ceased to be all mine, I accepted -papa as calmly as I did the other accessories of my life. When he went -out to dinner, which was a very rare occurrence, yet happened sometimes, -I would make myself very comfortable with a book over my tea. I was fond -of going out with him; but then, he was the only person who ever took me -out, through amusing places, where there were shop-windows and crowds of -people passing. I had not been brought up to have my walk regularly -every day, like well-educated children. I walked when I could. Sometimes -I had an errand to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> do—something to buy or order, which I did by myself -in one of the shops of the neighbourhood; but this was an office I -hated, for I was too shy to go into a shop with any pleasure; and -sometimes old Mrs Tufnell would send for me to walk in the square, which -was fine, but not very amusing. I liked the passages about Holborn with -the bookstalls a great deal better. But we did not talk a great deal -even in these walks. Sometimes I would be seized with a fit of inquiry, -and would pester papa with a torrent of questions; but at other times I -fell back into my dreams, and would be making some splendid expedition -as Lady Mary all the time, while I hung, always a little behind him, on -his arm, leaving him as undisturbed as, generally, he left me. I think -of this calm of indifference now, when I look back upon it, with very -odd feelings. Is it that one does not care so long as one has those whom -one loves all to one’s self? It is only, I suppose, when your rights are -interfered with that you grow violent about them. I suppose it was the -fact that we loved each other—I him,—and he me—that made us happy; -but it was so natural to love each other that we thought little about -it, and I am afraid it would have surprised me a little in my secret -heart if any one had told me that my happiness depended upon papa.</p> - -<p>The way in which this tranquil ease of possession was disturbed was a -very gentle and gradual one—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span>at least, so I can see now, though at the -time it appeared to me most abrupt and terrible. My idea of my father -was that he was old, as a child’s ideas generally are; but he was not -old. He was about five-and-forty when I was fifteen. He was not -tall—and he stooped, which made him look still less so. At fifteen I -was as tall as he was. He had a handsome, refined face, with very clear -features, and a sort of ivory complexion. His hair was worn off his -temples, and there were a great many lines in his face—partly with -trouble, partly with work; but his smile was the sweetest smile I ever -saw, and he had a way of captivating everybody. I have heard it said -since that this power of fascination did not last, and that he grew -melancholy and monotonous after the first few times you had seen him; -and though I was very angry when I heard this first, I can with an -effort believe that it might be true. I suppose it was the same faculty -which showed itself at church, where there were always new people -coming, who attended closely for a few weeks and then went away. He was -like a man who gives you everything he has at once, and then has nothing -more for you. At home he was silent, always kind, but never saying much. -I scarcely recollect ever to have been scolded by him. Ellen scolded me, -and so did old Mrs Tufnell, and even Mrs Stephens next door; but papa -only said, “Poor child!” with the air of a compassionate spectator, when -I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> complained of to him. Our chief conversation was at meals, when -he would sometimes talk a little, and tell me of things he had seen or -heard; and it was at tea one evening that he first brought forward the -name of the other person who was henceforward to stand between us. No -such thought was in his mind then, I am sure; but he was more -communicative than usual. He told me that he had seen a young lady on -one of his visits, in a very strange place for such a person to be -found—in the back parlour of a small grocer’s shop which I knew quite -well. He told me quite a long story about her—how she was an orphan and -had been left destitute, and had been obliged to go back to her mother’s -family, who had been a governess in her day, and married much above her. -Her father, too, was dead, having been of no use whatever in the world -or to her, and there was no prospect before her but that of going out to -be a governess—a thing which papa seemed to think a great hardship for -her. I had been trained to believe that some such place would have to be -mine as papa got older and I grew a woman; therefore I was not at all -shocked by the suggestion. I said: “Has she heard of any nice situation, -papa?” with the quietest matter-of-fact acceptance of his words.</p> - -<p>“Heard of a situation! You talk very much at your ease, Mary,—but if -you saw this elegant, accomplished, refined girl,” said my father. -“Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> thing, I cannot bear to think that she should be driven to such a -fate.”</p> - -<p>I did not make any answer. I was surprised. It had never occurred to me -that it was “such a fate.” Most girls, it seemed to me, who were not -great ladies were governesses, both in the little real world with which -I was acquainted and in books.</p> - -<p>“Poor thing!” he said again. “Poor thing! how I wish there was any -possible way of saving her. What a thing it is to be poor!”</p> - -<p>“But any situation would be better than staying with the Spicers,” I -said. “Think, papa—the Spicers! I should not mind being a governess—I -suppose I shall be, some day or other—but I should hate living in a -parlour behind a shop.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Mary, I hope you will see her some time, and when you do see her -you must be very kind to her,” said my father with a sigh; and that -night he drew his chair to the fire and tried to talk, which was a thing -that took me very much by surprise. But, unfortunately, I had a new book -which was very interesting, and instead of responding to this unusual -inclination, as I ought to have done, I kept on reading, making pettish -and uncertain replies, until he grew tired of the attempt and gave it -up, and got a book too, as usual. He sighed a little as he did so, with -a sort of disappointed air; and through my reading and my interest in -the story somehow I perceived this, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> felt guilty and uncomfortable -all the rest of the evening. When I had finished my volume I was very -conciliatory, and tried all I could to bring him back to the point where -he had given it up, but it was of no use. I have always found it exactly -so in my experience. If you are too stupid, or too much occupied with -yourself, to take just the right moment for explanations, you never can -recover the thread which you have allowed to slip through your fingers. -Even to this day I often wonder what papa would have said to me that -night had I let him speak. I have invented whole conversations, but they -never were much satisfaction to me. To think out what perhaps some one -might have said is very different from hearing them say it. I was not at -all pleased with myself that evening when I went to bed; but perhaps -this was partly because I had finished my novel and it was not -satisfactory, and seemed, now it was over, such a poor sort of thing to -have preferred to a conversation with papa.</p> - -<p>Nothing, however, happened for some time after this to put me on my -guard. I went on in my old careless way. If he was out a little more -than usual, I paid no attention. All that was quite natural. Of course -he had his duties to attend to. He dined at Mrs Tufnell’s once during -this time, and was very particular about his tie, and about having his -coat brushed. “It is quite nice,” I said; “it was well brushed on Monday -morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> before it was put away. Why, papa, I thought you did not like a -fuss: how you laughed at me for being so particular about my sash when -we went to the party at Mrs Overend’s. Shouldn’t you like to have a sash -too?”</p> - -<p>He laughed, but he did not look like laughing; and I remember stopping -short in the middle of my tea, and laying down my book to ask myself if -anything could be the matter with him. One or two odd people whom I did -not know had come to see him of late. Was it possible he could be ill? -But no, he ate as usual, and he had looked quite ruddy when he went out. -So I took up my novel again, and helped myself to jam, and thought no -more of it. I believe the whole business was decided, or the next thing -to decided, that night.</p> - -<p>I could if I liked have heard a great deal of what was said in the study -while I sat at work in the parlour, and this was a thing which Mrs -Tufnell and Mrs Stephens had often remarked. They thought it “not quite -nice:” for, to be sure, people might say things to papa as their -clergyman which they did not wish to be overheard. But it could not well -be helped, for there was no other room where I could sit. I have said -too that I could have heard if I liked; but the fact was I did not care, -and I never heard. When you are perfectly indifferent and used to -everything, and know there is no mystery in it, it is astonishing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> how -little you hear. I had got accustomed to the hum of voices from the -study just as I had to the cries in the streets and the muffin-man’s -bell. Sometimes, I suppose, a word must have caught my ear now and then, -but I paid no attention, and heard as if I heard it not: I was thinking -of such very different things. One day, however, I did catch a few words -which surprised me. It was a summer day. The back-door into the little -yard and all the windows everywhere were open. The noises in the street -came into the house exactly as if we were living out of doors, but so -softened by the warm air and the sunshine that they were pleasant -instead of being disagreeable. The day was not hot, but only -deliciously, genially warm. We had put up white curtains in the parlour, -and the wind blew them softly about, flapping the wooden stretcher in -the blind against the window-frame. I was in a muslin dress myself; and -I was happy without any reason, not in the least knowing why. I came -downstairs singing, as I had a way of doing, and went into the parlour -and sat down in the window. I gave up singing when I sat down, partly -because it might have disturbed papa, and partly because people stopped -to listen as they were passing. I was running up the breadths of my new -frock, a blue print, which was as bright and pretty as the day, and, to -tell the truth, did not care in the least what the voices were saying on -the other side of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> the folding doors. I had made noise enough to -demonstrate my presence, and, as nothing was ever hid from me, it never -came into my head to listen. It was Spicer the grocer’s voice, I think, -which attracted my ear at last. It was a strange, little, harsh, -snappish voice, so unharmonious that it worried one like a dog barking; -and by degrees, as he talked and talked, some sort of vague association -came into my mind—something which I had half forgotten. What was it I -had heard about the Spicers? I could not recollect all at once.</p> - -<p>“Governessing ain’t paradise,” said Spicer, “but it’s better perhaps -than other things. Marrying a man as is in poor health, and at a -troublesome time o’ life—and nothing to leave to them as comes after -him; that ain’t much, Mr Peveril. A woman’s best married, I allow; but -marriage has consekenses, and when there’s no money——”</p> - -<p>I did not hear what my father said in reply, and indeed I did not care -to hear. I was half annoyed, half amused, by Spicer’s queer little -barking voice.</p> - -<p>“Forty-five, sir? no, it ain’t old—but it ain’t young neither. I’ve -known many a man carried off at forty-five. Them things have all got to -be considered; though for that matter twenty-five would make little -difference. The thing is, here’s a young woman as has a trade she can -make her living by. A man comes in, marries her right off: they have a -child or two in natural course, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> then he goes and dies. Nothing more -natural or more common. But then you see, Mr Peveril, sir, here’s the -question: what’s to become of her? And that’s the question I’ve got to -consider. I’ve a family myself, and I can’t put myself in the way of -having to support another man’s family; and a woman can’t go out and be -a governess, it stands to reason, with two or three young uns on her -hands.”</p> - -<p>My father said something here in a very earnest, low, grave voice, which -really attracted my curiosity for the first time. Whatever he was -saying, he was very serious about it, and his tone, though I could not -hear what he said, woke me up. Perhaps he warned Spicer to talk low; but -at all events I heard nothing more for some time, except the grumbling -and barking of the grocer’s voice, in a much subdued tone. They seemed -to argue, and Spicer seemed to yield. At last he got up to go away, and -then I heard him deliver his final judgment on the matter, whatever it -was, standing close to the folding doors.</p> - -<p>“You speaks fair, sir. I don’t say but what you speaks fair. Granting -life and health, it’s a fine thing for her, and a honour for us. And -taking the other side of the question, as I’m bound to take it, I -wouldn’t say but the insurance makes a difference. A woman with a -thousand pounds and a babby is no worse off than if she hadn’t -neither—and Missis is better nor Miss in the way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> of setting up a -school or such like. I may say, Mr Peveril, as the insurance makes a -great difference. A thousand pound ain’t much for a dependence; and if -there was a lot of little uns—but to be sure, in them matters you must -go on providence to a certain extent. I’ll think it over, sir—and I -don’t see as I’ve any call to make objections, if her and you’s made up -your minds.” Then there was a step towards the door, and then Spicer -came to a stand-still once more. “First thing,” he said, “Mr Peveril, is -the insurance. You won’t put it off, sir? I’ve known them as meant it -every day o’ their lives, and never did it when all was done; and died -and left their families without e’er a——”</p> - -<p>“It shall be done at once,” said my father peremptorily, and almost -angrily; and then there was a begging of pardon, and a scraping and -shuffling, and Spicer went away. I saw him go out, putting his hat on as -he shut the door. I never liked Spicer—of course he was one of the -parishioners, and papa could not refuse his advice to him or to any one; -but I made a face at him as he went away. I felt quite sure he was the -sort of man one sometimes reads of in the newspapers, who put sand in -the sugar, and sell bad tea to the poor people, and have light weights. -This was in my mind along with a vague, faint curiosity as to what he -had been talking about, when to my surprise papa came into the parlour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> -He came in quickly, with a flush on his face, and the most uneasy, -uncomfortable look I ever saw a man have. Was he ashamed of -something?—ashamed! he—papa!</p> - -<p>“I suppose you have heard all that Spicer has been saying, Mary,” he -said to me, quite abruptly. He gave me one strange look, and then turned -away, and gazed at the Beautiful gate of the Temple which hung over the -mantelpiece as if he had never seen it before.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said; and then it suddenly flashed upon me that Spicer’s talk -had not been exactly of a kind to be overheard by a girl, and that this -was why poor papa looked so embarrassed and uncomfortable. He felt that -it was not proper for me. “I heard a little of it,” I said instantly, -“but I never listen, you know, papa, and I don’t know in the least what -he was talking about.”</p> - -<p>Poor papa! how delicate he was; how shocked I should have heard anything -I ought not to know—though it was not so dreadful after all, for of -course everybody knows that when people are married they have babies. -But he did not like to look me in the face; he kept his back to me, and -gazed at the twisted pillars.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” he said, “I have a little explanation to make to you.”</p> - -<p>“An explanation?” I looked at him over my blue print, wondering what it -could be; but it did not seem worth while to stop working, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> -threaded my needle and made a knot on my thread while I waited for what -he was going to say. Then suddenly my heart began to beat a little fast, -and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps my dreams were about to -become true, and that he knew all about it as well as I, and was just -going to tell me I was Lady Mary, and he Earl of ——. I had never been -able to choose a satisfactory title, and I could not invent one on the -spur of the moment; but instinctively I gave a glance from the window to -see whether the beautiful carriage was in sight, coming to take us to -our splendid home.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I ought to have taken you into my confidence before,” he said, -“for you have been brought up a lonely girl, and ought to feel for -people who are lonely. I have been very lonely myself, very desolate, -ever since your poor mother died.”</p> - -<p>Here my heart gave a slight stir, and I felt angry, without knowing -exactly why. Lonely? Why, he had always had me!</p> - -<p>“When you are older,” he went on nervously, “you will feel what a -dreadful thing the want of companionship is. You have been a good child, -Mary, and done all you could for me. I should not have been able to live -without you; but when a man has been used to a companion of—of his own -standing, it is a great change to him to fall back upon a child.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span></p> - -<p>I grew angrier and angrier; I could scarcely tell why. A feeling of -disappointment, of heart-sinking, of fury, came over me. I had never -made much fuss about adoring my father, and so forth; but to find out -all at once that he had never been satisfied—never happy——</p> - -<p>“Do you mean me?” I said, quite hoarsely, feeling as if he had wronged -me, deceived me, done everything that was cruel—but with no clear -notion of what was coming even now.</p> - -<p>“Whom else could I mean?” he said, quite gently. “You are a dear, good -child, but you are only a child.”</p> - -<p>Oh, how my heart swelled, till I thought it would burst! but I could not -say anything. I began to tap my foot on the floor in my anger and -mortification, but still I was so stupid I thought of nothing more.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look as if you thought I blamed you, Mary,” said my father; “on -the contrary, you have been a dear little housekeeper. But—do you -remember, dear,” he went on, with his voice shaking a little, “that I -told you once of a young lady who lived with the Spicers?”</p> - -<p>It began to dawn upon me now. I turned round upon him, and stared at -him. Oh, how pleased I was to see his eyes shrink, and the embarrassed -look upon his face! I would not give him any quarter; I felt my own face -growing crimson with shame, but I kept looking at him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> compelling him -to keep opposite to me, preventing him from hiding that blush. Oh, good -heavens—an <i>old</i> man—a man of forty-five—a clergyman—my father! and -there he sat, blushing like some ridiculous boy.</p> - -<p>He faltered, but he kept on, not looking at me, “I see you remember,” he -said, with his voice shaking like a flame in a draught of air. “She has -no prospect but to go out as a governess, and I cannot see her do that. -I have asked her to—to—share—our home. I have asked her to—to be -your—best friend; that is, I mean, I have asked her to marry me, Mary. -There! You must have seen that I have been disturbed of late. I am very -glad there is no longer this secret between my little girl and me.”</p> - -<p>And with that he kissed me quite suddenly and trembling, and went off -again to the mantel-shelf, and stared up at Peter and John by the -Beautiful gate.</p> - -<p>For my part I sat quite still, as if the lightning had struck me. What -ought I to do? I did not realise at first what had happened. I was -struck dumb. I knew that I ought to do or say something, and I could not -tell what. My lips stuck together—I could not now even open my mouth; -and there he stood waiting. I suppose if I had possessed my wits at that -moment I would have gone and kissed him or something. Even, I suppose, -if I had stormed at him it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> would have been less idiotic—but I could -say nothing; I was bewildered. I sat staring into the air with my mouth -open, over my blue print.</p> - -<p>At last he made an impatient movement, and I think said something to me, -which roused me out of my stupefaction. Then—I do not know what impulse -it was that moved me—I asked all at once, frightened, feeling I ought -to say something, “What is her name, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Mary Martindale,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="II-2m" id="II-2m">CHAPTER II</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> REMEMBER quite distinctly how people talked. They did not think I -observed or listened, for I had always been a dreamy sort of girl, and -never had attended much to what was said about me. At least so everybody -thought. They said I had always to be shaken or pulled when anything was -wanted of me, to make me listen—which is true enough, I believe; but -nevertheless I was not half so absent as people thought at any time, and -heard a great deal that I was not supposed to hear. And now my senses -were all shaken up and startled into being. How well I recollect hearing -old Mrs Tufnell and Mrs Stephens talking in the quiet front drawing-room -in the Square, while I was in the little room behind, taking no notice, -as they thought. They had given me a book and got rid of me, and though -they all pretended to deplore my dreamy ways, I think on the whole it -was rather a relief to get rid of a quick, inquisitive, fifteen-year-old -girl, and to be able to talk in peace. It was twilight of the summer -evening and we had taken tea, and the two ladies were seated at one of -the windows looking out upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> Square. The windows had long, full, -white curtains, hanging and fluttering from the roof to the carpet. They -were seated against that soft white background in their black silk -dresses, for Mrs Tufnell was old, and Mrs Stephens was a widow and -always wore black. It was like a picture: and I, not being so happy as I -used to be, sat with my book and read and listened both together. You -may think this is nonsense; but I could do it. I see them now -approaching their caps to each other, with little nods and shakes of -their heads and the white curtains fluttering softly behind them. Mrs -Tufnell was a great patroness of papa’s, and always went to St Mark’s -regularly, and Mrs Stephens was our very nearest neighbour, living next -door.</p> - -<p>“I hope it will turn out the best thing that could happen for <i>her</i>,” -said Mrs Tufnell, nodding her head at me. They would not say any more -lest they should attract my attention. “She has been greatly neglected, -and left alone a great deal too much,—and I hear <i>she</i> is accomplished. -Dear, dear, who would have thought that he, of all men in the world, -would have taken such a step.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite see that,” said Mrs Stephens; “he is a young man still, -and nobody could suppose he would always be contented with his child’s -company: besides, she is so cool and indifferent, as if she never -thought it possible anything could happen: and I am sure she never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> did -anything to make herself necessary or agreeable——”</p> - -<p>“Poor child!”</p> - -<p>“You may say ‘poor child!’ but yet I blame her. A girl of fifteen is a -woman to all intents and purposes. She ought to have seen that there was -a great deal in her power by way of making him comfortable and herself -pleasant. It’s rather hard to say the plain downright truth about it, -you know, he being a clergyman and all that. Of course, when there is a -young family one can say it is for their sake; but in this case there’s -no possible excuse—he only wanted a wife, that’s all. I don’t blame -him; but it’s a coming down—it’s a disturbance of one’s ideal——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know much about ideals,” said Mrs Tufnell; “what surprises me -is, if the man wanted to marry, why he didn’t marry long ago, when the -child was young and he had an excellent excuse. As for being a -clergyman, that’s neither here nor there. Clergymen are always marrying -men, and it’s no sin to marry.”</p> - -<p>“It disturbs one’s ideal,” said Mrs Stephens; and, though Mrs Tufnell -shrugged her shoulders, I, sitting behind over my book, agreed with her. -Oh the inward humiliation with which one sees one’s father in love!—I -suppose it would be still worse to see one’s mother, but then, I never -had a mother. I blushed for him a great deal more than he blushed for -himself, and he did blush for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> himself too. If he was happy, it was a -very uneasy, disturbed sort of happiness. He took me to see her—to -Spicer’s; and he went often himself and sat in the parlour behind the -shop, and suffered, I am sure, as much as ever a man who is having his -own way could suffer. Mrs Tufnell, who was a thoroughly kind old lady, -at length came to his aid, and invited Miss Martindale to stay with her -the rest of the time, and to be married from her house, which was a -thing which even I was grateful for. And the night before the -wedding-day the old lady kissed me and said, “Things will turn out -better than you suppose, dear. It is hard upon you, but things will turn -out better than you suppose.”</p> - -<p>I am not sure that this is ever a very effectual kind of comfort, but to -me it was exasperating. Had I been told that things would turn out worse -than I supposed, I should have liked it. It seemed to me that nothing -could be half bad enough for this overturn of all plans and thoughts and -life. For you must recollect that it was my life that was chiefly to be -overturned. Papa liked it, I supposed, and it was his own doing—but the -change was not so great to him as to me. All the little offices of -authority I used to have were taken from me—my keys, which I was proud -of keeping—my bills and tradesmen’s books, which I had summed up since -ever I can remember. I was turned out of my room, and sent upstairs to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> -the spare room beside Ellen. In the parlour I was never alone any more, -and not even my favourite corner was mine any longer. I had no more -walks with papa, swinging back from his arm. She had his arm now. She -made the tea, and even darned his stockings. I was nothing in the house, -and she everything. If you suppose that a girl bears this sort of -dethronement easily, I am here to witness to the contrary. I did not -take it easily; but the thing that went to my heart most was, I think, -that she was called Mary, like me. For the first few days when I heard -papa call Mary I used to run to him and find her before me, and get sent -away, sometimes hastily (one time I ran in and found them sitting -together, he with his arm round her waist. I wonder he was not ashamed -of himself, at his age!); and another time with a joke which made me -furious: “It was my other Mary I wanted,” he said, looking as vain and -foolish as—as—. I never saw anybody look so foolish. <i>My</i> father! It -humbled me to the very ground. And then I took to never answering to the -name at all, which sometimes made papa angry when it was really me he -wanted. I soon came to know very well which of us he meant by the sound -of his voice, but I never let him know that I did so. His voice grew -soft and round as if he were singing when he called her. When he called -me, it was just, I suppose, as it always had been; but I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> learned -the other something now, the different accentuation, and I resented the -want of it, though I knew that it never had belonged to me.</p> - -<p>All this time I have not spoken of her, though she was the cause of all. -When I saw her first, in the grocer’s back shop, working at frocks for -the little Spicers, I could not believe my eyes. Though I had already -begun to hate her as supplanting me with my father, I could not but -acknowledge how very strange it was to see her there. She had on a very -plain black alpaca dress, and she sat in the back parlour, amid all that -smell of hams and cheese, with a sewing-machine before her; and yet she -looked like a princess. She was tall and very slight, like a flower, and -her head bowed a little on its stem like the head of a lily. She was -pale, with dark eyes and dark hair. I believe she was very handsome—not -pretty, but very handsome, almost beautiful, I have heard papa say. I -allow this, to be honest, though I cannot say I ever saw it. She had a -pathetic look in her eyes which sometimes felt as if it might go to -one’s heart. But, fortunately, she always looked happy when I saw -her—absurdly happy, just as my poor foolish father did—and so I never -was tempted to sympathise with her. I do not understand how anybody but -an angel could sympathise with another person who was very happy and -comfortable while she (or he) was in trouble. This was our situation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> -now. She had driven me out of everything, and she was pleased; but I was -cross from morning till night, and miserable, feeling that I scarcely -minded whether I lived or died. Her smiles seemed to insult me when we -sat at table together. She looked so much at her ease; she talked so -calmly, she even laughed and joked, and sometimes said such merry, witty -things, that it was all I could do to keep from laughing too. It is -painful to be tempted to laugh when you are very much injured and in a -bad temper. Reading was forbidden now at meals, and neither papa nor I -ever ventured to prop up a book beside us while we ate. I suppose it was -a bad custom; yet my very heart revolted at the idea of changing -anything because she wished it. And then she tried to be “of use” to me, -as people said. She made me practise every day. She gave me books to -read, getting them from the library, and taking a great deal of trouble. -She tried to make me talk French with her; but to talk is a thing one -cannot be compelled to do, and I always had it in my power to balk that -endeavour by answering <i>Oui</i> or <i>Non</i> to all her questions. But the -worst of it all was that I had no power to affect either her or papa, -whatever I might do to make myself disagreeable. I suppose they were too -happy to mind. When I was sulky, it was only myself I made miserable, -and there is very little satisfaction in that.</p> - -<p>I cannot but say, however, looking back, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> she was kind to me, in -her way. She was always good-natured, and put up with me and tried to -make me talk. She was kind: but <i>they</i> were not kind. As soon as my -father and she got together they forgot everything. They sat and talked -together, forgetting my very existence. They went out walking together. -Sometimes even he would kiss her, without minding that I was there; and -all this filled me with contempt for his weakness. I could not support -such nonsense—at his age, too! I remember one day rushing to Mrs -Stephens’ to get rid of them and their happiness. She was well off, and -I don’t really know why she lived in such a street as ours. She kept two -servants all for herself, and had a nice drawing-room on the first-floor -very beautifully furnished, as I then thought, where she sat and saw all -that was going on. Without Mrs Stephens I think I should have died. I -used to rush to her when I could bear it no longer.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Mary?” she would say, looking up from her Berlin -work. She had a daughter who was married—and she was always working -chairs for her, and footstools, and I don’t know what.</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said I, sitting down on the stool by her wool-basket and -turning over the pretty colours; and then, after I had been silent for a -minute, I said, “They have gone out for a walk.”</p> - -<p>“It is very natural, my dear; you must not be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> jealous. It might be a -question, you know, whether you liked your papa to marry; but now that -he is married, it is his duty to be attentive to his wife.”</p> - -<p>“He had me before he had a wife,” cried I; “why should he love her -better than me? Why should he be so much happier with her than with me? -He has always something to say to her: he is always smiling and -pleasant. Sometimes with me he will be a whole day and never say a word. -Why should he be more happy with her than with me?”</p> - -<p>Mrs Stephens laughed. “I can’t tell you how it is, Mary, but so it is,” -she said; “and by and by, when you are older, you will have somebody -whom you will be happier with than you ever were with your papa. That is -the best of being young. When my Sophy married, it was very hard upon me -to see her happier with her husband than she had been with her mother, -and to know that all that sort of thing was over for me, and that I must -be content with my worsted-work. But you will have a happiness of your -own by and by, when you are older; so you must not grudge it so much to -your poor papa. I think he is looking pale. I thought he coughed a great -deal on Sunday. Is she doing anything for that cough of his, do you -know?”</p> - -<p>“I never noticed that he had a cough.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I hope <i>she</i> does,” said Mrs Stephens,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> with a strange look, as -if she meant something. “Your papa never was strong. He has not health -to be going out of nights, and to all those concerts and things. She -ought to look after his cough, Mary. If she does not, it will be she who -will suffer the most.”</p> - -<p>I did not in the least understand what this meant; I had never remarked -papa’s cough. Yes, to be sure, he always had a little cough—nothing to -speak of. I had been used to it all my life, and it was not any worse -than usual—it was nothing. I told Mrs Stephens so, and then we talked -of other things.</p> - -<p>What a long year that was! When the wedding-day came round again they -had a party, and were quite gay. It was a very odd thing to see a party -in our house; but, though I would not have owned this for the world, I -almost think I half enjoyed it. I had got used to papa’s foolish -happiness, and to Mrs Peveril’s ways. By mere use and wont I had got -more indifferent; and then there began to be some talk of getting a -situation for me as a governess. Papa did not like the idea, but I -myself pressed it on, with a feeling that something new would be -pleasant. I took most of my ideas of life from novels; and if you will -think of it, young ladies who are governesses in novels, generally come -to promotion in the end, though they may have to suffer a great deal -first. I did not much mind the suffering. Whatever it may be that makes -one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> superior to other people, one can bear it. I made up my mind to a -great deal of trouble, and even persecution, and all kinds of -annoyances, feeling that all this would come to something in the end. -All my dreams about being Lady Mary, and a great personage, had been -dispersed by my father’s marriage. But now I began to dream in another -way; and by degrees the old nonsense would steal back. I used to sit -with a book in my hand, and see myself working in a schoolroom with the -children; and then some one would come to the door, and I should be -called to a beautiful drawing-room, and the lady of the house would take -me in her arms and kiss me, and say, “Why did not you tell me who you -really were!” and there would be a lawyer in black who had come with the -news. All this I am sure is intensely silly, but so was I at the time; -and that is exactly how my mind used to go on. Sometimes a gentleman -would come into it, who would be intensely respectful and reverential, -and whom I would always refuse, saying, “No; I will allow no one to -descend from their proper rank for me!” until that glorious moment came -when I was found out to be as elevated in rank as in principles. Oh, how -absurd it all was! and how I liked it! and what a refuge to me was that -secret world which no one ever entered but myself, and yet where so many -delightful people lived whom I knew by their names, and could talk to -for hours together! Sitting there under Mrs Peveril’s very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> nose, I -would have long argumentations with my lover, and he would kiss my hand, -and lay himself at my feet, and tell me that he cared for no one in the -world but me; and the scene of the discovery was enacted over and over -again while papa was talking of parish matters, quite unaware that by -some mysterious imbroglio of affairs he was really the Earl of —— So -and So—(I never could hit upon a sufficiently pretty name). Thus, -instead of weeping over my hard fate and thinking it dreadful to have to -go out as a governess, I looked forward to it, feeling that somehow the -discovery of the true state of affairs concerning us was involved in it, -and that, without that probation, Fate would certainly never restore me -to my due and native eminence in the world.</p> - -<p>But, however, I must come back to the night of the anniversary, and to -our party. I had on a pretty new white frock—my first long one: and I -half, or more than half, enjoyed myself. Everybody was very kind to me, -everybody said I was looking well; and Mrs Tufnell and Mrs Stephens -petted me a good deal behind backs, and said, “poor child!” And then -papa’s curate, who was one of the guests, kept following me about and -trying to talk to me; whenever I looked up I met his eyes. I did not -admire him in the least, but it amused me very much, and pleased me, to -see that he admired me. When I wanted anything he rushed to get it for -me. It was very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> odd, but not at all disagreeable, and gave me a -comfortable feeling about myself. When the people went away, papa stood -a long time in the hall between the open doors, saying good-night to -everybody. He went back into the parlour after they were all gone; he -went up to the fireplace, I don’t know why, and stood there for a moment -as if there had been a fire in the grate. Then he called “Mary!” I might -have known it was not me he wanted. He held out his hand without turning -round. “I never thought I could be happier than I was this day last -year,” he said, “and yet I am happier to-night. What a delightful year -you have given me, my darling—— Oh, is it you? What did you mean by -not telling me it was you, when you must have perceived that I thought I -was talking to my wife?”</p> - -<p>“There was no time to tell you,” I said. It gave me a pang I can -scarcely describe when he thrust my hand away which I had held out to -him. He was ashamed; he sat down suddenly in the big chair, and then all -at once a fit of coughing came on, such a fit of coughing as I never saw -before. It frightened me; and he looked so pale, and with such circles -round his eyes! When he could speak he said, hurriedly, panting for his -breath, “Be sure you do not tell her of this——.” That was all he -thought of. It did not matter for me.</p> - -<p>But, as it happened, it was not long possible to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> keep it from <i>her</i>. -When I look back upon that evening, with its little follies, and the -laughter, and the curate, and my new dress! O, how little one knows! -That very night papa was taken ill. He had caught cold in the draught as -he shook hands with the people. It was congestion of the lungs, and from -the first the doctor looked very serious. The house changed in that -night. The study and the parlour and the whole place turned into a -vestibule to the sick room, which was the centre of everything. The very -atmosphere was darkened; the sun did not seem to shine; the sounds -outside came to us dulled and heavy. I was not allowed to be very much -in the room. She took her place there and never left him, day or night; -and if I were to spend pages in describing it I could not give you any -idea of my dreariness, left alone down below, not allowed to help him or -be near him while my father lay between living and dying. I could not do -anything. I tried to read, but I could not read. To take up a novel, -which was the only thing I could possibly have given my attention to, -would have seemed like profanation at such a time. It would have been -worse than reading a novel on Sunday, which I had always been brought up -to think very wicked; and as for my dreams, they were worse even than -the novels. I dared not carry them on while papa was so ill. I felt that -if I allowed my thoughts to float away on such useless currents, I never -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> expect God to listen to my prayers. For this reason I made a -dreadful effort to think “as one ought to think,” to think of religious -things always and all day long—and this was very difficult; but I made -the effort, because I thought God was more likely to listen to me if I -showed that I wanted to do well.</p> - -<p>But, oh the dreary days and the dreary nights! The three last nights I -sat up in my dressing-gown, and dozed drearily and woke still more -drearily, after dreaming the strangest dreams. Sometimes I thought it -was the wedding-day again, and he was standing with her hand on his arm; -sometimes it was the anniversary, and he was saying how happy he was; -sometimes it was a funeral. I dreamed always about him, and always in -different aspects. One morning I woke up suddenly and found Ellen -standing by me in the grey dawning. She did not say anything; the tears -were running down her face. But I got up and followed her quite silent, -knowing what it was.</p> - -<p>He died, after a week’s illness, in the morning, leaving us a whole -horrible, light, bright day to get through with what patience we could; -and then there was a dreary interval of silence, and he was carried away -from us for ever and ever; and she and I, two creatures of different -minds as ever were born, with but this one link of union between us, -were left in the house alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="III-2m" id="III-2m">CHAPTER III</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>HE and I alone in the house! I do not think that I could express our -desolation more fully were I to write a whole book. He who had brought -us together was gone. The link between us was broken—we were two -strangers, rather hostile to each other than otherwise. No pretence of -love had ever existed between us. She had never had any occasion to be -jealous of me; but she had known and must have felt that I was jealous -of her, and grudged her position, her happiness, her very name. She knew -this, and it had not mattered to her so long as he was alive; but now -that he was gone, now that she and I, bearing the same name, supposed to -belong to each other, were left within our dismal house alone——</p> - -<p>We went together to the funeral. I was too much absorbed in my own -feelings, I believe, to think of her; and yet I noticed everything, as -people do when they are deeply excited. She walked by herself, and so -did I. There was no one to support either of us, and we did not cling to -each other. The churchwardens were there, and Spicer the grocer, to my -annoyance. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> I saw him all the conversation which I had once -overheard came to my mind. Even as I stood by my father’s grave it came -back to me. I understood it only partially, but it seemed to me as if -the time had come on which he calculated, and which he had spoken of. I -do not think it had ever recurred to me till that moment. She would be -better off with a thousand pounds than with nothing. A thousand -pounds—— and—— what had he said? I thought my heart had been too -faint to feel at all, and yet it began to quicken now with excitement. I -looked at her as she walked before me. What was to become of her? What -was to become of me? But I did not think of myself.</p> - -<p>When we got back to the house Spicer came in and the churchwardens with -him; they came into the parlour. When I was going away Mr Turnham, who -was one of them, called me back. “Miss Mary,” he said, “wait a little. -It is hard upon you, but there is some business to be settled. Pray, -come back.”</p> - -<p>I went, of course. She had dropped into the chair my father used to sit -in. He had given it up to her when they were married, but now death had -unmarried them, and I could not bear to see her there. Spicer had gone -to sit by her; they were at one side of the room, Mr Turnham and I at -the other, as if we were opposite sides. The other churchwarden had -shaken hands with us all and gone away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<p>“In the present melancholy circumstances it is our duty,” said Mr -Turnham, “to inquire into our late dear friend’s monetary arrangements; -there must have been some settlement or other—some explanation at -least, as he married so short a time ago.”</p> - -<p>Then Spicer cleared his throat, and edged still more on to the edge of -his chair. Oh, heaven knows. I was as miserable as a girl could be—but -yet I noticed all this as if I did not care.</p> - -<p>“There was no settlement,” he said, “reason good, there wasn’t nothing -to settle as was worth the while; but being Mrs Peveril’s only relation, -and responsible like, he spoke very clear and honourable about his means -to me. ‘I ain’t got no money, Mr Spicer,’ he said, ‘but I’ve insured my -life for my daughter, and I’ll do as much for her. They’ll have a -thousand pounds apiece, and that’s better than nothing,’ he said; ‘it -will get them into some snug little way of business or something.’ He -was a sensible man, Mr Peveril, and spoke up handsome when he saw as -nothing was exacted of him. I don’t know what office it’s in, but I -believe as what he said must be true.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps if we were to adjourn into the study, and if one of the ladies -would get the keys, we might look in his desk if there was a will,” said -Mr Turnham. “I am very sorry that our late lamented friend had so short -an illness, and therefore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> was unable to say anything as to what he -wished.”</p> - -<p>“Stop, please,” Mrs Peveril said all at once. “Stop: neither of us is -able to give you any help to-day; and afterwards we will try to manage -for ourselves. We thank you very much, but it is best to leave us to -ourselves. I speak for Mary too.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Mrs Peveril, you will want some one to manage for you; it -is painful, I know, but it is best to do it at once; you will want some -one to manage——”</p> - -<p>“I do not see the necessity,” she said. She was dreadfully pale; I never -saw any one so pale; and it went to my heart to be obliged to side with -her, and acquiesce in what she said; but I could not help it, I was -obliged to give in. She spoke for me too.</p> - -<p>“As long as there’s me, you may make your mind easy,” said Spicer. “A -relation; and on the premises, so to speak. I’ll do for ’em all as is -necessary; you may make your mind quite easy, Mr Turnham—you trust to -me.”</p> - -<p>Then she got up; her head drooped in her great heavy black bonnet and -veil. She was not like a lily now, in all that crape; but I could not -keep my eyes from her. She was not afraid of these men, as I was. She -held out her hand first to the one, then to the other. “Good-bye,” she -said. “We thank you very much for taking so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> interest, but we would -like to be alone to-day. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>Mr Turnham got up not quite pleased, but he shook hands with her and -then with me, and said “Good-bye and God bless you” to us both. “If you -want me, you know where I am to be found,” he said, with a little look -of offence. Spicer stayed behind him, as if he belonged to us.</p> - -<p>“I agree with you,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Them as -is strangers has no business with your affairs. Trust ’em to me, my -dear; trust ’em to me. When your money’s safe in a good snug little -business you won’t be so badly off; at least it’s always something to -fall back upon;—don’t you be downhearted, my dear. I don’t see as you -will be so badly off.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Mr Spicer,” she said. She pushed past him and left the room -with an impatience which I understood. He and I were left standing -together, looking at each other. Nobody considered me much. It was the -wife who was thought of—not the daughter. He shook his head as he -looked after her.</p> - -<p>“Bless us all! bless us all!” he said. “That’s what comes of turning a -woman’s head. Miss Mary, I ain’t going to forsake you, though she’s far -from civil. I’ll stand by you, never fear. If the money’s well invested -you’ll both get something ’andsome. Nothing pays like business; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> as -there ain’t no babby—which was what I always feared——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to talk about Mrs Peveril,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you don’t want to talk about her! no more do I. She’s very flighty -and hoity-toighty. I remember when she was very glad to get a corner at -my table. She thinks she’s set up now, with her thousand pounds. It’s a -blessing as there’s no family. Miss Mary, I’ll take your instructions -next time as I comes if you’ll put yourself in my hands. I’ve come to -think on you as a relation too; but bless you, my dear, I know as you -can’t be cheerful with visitors not just the first day. Don’t stand upon -no ceremony with me.”</p> - -<p>He wanted me to leave him, I thought, that he might examine everything, -and perhaps, get at poor papa’s papers; but I would not do that. I -stayed, though my heart was bursting, until he went away. What an -afternoon that was! it was summer, but it rained all day. It rained and -rained into the smoky street, and upon papa’s grave, which I seemed to -see before me wet and cold and sodden, with little pools of water about. -How heartless it seemed, how terrible, to have come into shelter -ourselves and to have left him there alone in the wet, and the cold, and -the misery! If one could but have gone back there and sat down by him -and got one’s death, it would have been some consolation. I went up to -my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> room and sat there drearily, watching the drops that chased each -other down the window panes. It was so wet that the street was quite -silent outside, nobody coming or going, except the milkman with his -pails making a clank at every area. There were no cries in the street, -no sound of children playing, nothing but the rain pattering, pattering, -upon the roofs and the pavement, and in every little hollow on both. The -house, too, was perfectly still; there was no dinner, nothing to break -the long monotony. Ellen came up in her new black gown, with tears on -her cheeks, to bring me a glass of wine and a sandwich. I could not eat, -but I drank the wine. “Oh, Miss Mary,” said Ellen, “won’t you go to her -now? There’s only you two. It ain’t a time, Miss, oh, it ain’t a time to -think on things as may have been unpleasant. And she’s a taking on so, -shut up in that room, as I think she’ll die.”</p> - -<p>Why should she die any more than me? Why should she be more pitied than -I was? I had lost as much, more than she had. She had known him but a -short time, not two years; but he had been mine all my life. I turned my -back upon Ellen’s appeal, and she went away crying, shaking her head and -saying I was unkind, I was without feeling. Oh, was I without feeling? -How my head ached, how my heart swelled, how the sobs rose into my -throat; I should have been glad could I have felt that it was likely I -should die.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<p>“Will you go down to tea, Miss Mary,” Ellen said, coming back as the -night began to fall. I was weary, weary of sitting and crying by myself; -any change looked as if it must be better. I was cold and faint and -miserable; and then there was in my mind a sort of curiosity to see how -she looked, and if she would say anything—even to know what were to be -the relations between us now. I went down accordingly, down to the dark -little parlour which, during all papa’s illness, I had lived in alone. -She was there, scarcely visible in the dark, crouching over a little -fire which Ellen had lighted. It was very well-meant on Ellen’s part, -but the wood was damp, and the coals black, and I think it made the -place look almost more wretched. <i>She</i> sat holding out her thin hands to -it. The tea was on the table, and after I went in Ellen brought the -candles. We did not say anything to each other. After a while she gave -me some tea and I took it. She seemed to try to speak two or three -times. I waited for her to begin. I would not say a word; and we had -been thus for a long time mournfully seated together before she at last -broke the silence. “Mary,” she said, and then paused. I suppose it was -because I was younger than she that I had more command of myself, and -felt able to observe every little movement she made and every tone. I -was so curious about her—anxious, I could not tell why, as to what she -would do and say.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” she repeated, “we have never been very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> good friends, you and I; -I don’t know why this has been. I have not wished it—but we have not -been very good friends.”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“No; that is all you say? Could we not do any better now? When I came -here first, I did not think I was doing you any wrong. I did not mean it -as a wrong to you. Now we are two left alone in the world. I have no -one, and you have no one. Could we not do any better! Mary, I think it -would please him, perhaps, if we tried to be friends.”</p> - -<p>My heart was quite full. I could have thrown myself upon her, and kissed -her. I could have killed her. I did not know what to do.</p> - -<p>“We have never been enemies,” I said.</p> - -<p>“No. But friends—that is different. There never were two so lonely. If -we stayed together we might get to be fond of each other, Mary; we might -keep together out of the cold world. Two together are stronger than one -alone. You don’t know how cold the world is, you are so young. If we -were to keep together we might stay—at home.”</p> - -<p>Some evil spirit moved me, I cannot tell how; it seemed to me that I had -found her out, that it was this she wanted. I got up from my chair -flaming with the momentary hot passion of grief. “If there is any money -for me, and if you want that, you can have it,” I cried, and tried to go -away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<p>She gave a little moaning cry, as if I had struck her. “Oh, Mary, Mary!” -she cried, with a wailing voice more of sorrow than of indignation; and -then she put out her hand and caught my dress. I could not have got away -if I had wished, and I did not wish it, for I was devoured by curiosity -about what she would do and say. This curiosity was the beginning of -interest, though I did not know it; it fascinated me to her. She caught -my dress and drew me closer. She put her other hand on mine, and drew me -down to her, so that my face approached hers. She put up her white -cheek, her eyes all hollowed out with crying, to mine: “Mary,” she said, -in a heartrending tone, “do not go away from me. I have nobody but you -in the world.” Then she paused. “I am going to have a baby,” she said -all at once, with a low, sharp cry.</p> - -<p>I was confounded. I do not know what I said or did. Shame, wonder, pity, -emotion—all mingled in me. I was very young, younger in heart than I -was in years; and to have such a thing told to me overwhelmed me with -shame and awe. It was so wonderful, so mysterious, so terrible. I -dropped on my knees beside her, and covered my face with my hands, and -cried. I could not resist any longer, or shut myself up. We cried -together, clinging to each other, weeping over our secret. <i>He</i> had not -known. At the last, when she was aware herself, she would not tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> him -to add to his pains. “He will know in heaven, Mary,” she said, winding -her arms round me, weeping on my shoulder, shaking me, frail support as -I was, with her sobs. This was how the other Mary and I became one. We -were not without comfort as we crept upstairs, with our pale faces. She -went with me to my room; she would not let me go. I had to hold her hand -even when we went to sleep. “Do not leave me, Mary; stay with me, Mary,” -she moaned, whenever I stirred. And we slept by snatches, in our -weariness; slept and woke to sob, and then slept again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="IV-2m" id="IV-2m">CHAPTER IV</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS union, following so close upon our complete severance from each -other, astonished everybody. We frightened Ellen. When she came to call -me next morning, and saw the other sleeping by me, she thought it was -witchcraft; but I did not mind that I rose, and dressed very quietly, -not to wake <i>her</i>. She was sleeping deeply at last, the sleep of -exhaustion. During all papa’s illness she had not rested at all, and at -last sorrow and watching had worn her out. But I need not go over at -length everything that happened. We told kind Mrs Tufnell and Mrs -Stephens, our nearest neighbours; and I believe they told it to many in -the parish; but Mary and I neither knew nor heard what went on out of -our house. I had got to call her Mary, as he did; I liked it now—it no -longer seemed to interfere with me. I thought my voice sounded round and -soft like his when I said her name: Mary. It is a pleasant name to say, -though it is my own. I got to admire it, being hers—I, who had hated -her for being so called. But all that was changed now.</p> - -<p>I do not quite know how our business was settled, for I know nothing -about business. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> I know, that she managed it all herself, as she -had said; she would not let Spicer have anything to do with it. She -wrote about the money to an old friend of papa’s, and got it invested -and all settled. Half was for her and half for me. It brought us in -about £85 a year. We settled to let the first floor, two rooms furnished -as a sitting-room and bed-room, which would pay our rent; and we got -three or four little pupils, who came every day, and whom we taught. -Everything was very closely calculated, but we decided that we could -manage it. We had never been used to be rich, neither one nor the other: -and though when all was well I had dreamed of going away among -strangers, yet now I could not help chiming in with that desperate -desire of hers to avoid separation and remain together. She used to tell -me stories of how she had been when she was a governess. How she had -lived upstairs in a schoolroom alone in the midst of a great houseful of -people; how when she came downstairs she was in the society without -belonging to it; and how when any one in the family was kind to her they -got into trouble. What she said was quite vague, but it was not -comfortable; and by degrees my dreams and ideas were modified by her -experience. But I could not be cured of my follies all in a moment, even -by grief. After a while I began to dream again; and now my dreams were -of my high estate being discovered somehow when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> I was seated lonely in -that schoolroom, trying to get through the weary evening. I used to make -a picture to myself of how the lady of the house would come penitent and -ashamed, and make a hundred apologies; and how I would say to her, that -though her other governesses might not turn out to be Lady Marys, yet -did not she think it would be best to be kind and make friends of them? -Lady Mary! I clung to my absurdity, though I began to be old enough to -see how ridiculous it was. How could I ever turn out to be anybody -now—now that papa was gone? But when a girl is but sixteen there are -often a great many follies in her head which she would be deeply ashamed -of if any one knew them, but which please her in secret as she dreams -over them.</p> - -<p>My life was altogether changed by papa’s death. It is dreadful to say -so, but it was not changed for the worse. Perhaps I had been happier in -the old days before Mary was ever heard of, when he and I used to sit -together, not talking much, and walk together, thinking our own -thoughts—together yet without much intercourse. I had been quite -content then, having enough to amuse me in my own fancies, as he, I -supposed, had in his. But now I began to be able to understand why he -had wearied for real companionship, now that I knew what real -companionship was. We lived together, Mary and I, in a different way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> -We talked over everything together; the smallest matter that occurred, -we discussed it, she and I. She had the art of working everything that -happened, into our life, so that the smallest incident was of -importance. Even in those very first days, though her heart was broken, -she soothed me. “Mary,” she said, with her lips trembling, “we cannot be -always crying; we must think of something else whenever we can; we must -<i>try</i> to think of other things. God help us; we must live, we cannot -die.” And then she would break down; and then dry her eyes, and talk of -something, of anything. When we got our little pupils, that was a -relief. She went into her work with all her heart. Her attention never -seemed to wander from the business, as mine constantly did. We had four -little girls; they came for two hours in the morning and two in the -afternoon. When they went away we had our walk. In the evening we did -our needlework, and she made me read aloud, or sometimes play, and she -taught me to sing. We used to stop and cry at every second bar when we -began, but by degrees that hysterical feeling passed off. I was never -away from her. I had constant companionship, communion,—talk that kept -me interested and even amused. I got to be—I am almost ashamed to -confess it—happier than I had been for a long time, perhaps than I had -ever been in my life.</p> - -<p>We had lived like this for about three months,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> and had got used to it, -when something came to make a little change. Mary and I rarely spoke of -our secret. It seemed to be my secret as well as hers, and I tried all I -could to take care of her, with a secret awe which I never expressed. I -could not have spoken of it; I should have been ashamed; but the -mysterious sense of what was coming was always in my mind. The -needlework which we used to do in the evenings filled me with strange -feelings. I never dared ask what this or that was for. I was afraid and -abashed at the very sight of the little things when they happened to be -spread out and showed their form. It was making them which made me a -good needlewoman: perhaps you will think that is of no great importance -in these days of sewing-machines; but oh, to have let a sewing-machine, -or even a stranger’s hand touch those dearest little scraps of linen and -muslin! Nothing but the finest work, the daintiest little stitches, -would do for them. I used to kiss them sometimes in my awe, but I would -not have asked questions for the world. This is a digression, however; -for what I was going to say had nothing to do either with our work or -our secret. All this time we had not let our first floor—and it was -with great satisfaction in her looks that Mrs Stephens came in one day -and told us that she had heard of a lodger for us. “He is a gentleman, -my dears,” she said, “<i>quite</i> a gentleman, and therefore you may be sure -he will give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> no trouble that he can help. He is an engineer, and has -something to do, I believe, about the new railway; otherwise he lives at -home somewhere about Hyde Park, and moves in the very best society. When -I say an ‘engineer,’ I mean a ‘civil’ one, you know, which is, I am -told, quite the profession of a gentleman. He will want the rooms for -six months, or perhaps more. His name is Durham; he is cousin to the -Pophams, great friends of mine, and if the lodgings suit him he would -like to come in at once.”</p> - -<p>Mary had given a little start, I could not tell why. There seemed no -reason for it. Her work had fallen out of her hands; but she picked it -up again and went on. “His name is—— What did you say, Mrs -Stephens?—a civil engineer?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my love, a civil engineer—Durham, his name is. He will come with -me to-morrow, if you are agreeable, to see the rooms.”</p> - -<p>Mary made a visible pause. She looked at me as if she were consulting -me; it was a curious, appealing sort of look. I looked back at her, but -I could not understand her. What did I know about Mr Durham, the civil -engineer? Mrs Stephens was not so observant as I was, and probably she -never noticed this look. And then Mary said, “Very well. If they suit -him, we ought to be very thankful. I should have preferred a lady——”</p> - -<p>“My dear, a lady is a great deal more at home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> than a man, and gives -more trouble,” said Mrs Stephens; “very different from a man who is out -all day. And then, probably he will dine almost always at his West-end -home.”</p> - -<p>The idea was funny, and I laughed. The notion of the West-end home -amused me; but I could not help observing that Mary, who was always -ready to sympathise with me, did not smile. Her head was bent over her -work. She did not even say anything more on the subject, but let Mrs -Stephens go on and make all the arrangements for coming next day. I -thought of this after; and even at the time I noticed it, and with some -surprise.</p> - -<p>Next day, just as we were going out for our walk, Mary, who had been at -the window, started back, and went hurriedly into the little room -behind, which had once been papa’s study. “Mary,” she said, “there is -Mrs Stephens and—— her friend. Go with them, please, to see the rooms. -I am not quite well: I would rather not appear.”</p> - -<p>“I am so stupid; I shall not know what to say,” I began.</p> - -<p>“You will do very well,” said Mary, and disappeared and shut the door. I -had no time to think more of this, for the stranger came in directly -with Mrs Stephens; and in my shyness I blushed and stammered while I -explained. “She is not very well,” I said; “I am to show you. Will you -please—sit down; will you come upstairs?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>“You will do very well,” said Mrs Stephens, patting me on the shoulder. -“This is Mr Durham, Mary, and I don’t think he will eat any of us. It is -a nice light, airy staircase,” she said, as she went up, not to lose any -opportunity of commending the house. “A capital staircase,” said Mr -Durham, with a cheery laugh. I had scarcely ventured to look at him yet, -but somehow there was a feeling of satisfactoriness diffused through the -air about him. I cannot explain quite what I mean, but I am sure others -must have felt the same thing. Some people seem to make the very air -pleasant: they give you a sense that all is well, that there is nothing -but what is good and honest in the place where they are. This is what I -felt now; and when we got upstairs I ventured to look at him. He was -tall and strong and ruddy, not at all like any hero whom I had ever read -of or imagined. There was nothing “interesting” about him. He looked “a -good fellow,” cheery, and smiling, and active, and kind. He settled at -once about the rooms. He laughed out when Mrs Stephens said something -about their homeliness. “They are as good as a palace,” he said; “I -don’t see what a man could want more.” The sitting-room was the room -papa died in, and it cost me a little pang to see them walking about and -looking at the furniture; but when people are poor they cannot indulge -such feelings. We learn to say nothing about them, and perhaps that -helps to subdue<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> them. At all events, I made no show of what I was -thinking, and it was all settled in a few minutes. He was to come in on -Saturday, and Ellen was to work for him and wait upon him. I could not -help thinking it would be pleasant to have him in the house.</p> - -<p>And thus there commenced another period of my life, which I must speak -of very briefly,—which indeed I do not care to speak of at all, but -which I will think about as long as I live. I did not see very much of -him at first. I was nearly seventeen now, and very shy; and Mary watched -over me, and took great pains not to expose me to chance meetings with -the stranger, or any unnecessary trouble. Ellen managed everything -between us. She was a good, trustworthy woman, and we did not require to -interfere; she was full of praises of Mr Durham, who never gave any -trouble he could help. But one night, when I was taking tea with Mrs -Stephens, he happened to come in, and we had the pleasantest evening. He -knew a song I had just learned, and sang a second to it in the most -delightful deep voice. He talked and rattled about everything. He made -Mrs Stephens laugh and he made me laugh, and he told us his adventures -abroad till we were nearly crying. When it was time for me to go he got -up too, and said he would go with me. “Oh, it is only next door; I can -go alone,” I said, in my shyness. “It is only next door, but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> live -there too, and I am going to work now,” he said. “To work! when all the -rest of the world are going to bed?” said Mrs Stephens; “you will make -yourself ill.” How he laughed at that! his laugh sounded like a cheery -trumpet. He did not mean to kill himself with work. “But I hope you will -let me come to tea again,” he said. How pleased Mrs Stephens was! She -always says she likes young people, and we had spent such a pleasant -night.</p> - -<p>Many more of these pleasant evenings followed. Sometimes when we were -sitting quiet after tea, she would send for me suddenly; sometimes she -would write a little note in the afternoon. This expectation filled my -life with something quite new. I had never had many invitations or -pleasures before: I had never expected them. When we sat down to work -after tea I had known that it was for the whole evening, and that no -pleasant interruption would disturb us. But now a little thrill of -excitement ran through my whole life. I wondered, would a note come in -the afternoon? If it did not come, I wondered whether the bell would -ring after tea, and Ellen come in saying, “If you please, ma’am, Mrs -Stephens’s compliments, and would Miss Mary go in, and take her music?” -Mary never interfered; never said “Don’t go.” She looked at me sometimes -very wistfully; sometimes she smiled and shook her head at me, and said -I was getting dissipated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> Once or twice she looked anxious, and told me -a story, which I only half understood, of girls who met with people they -liked, and were very happy, and then lost sight of them ever after. Mary -was very clever at telling stories, and I was fond of listening; but she -did it so well and delicately that I fear I never thought of the -moral—never, at least, till all the harm was done and it was too late.</p> - -<p>I would not have any one think, however, that Mr Durham either meant or -did any harm. To say so would be very wrong. It was as imperceptible -with him as with me. He went quite innocently, as I did, to cheer up Mrs -Stephens, and because an evening’s chatter with a little music was -pleasant; and by degrees we thought less and less of Mrs Stephens and -more and more of each other. If any one meant anything beyond this, it -was she who was the guilty person. She would nod off to sleep in her -easy-chair while we were talking. She would say, with a sleepy smile, -“Don’t mind me, my dears. The light is a little strong for my eyes. That -is why I close them—but I like the sound of your voices even when I -don’t hear what you say.” Alas, if she had heard everything that had -been said it might have been better. After a while he began to say -strange things to me while she had her doze. He talked about his family -to me. He said he hoped I should know them some day. He said his mother -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> very kind and wise—“a wise woman.” These were the very words he -used. And then he said—— other things; but that was not till the very, -very last.</p> - -<p>One morning we met in the little hall. It was raining, and it was a -holiday, and when he insisted on following me into the schoolroom, what -could I do—I could not shut him out. He seemed to fill the whole room, -and make it warm and bright. I do not think we had ever been quite alone -before. He came to the window and stood there looking out upon the bare -bit of smoky grass and the water-butt. And then all at once he came to -me and took my hand. “If I had a nice little house out in the country, -with flowers and trees about it, a bright little house—Mary—would you -come and be my little wife, and take care of it and me?”</p> - -<p>Oh, what a thing to have said to you, all at once, without warning, in -the heart of your own dull little life, when you thought you were to -work, and pinch, and put up with things, for ever! It was different from -my old fancy. But how poor a thing to have been found out to be Lady -Mary in comparison with this! What I said is neither here nor there. We -stood together in the little old study, among the forms where we had our -little scholars, as if we had been in a fairy palace. I was not -seventeen. I had no experience. I thought of nothing but him, and what -he said. It was not my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> part to think of his father and mother, and what -he would do, and what he wouldn’t do. He was a great deal older than I -was; about thirty, I believe. Of course, I thought of nothing but him.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” he said, after a long time, “I have never seen your -stepmother, Mary? I have been three months in the house, and I have -never seen her. I must go and see her now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, wait a little,” I said; “wait a day. Let us have a secret all to -ourselves one day.” How foolish I was!—but how was I to know?</p> - -<p>He consented after a while; and then he made me promise to bring her out -at a certain hour in the afternoon, that he might meet us at the door -and see her. I made all the arrangements for this with a light heart. -Though it was very difficult to hide from her what had happened, I did -so with a great effort. I persuaded her to come out earlier than usual. -She did not resist me. She was kinder, more tender, than I had ever -known. She began to say something of a story she had to tell me as we -went out. I went first and opened the door, and stood aside on the white -steps to let her go out. Her crape veil was thrown back. Though she was -still pale, there was a tint of life upon her cheeks. She was more like -herself in her refined, delicate beauty, more like a lily, my favourite -image of her, than she had been for ever so long.</p> - -<p>I had begun to smile to myself at the success of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> our trick, when -suddenly I got frightened, I could scarcely tell how. Looking up, I saw -him standing on the pavement gazing at her, confounded. I can use no -other word. He looked bewildered, confused, half wild with amazement. As -for Mary, she had stopped short on the step. She was taken strangely by -surprise too; for the first moment she only gazed as he did. Then she -dropped her veil, and stepped back into the house. “I have forgotten -something,” she said; and turned round and went upstairs to her room. He -came in, too, and went upstairs after her, passing without looking at -me. His under lip seemed to have dropped; his cheerful face had lost all -its animation; his eyes had a wild, bewildered stare in them. What did -it mean? oh! what did it mean?</p> - -<p>I did not know what to do. I wondered if he had followed her to speak to -her, or what was the meaning of those strange looks. I lingered in the -hall holding the handle of the door, feeling miserable, but not knowing -why. In two or three minutes she came downstairs. “I had forgotten my -handkerchief,” she said; and we went out together as if nothing had -happened. But something had happened, that was certain. She did not talk -very much that day. When we were coming home she said to me, quite -suddenly, “Was it your doing; Mary, that I met Mr Durham at the door?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>“He said it was so strange he had never seen you,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Yes; but you should have known I would not do that for nothing. You -should not have been the one to betray me, Mary. I knew Mr Durham once. -He is associated with one of the most painful portions of my life.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary dear! I did not know——”</p> - -<p>“You did not know, and I did not want you to find out; but never mind, -it is done. It need not, I hope, do any harm to you.”</p> - -<p>That was a very strange day: the excitement of the morning, and then the -other excitement; and to feel that I had a secret from her, and that he -was seated upstairs giving no sign, taking no notice of our existence -all day long. I was so agitated and disturbed that I did not know what -to do. At last I settled myself in the schoolroom to do some -translations. When one has been looking for a long time for a holiday, -and something happens to spoil the holiday when it comes, it is worse -even than if that something had happened on an ordinary day. I think -Mary was glad to be left to herself, for instead of our ordinary -companionship, she sat in the parlour at work all the long afternoon, -and I in the schoolroom. One of the doors was half opened between us. -She could hear my pen scratching on the paper, and the rustling of the -leaves of my dictionary—and I could hear her moving softly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> over her -work. It was autumn by this time, and the days were growing short, and -neither of us cared to ring for tea; and I think Ellen was cooking -dinner for Mr Durham and forgot us at the usual hour. We still sat as we -had been all the afternoon when the twilight came on. I laid down my -pen, having no light to write by, when I heard some one knock softly at -the parlour door.</p> - -<p>Mary made no reply. She sat quite still, never stirring. The knock came -again; then I, too, put my paper away from me and listened. The door -opened, and some one came into the parlour. How well I knew who it was! -I listened now so intently that nothing escaped me. How could it be -wrong? He must have come to talk to her of me.</p> - -<p>“Mary!” he said. I rose up softly in my excitement, thinking it was me -he was calling; but before I could move further a strange consciousness -came over me that it was not me he meant. The old feeling with which I -had heard my father call Mary came into my very soul—but worse, a -hundred times worse. Oh, had he too another Mary besides me?</p> - -<p>“Mary!” he said, breathless, and then paused. “How has all this come -about? Why do I find you here? What does it mean? There are many -explanations which I have a right to ask. You disappear from me—sent -away—I know not how; and then—not to count the years that have -passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span>—after these three months, in which you must have known me, I -find you by chance——”</p> - -<p>She knew that I was within hearing, and that whatever she said to him -must be to me too. If that was a restraint upon her, I cannot tell. I -felt sorry for her vaguely in my mind; but yet I did not move.</p> - -<p>“I did not wish you to find me at all,” she said, very low. “Mr Durham, -there is and can be nothing between you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing!” he said; “what do you mean, Mary? Why, there is all the past -between us—a hundred things that cannot be undone by anything in the -future. You know how many things there are connected with you which are -a mystery to me—things not affecting you alone, but others. How you -went away, for instance; and what became of you, and how much my mother -had to do with it? You must have known the moment I found you that all -these questions remained to be asked.”</p> - -<p>“All these questions,” she said, “are made quite unimportant by two -things. First, that I am the wife, though now the widow, of a man I -loved dearly—and that you have begun to love, begun to think of, some -one very different from me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said, with a strange brief utterance of distress. Whether he -was grieved to think of the wrong he was doing me, or whether the -strange position he stood in troubled him, I cannot tell; but there was -pain in the cry he gave—“ah!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> with a little shiver. “You have -abundance of power to pain me,” he said, very low, “but it seems strange -you should upbraid me. Yes, I have begun to think of some one else; but -that does not prevent me from being deeply startled, deeply moved, by -the sight of you.”</p> - -<p>There was a little silence then, and I came to myself slowly. I woke as -it were out of a trance. She knew I was there, but he did not. I had no -right to hear his secrets without warning him. I tried to get up, but -could not at first. I felt stiff and weary, as if I had been travelling -for days together. I could scarcely drag myself up from my chair. The -sound I made in rising might have warned him, but I do not think he -heard. Before I could drag myself to the door and show I was there, he -had begun again.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” he said, lingering upon the name as if he loved it, “this is not -a time for recrimination. Tell me how you left Chester Street, and what -my mother had to do with it? and then, if you choose, I will never see -you again.”</p> - -<p>“Is it for your mother, or for me?”</p> - -<p>I did not hear the answer. I could not stay longer. I got to the door -somehow, and threw it open. I was too much bewildered to know what I was -doing, or to think. I came out with a little rush as feeble creatures -do. “I want to get away. I want to go out. I cannot stay there all day -and hear you talking,” I said. I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> not addressing either her or him. -The sound of my voice must have been very piteous, for I remember it -even now.</p> - -<p>“Mary!” he cried.</p> - -<p>Oh, what a difference in the sound! This time his voice was startled, -pained, almost harsh, with a kind of reproof in it: not as he said Mary -to her. Oh, papa, papa! it was you first who taught me the difference. I -gave a hoarse little cry. I could not speak. Millions of words seemed to -rush to my lips, but I could not say any of them. “I have been here long -enough,” I managed to stammer out. “Let me go—let me go!” Next moment I -was in the dark, in the silence, in my own little room, kneeling down by -the bedside, crying and moaning to myself. I did not know why. I had -heard nothing wrong; but it seemed to me that all my life was over, and -that it did not matter what came next.</p> - -<p>And, indeed, I cannot tell what came next. She came up to me, and told -me the whole story, and in a vague sort of way I understood it. She was -not to blame. He had been fond of her (everybody was fond of her) when -she was the governess in his mother’s house; and it had been found out, -and his mother was harsh, and she had gone suddenly away. There was -nothing in this which need have made me unhappy, perhaps—so people have -said to me since—but then I was very young; and I had been happy—and -now I was miserable. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> listened to her, and made no answer, but only -moaned. The night passed, I cannot tell how. I did not sleep till late -in the morning; and then I fell asleep and did not wake till noon. Then -what was the use of going downstairs? I stayed in my room, feeling so -weary, so worn out. It was Saturday, a half-holiday, and there was -nothing to do. She came to me and spoke to me again and again; but I -gave her very little answer. And he took no notice—he sent no message, -no letter—not a word of explanation. He never asked my pardon. In my -misery I thought I heard voices all the day as if they were talking, -talking—and he never sent a message or note or anything to me. And -then, after a long talk, as I fancied, with him, she would come to me. -“Mary, this must not be. You must get up. You must be like yourself. -Neither Mr Durham nor I have done you any wrong, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t call me Mary!” I said; “call me some other name. If you knew -how different it sounds when it is said to you, not to me.”</p> - -<p>And then she would look at me with her eyes full of tears, and sit down -by me, and say no more. And so passed this bitter day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="V-2m" id="V-2m">CHAPTER V</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>EXT day was Sunday. When I woke up, early, I recollected all that had -happened with a flush of overwhelming shame. How childishly, how -foolishly I had behaved. I was very, very wretched; but I was ashamed, -and pride got the upper hand. I dressed myself carefully, and went -downstairs, resolved not to show my misery at least, to be proud and -forget it. “If he does not care for me,” I said to myself, “I will not -care for him.” I passed his room very softly that I might not wake him. -There was early morning service in St Mark’s now, for the curate who had -succeeded poor papa was very High Church. I stole out and went to this -early service, and tried to be good, and to give myself up to God’s -will. Yes, it must have been God’s will—though how it could ever be -God’s will that anybody should be false, or unkind, or cruel, I could -not tell. I know it is right, however, whatever happens that vexes you, -to accept it as if it must be the will of God. I tried to do that, and I -was not quite so miserable when I went home. Ellen opened the door to -me, looking frightened. “I thought you was lost, too, Miss,” she said. -“I have been to church,” I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> answered, scarcely noticing her words. -Breakfast was laid in the little parlour. It was very, very tidy, -dreadfully tidy—everything was cleared away—the basket with the work -and all the little things, and every stray thread and remnant. All of a -sudden it occurred to me how little I had been doing to help of late. -Instead of working I had been spending the evenings with Mrs Stephens. I -did not even know how far the “things” were advanced, and it seemed -strange they should all be gone. Of course it was because of Sunday. -After a while Ellen brought in the coffee. She had still the same -frightened look. “Missis wasn’t with you at the early service, Miss -Mary?” “Oh, no,” I said, surprised at the question; “perhaps she is not -up.”</p> - -<p>“She’s never lain down all night,” said Ellen; “she was worrited and -worn off her legs going up and down to you yesterday, Miss—you that was -quite well, and had no call to your bed. She was a deal more like it, -the dear. She’s never lain in her bed this blessed night, and I can’t -find her, high or low.”</p> - -<p>I scarcely waited to hear this out, but rushed up to her room. The bed -had not been touched since yesterday. A little prayer-book lay on it, as -if she had been praying. The room was in perfect good order—no litter -about it. The little “things” were not to be seen. One of her dresses -hanging against the wall made me think for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> moment she was there, but -it was only an old dress, and everything else was gone. Oh the terror -and the pain and the wonder of that discovery! I could not believe it. I -rushed through all the house, every room, calling her. Mr Durham heard -me, and came out to the door of his room and spoke to me as I passed, -and tried to take my hand, but I snatched it away from him. I did not -even think of him. I can just remember the look he had, half-ashamed, -appealing with his eyes, a little abashed and strange. I scarcely saw -him at the time—but I remember him now, and with good reason, for I -have never seen him again.</p> - -<p>And I have never seen Mary again from that day. Mrs Stephens came in to -me, startled by the news her servants had carried her; and she told me -she had heard a carriage drive off late on the previous night, but did -not think it was from our door. She knew nothing. She cried, but I could -not cry; and it was Sunday, and nothing could be done—nothing! even if -I had known what to do. I rushed to Spicer’s, and then I was sorry I had -gone, for such people as they are never understand, and they thought, -and think to this day, that there was something disgraceful in it. I -rushed to Mrs Tufnell, not expecting to find her, for now it was time -for church. The bells had done ringing, and I had already met, as I -walked wildly along, almost all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> the people I knew. One woman stopped me -and asked if Mrs Peveril was taken ill, and if she should go to her. -“Poor thing, poor thing!” this good woman said. Oh, she might well pity -us—both of us! But to my surprise Mrs Tufnell was at home. She almost -looked as if she expected me. She looked agitated and excited, as if she -knew. Did she know? I have asked her on my knees a hundred times, but -she has always shaken her head. “How should I know?” she has said, and -cried. I have thought it over and over for days and for years, till my -brain has whirled. But I think she does know—I think some time or other -she will tell me. It is a long time ago, and my feelings have got a -little dulled; but I think some time or other I must find it out.</p> - -<p>This wonderful event made a great change in my life. I began at once, -that very day, to live with Mrs Tufnell in the Square. She would not let -me go home. She kissed me, and said I was to stay with her now. Mr -Durham came twice and asked to see me; but I could not bear to see him. -Then Mrs Stephens came with a letter. He said in it that I must dispose -of him; that he, was in my hands, and would do whatever I pleased; that -he had been startled more than he could say by the sudden sight of one -whom he had loved before he knew me; but that if I could forgive him any -foolish words he might have said, then he hoped we might be happy. In<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> -short, he was very honourable, ready to keep his word; and I felt as if -I hated him for his virtue—for treating me “honourably!” Was that what -all his love and all my happiness had come to? I sent him a very short -little note back, and it was all over. He went abroad soon after, and I -have never heard of him any more.</p> - -<p>And thus my story ended at seventeen. I wonder if there are many lives -with one exciting chapter in them, ending at seventeen, and then years -upon years of monotonous life. I am twenty-three now. I live with Mrs -Tufnell. I am daily governess to one little girl, and I have my forty -pounds a-year, the interest of poor papa’s insurance money. I am very -well off indeed, and some people think I need not care to take a pupil -at all—better off, a great deal, than I was in Southampton Street; but -how different! I heard very soon after that Mary had a little boy. It -was in the papers, but without any address; and I had one letter from -her, saying that we had made a mistake in trying to live together, and -that she was sorry. She hoped I would forgive her if she had been -mistaken, and she would always think of me and love me. Love me? Is it -like love to go away and leave me alone? Two people have said they loved -me in my life, and that is what both have done.</p> - -<p>However, after that letter I could not do anything more. If she thought -it was a mistake for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> us to live together, of course it was a mistake. -And I had my pride too. “I always felt it was a doubtful experiment,” -Mrs Tufnell said when people wondered, “and it did not answer—that was -all.” And this is how it was settled and ended—ended, I suppose, for -ever. Mrs Tufnell is very good to me, and as long as she lives I am sure -of a home. Perhaps I may tell you her story one of these days; for she -has a story, like most people. She tells me I am still very young, and -may yet have a life of my own; but in the meantime the most I can do is -to take an interest in other people’s lives.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="VI-2m" id="VI-2m">CHAPTER VI</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> HAD not intended to carry on any further a history which is chiefly -about myself; but events are always occurring which change one’s mind -from day to day, and alter one’s most fixed resolutions. I do not -pretend to understand people who make unchangeable decisions, and -certainly I am not one of them. Besides, common fairness requires that I -should allow Mrs Peveril to have the same privilege as myself, and tell -things her own way. I could not have imagined, had I not seen it, the -difference there was between the aspect of things to her and to me. I -suppose it is true after all that everybody has his or her own point of -view, which is different from all others. Of course we realise this fact -quite clearly in a great poem like “The Ring and the Book;” but to -recognise it in one’s own small affairs has somehow a much stranger, -more surprising effect. What an odd difference it would make in the -world if we could all see ourselves now and then with other people’s -eyes! I confess that the girl in her story, who was Mr Peveril’s -daughter, is very much unlike the girl in mine—and yet the same -somehow, as may be traced out with a little trouble. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> is humbling, -but it is for one’s good, I suppose. When you look at yourself in a -mirror, you have so much interest in yourself that your defects don’t -strike you—you can’t help being the first figure—the most important; -but to feel that all along you are not important at all—anything but -the first figure, a mere shadow, scarcely noticed! it has a very odd -effect—sometimes laughable, sometimes rather the reverse; but this was -what now happened to me.</p> - -<p>I must add, however, that a long time passed over before I could even -think that Mrs Peveril might have something to say on her side. It was -not because of the rupture between Mr Durham and myself, and the sudden -conclusion of that dream and all that it seemed likely to bring with it. -No doubt these things embittered all my feelings about her; but yet I -was reasonable enough to come to see that it was not her fault—that she -had kept out of the way with all her might—and that after all she could -not foresee that another complication might arise between him and me. -She could not of course foresee this; and even if she had foreseen it, -what could she have done? I think it shows I was not unfair in my -judgment, for a girl of seventeen, to say that I soon came to see that. -But though I did not blame her, of course I was embittered against her, -and took refuge in being very angry with her on other grounds. That she -should have said our living<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> together was a mistake was the chief of -these. Why was it a mistake? Did she mean to say it was my fault? If it -was simply her fault, as I felt sure it was, why did she call it a -mistake? Why not say plainly out, “I was wrong, and so we got into -trouble?” How easy it seems to be for people to acknowledge themselves -in the wrong! but not so easy for one’s self, somehow. I never met -anybody who liked doing it, though I have met with so many who ought to -have done it, and to whom it would have been so simple—so easy, I -thought; but that never seemed to be their opinion. Mrs Tufnell, who is -in some things a very odd old lady, says it never is anybody’s fault. -“There was never any quarrel yet,” she will say, “but there were two in -it—there was never any misunderstanding but two were in it. There is no -such thing as absolute blame on the one side and innocence on the other. -Even in your affairs, Mary, my dear——” But this I never can see nor -allow. How could I be to blame? Only seventeen, and knowing so little of -the world, and expecting everybody to be good and true, and say just -what they thought. When a man said he was fond of me, how was I to put -up with his having been fond of somebody else? And when a woman -professed to be thinking of me, was it natural that I could be pleased -to know she had been thinking of herself? I could not help behaving just -as I did. It was the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> natural, the only possible way; but for them, -they ought to have known better, they ought to have thought of me. On -the whole that is the thing that hurts one—that goes to one’s heart. -People think of themselves first—when they ought to be thinking of you, -they think of themselves first. I suppose it is the same all over the -world.</p> - -<p>The way in which I first heard Mary’s story was simple enough. After -years of a dull sort of quiet life at Mrs Tufnell’s—who was very good -to me, and very kind, but who, of course, could give to me, a girl, only -what she, an old woman, had to give—the quietest life, without -excitement or change of any kind—she had a bad illness. It was not an -illness of the violent kind, but of what, I suppose, is more dangerous -to an old woman, a languishing, slow sickness, which looked like decay -more than disease. The doctors said “breaking up of the constitution,” -or at least the servants said so, who are less particular than the -doctors, and shook their heads and looked very serious. I was less -easily alarmed than anyone else, for it seemed to me a natural thing -that an old lady should be gently ill like that, one day a little better -and the next a little worse, without any suffering to speak of. It was -not until after she was better that I knew there had been real danger, -but she must have felt it herself. The way in which her sense of her -precarious condition showed itself was anxiety for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> me. I remember one -evening sitting in her room by the fire with a book; she was in bed, and -I had been reading to her, and now she was dozing, or at least I thought -so. Things appear (it is evident) very differently to different people. -I was extremely comfortable in that nice low easy-chair by the fire. It -was a pretty room, full of pictures and portraits of her friends, so -full that there was scarcely an inch of the wall uncovered. The -atmosphere was warm and soft, and the tranquil repose and ease of the -old lady in the bed somehow seemed to increase the warmth and softness -and kindly feeling. She was an additional luxury to me sitting there by -the fire with my novel. If any fairy had proposed to place her by my -side as young and as strong as myself, I should have rejected the -proposal with scorn. I liked her a great deal best so—old, a little -sick, kind, comfortable, dozing in her bed. Her very illness—which I -thought quite slight, rather an excuse for staying in this cosy room and -being nursed than anything else—heightened my sense of comfort. She was -not dozing, as it happened, but lying very still, thinking of -dying—wondering how it would feel, and planning for those she should -leave behind her. I knew nothing of these thoughts, no more than if I -had been a thousand miles away: and fortunately neither did she of mine. -I was roused from my comfortable condition by the sound of her voice -calling me. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> rose up half reluctantly from the bright fire, and the -little table with the lamp and my book, and went and sat by her in the -shade where I could not see the fire; but still the sentiment of comfort -was predominant in me. I gave my old lady her mixture, which it was time -for her to take, and advised her to go to sleep.</p> - -<p>“You must not doze this time,” I said; “you must go right off to sleep, -and never wake till morning. Everything is put right for the night, and -I shall not go till you are asleep.”</p> - -<p>“I was not dozing,” she said, with that natural resentment which -everybody feels to be so accused; and then, after a moment, “Mary, I was -thinking of you. If I were to die, what would you do?”</p> - -<p>I was very much shocked, and rather frightened; but when I looked at -her, and saw by the dim light that she did not look any worse, I felt -rather angry. “How unkind of you!” I said, “to speak so! You frightened -me at first. What would it matter what became of me?”</p> - -<p>“It would matter a great deal,” she said. “It would make everything so -much worse. I don’t want to die, Mary, though I daresay I should be a -great deal better off, and get rid of all my troubles——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is wicked to talk so!”</p> - -<p>“Why should it be wicked? I can’t help thinking of it,” she said, lying -in her warm cosy bed. It made me shiver to hear her. I began to cry, -rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> with a chill, wretched sense of discomfort in the midst of all -the warmth than anything else; upon which she put her hand on my -shoulder and gave me a little shake, and laughed at me softly. “Silly -child!” she said—but she was not angry. There was a very grave look on -her face behind the smile. Dying was strange to her as well as to me, -though she was very old.</p> - -<p>“But, Mary,” she went on, “I want to read you something. I want you to -think again about some one you once were very fond of. I have some news -of Mrs Peveril——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” I said; and then I went on stiffly, “I hope she is well.”</p> - -<p>“She is quite well—and—your little brother. I wish you would see them. -All that happened was so long ago; I think you might see them, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“I never made any objection to seeing them,” I said, more and more -stiffly, though my heart began to leap and thump against my breast. “You -forget I had nothing to do with it. It was she who went away. She said -it was a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“You are an unforgiving child. You did not try to enter into her -feelings, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“How could I?” I said. “Did she wish me to enter into her feelings? Did -she ever give me a chance? She said it was a mistake. What was there -left for me to say?”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” said the old lady, “I don’t defend her. I always said she -was wrong; but still I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> have been hearing from her lately, Mary. I have -three or four letters which I should like you to read——”</p> - -<p>“You have been hearing from her without ever telling me!”</p> - -<p>“Bless the child! must I not even get a letter without consulting her? -But, Mary, I am a free agent still, and I can’t be kept in such order,” -she said, half laughing. “Give me that blotting-book, and my keys, and -my spectacles, and bring the lamp a little closer.”</p> - -<p>Indignant as I was, I was comforted by all these preparations. And when -she had put on her spectacles and opened the blotting-book, sitting up -in bed, my mind was so much relieved that my indignation floated away. -“It is a pretty thing for you to talk of dying, and frighten people,” I -said, giving her a kiss, “with your cheeks like two nice old roses.” She -shook her head, but she smiled too: she felt better, and got better -gradually from that hour.</p> - -<p>But in the meantime I had to listen to these letters. Perhaps if it had -not been that my old lady was ill, I should have been offended to find -that she had deceived me, and had known about Mary all along. It was a -deception, though she did not mean any harm. “She had thought it best,” -she said, “to let time soften all our feelings, before she told me -anything about it.” However, I must not enter into all the discussions -we had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> on this subject. It is only fair that Mary should have her turn, -and tell her story as I have told mine. It is not a connected story like -mine, but you will see from it what kind of a life hers had been, and -what sort of a woman she was. She is different from the Mary I -thought—and yet not different either—just as I am different from the -girl I thought I was, and yet very like too, if you look into it. I -cannot tell what my feelings were as I read first one bit and then -another, and a great deal more which I do not think it necessary to -quote here. One moment I was furious with her—the next I could have -kissed her feet. These people who send you from one extreme of feeling -to another, who do wrong things and right things all in a jumble, take a -greater hold upon you, somehow, than better people do, who are placid -and always on the same level—at least I think so. I started by calling -her Mrs Peveril—and here I am already saying Mary, as of old, without -knowing! And Mrs Tufnell wishes me to go and see her. She has even made -me promise as a kind of reward to herself for getting better. Since she -takes it in this way, I shall have to go—and sometimes I fear it, and -sometimes I wish for it. Will it make any difference to me? Will the old -love come back, or the still older feeling that was not love? Shall I -think of that “Mary” that sounded always so much sweeter to her than to -me? Or shall I remember only the time when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> she was everything to -me—when she charmed me out of my grief and loneliness, and told me her -secret, and made me her companion, and was all mine? I do not know. I -begin to tremble, and my heart beats when I think of this meeting; but -in the meantime Mary has a right to her turn, and to tell the story her -own way. It is all in little bits taken from Mrs Tufnell’s letters, and -sometimes may appear a little fragmentary; but I can only give it as it -came to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="II_HER_STORY" id="II_HER_STORY"></a>II. HER STORY</h2> - -<h3><a name="VII-2m" id="VII-2m">CHAPTER VII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN I went to be governess at Mrs Durham’s I was quite young. I had -been “out” before, but only as nursery governess. Mine was not a very -regular or, perhaps, a very good kind of education. My mother had been a -governess before me, and not one of very high pretensions, as -governesses are nowadays. I don’t think she ever knew anything herself, -except a little music and a little French, which she had forgotten -before my time. How my father and she met, and, still more wonderful, -how they took to each other, is a thing I never could make out. Perhaps -I was most fond of her, but certainly I was most proud of him, and liked -to copy his ways, and to believe what my mother often said—that I was a -Martindale every inch of me. This, poor soul, she meant as a reproach, -but to me it sounded like a compliment. I was very silly and rather -cruel, as young people are so often. My father had a great deal of -contempt for her, and not much affection; and though I had a great deal -of affection, I borrowed unconsciously his contempt, and thought myself -justified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> in treating her as he did. She was wordy and weak in -argument, and never knew when to stop. But he—when he had stated what -he intended to do—would never answer any of her objections, or indeed -take any notice of them, but listened to her with a contemptuous -silence. I took to doing the same; and though I know better now, and am -sorry I ever could have been so foolish and so unkind, yet the habit -remains with me—not to take the trouble to reply to foolish arguments, -but to do what I think right without saying anything about it. This -habit, I may as well confess, has got me into trouble more than once; -but I do not say that I am prepared to give it up, though I know I have -taken harm by it, and no good, so far as I am aware.</p> - -<p>We were very poor, and I had been a nursery governess and a daily -governess when I was little more than a child. When my poor mother died -a little money came, and then I got a few lessons to improve me in one -or two different accomplishments; and then I took Mrs Durham’s -situation. My father was one of the wandering men who live a great deal -abroad; and I had learned French and enough German to make a show, in -the best way, by practice rather than by book. “French acquired -abroad”—that was what was put for me in the advertisement, and this I -think was my principal recommendation to Mrs Durham. Her eldest son was -at home at the time—a young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> just a little older than myself. She -was a kind woman, and unsuspicious. She thought George only a boy, and -perhaps about me she never thought at all—in connection with him, at -least. I used to be encouraged at first to make him talk French, and -great was the amusement in the school-room over his pronunciation and -his mistakes. They were all very kind when I come to think of it. They -were as fearless and trustful with me as if I had belonged to them. And -then by degrees I found out that George had fallen in love with me. I -think I may say quite certainly that I never was in love with him, but I -was a little excited and pleased, as one always is, you know, when that -happens for the first time. It is so odd—so pleasant to feel that you -have that power. It seems so kind of the man—one thinks so when one is -young—and it is amusing and flattering, and a thing which occupies your -mind, and gives you something agreeable to think of. I do not say this -is the right way of thinking on such a subject, but it is how a great -many girls feel, and I was one of them. I had never thought seriously of -it at all. It seemed so much more like fun than anything else; and then -it is always pleasant to have people fond of you. I liked it; and I am -afraid I never thought of what it might come to, and did not take up any -lofty ground, but let him talk, and let him follow me about, and steal -out after me, and waylay me in the passages. I did this without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> -thinking, and more than half for the amusement of it. I liked him, and I -liked the place he took up in my life, and the things he said, without -really responding to his feelings at all.</p> - -<p>When it was found out, and there was a disturbance in the house about -it, I came to my senses all at once, with such a hot flush of pain and -shame that I seem to feel it yet. They had been so kind to me, that I -had never felt my dependence; but now, all in a moment I found it out. -His mother was frightened to death lest he should marry me! She thought -me quite beneath him; me—a Martindale all over—a gentleman’s -daughter—much better than she was! This roused a perfect tempest in me. -It was my pride that was outraged, not my feelings; but that pride was -strong enough and warm enough to be called a passion. I did what I could -to show his mother that nothing in the world could be more indifferent -to me than he was, but she would not be convinced; and at last I -determined to do what my father often had done when my mother was -unreasonable—to withdraw out of the discussion at once and summarily, -without leaving any opportunity for further talk. My father was living -then. He was at Spa, which was not very difficult to reach. One evening, -after Mrs Durham had been talking to me (George had been sent away, but -I was not sent away because they were sorry for me), I stayed in the -school-room till they were all at dinner, and then I carried all my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> -things, which I had made up into bundles, down to the hall with my own -hands, and got a cab and went off to the railway station. I bought a -common box on my way, and packed them all into it. I tell you this to -show how determined I was; not even one of the servants knew how I had -gone, or anything about me. It was winter, and the Durhams dined at -half-past six; so I had time enough to get off by the night train to -Dover. I had not a very large wardrobe, you may suppose, but I left -nothing behind me but some old things. I was not particular about -crushing my dresses for that one night. I remember, as if it were -yesterday, the dark sea and dark sky, and great, chill, invisible, -open-air world that I seemed to stand alone in, as the steamboat went -bounding over those black waves, or ploughing through them, to Ostend. -There was a great deal of wind, but the sea had not had time to rise, -and there was the exhilaration of a storm without its more disagreeable -consequences. The vessel did not roll, but now and then gave a leap, -spurning the Channel spray from her bows. Oh how I recollect every -particular! You might think a lonely girl in such circumstances—flying -from persecution, if you like to put it so—flying from love; with -nothing but a very uncertain welcome to look to from a very -unsatisfactory father, and no prospect but to face the world again and -get her bread somehow—was as sad a figure as could be imagined. But I -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> not sad. I had a high spirit, and I loved adventure and change. I -felt as if the steamboat was me, going bounding on, caring nothing for -the sea or the darkness. The wind might catch at us, the water might -dash across our sides, the sky might veil itself—who cared? We pushed -on, defying them all. A poor governess as good as turned out of my -situation because the son of the house had fallen in love with me—a -penniless creature without a home, with not a soul to stand by me in all -that dark world. And yet I don’t remember anything I ever enjoyed more, -than that journey by night.</p> - -<p>This will show you—and you may show it to Mary to convince her—how -much I cared for George Durham. I suppose he was in love with me—at -least what a young man not much over twenty considers love. That is six -years ago; and probably he has always had a recollection, all this time, -that he was in love with me, and thinks that he ought to have been -faithful. I should not wonder if there was a kind of remorse in his mind -to find that he had fallen in love with Mary, and cared for me no -longer. It is a superstition with some people that, however foolish -their first fancy was, they ought to hold by it; but I must say that I -think it was very foolish, not to say cruel, of both of them, to make -this breach on account of me.</p> - -<p>I got another situation after that, and did well enough—as governesses -do. I never complained,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> or thought I had any reason to complain. I -taught all I knew—not very much, but enough for most people. As for -education, as people talk nowadays—of awakening the minds, and training -the dispositions, and re-creating the children, so to speak, -intellectually and morally—I never thought of such a thing; and why -should I? That is the work of a mother, appointed by God, or of some -great person endowed with great genius or influence—not of a young -woman between eighteen and five-and-twenty, indifferently trained -herself, with quite enough to do to master her own difficulties and keep -herself afloat. I was not so impertinent, so presumptuous, or so foolish -as to have any such idea. I taught them as well as I could; I tried to -make them as fond of books as I was myself—I tried to get them to talk -like gentlewomen, and not to be mean or false. I was not their mother, -or their priest, but only their teacher. I had no theory then; but after -one is thirty, one begins to have theories; and I can see what I meant -in my earlier time by the light of what I think now. However, this is -not much to the purpose. I was a successful governess on the whole; I -got on very well, and I had nothing to find fault with. It is not a very -happy life—when you are young, and hear pleasant sounds below-stairs, -and have to sit reading by yourself in the school-room; when there is -music and dancing perhaps, and merry talk, and you are left alone in -that bare place with maps on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> the walls, and one candle—a girl does not -feel happy; though on the whole, perhaps, the school-room is better than -to sit in a corner of the drawing-room and be taken no notice of—which -is the other alternative. There are a great many difficulties in the -position altogether, as I can see now that I am older. When the -governess is made exactly like one of the family, the eldest son will go -and fall in love with her and bring everybody into trouble. It is hard -for the lady of the house as well. However, after George Durham, I was -careful, and I never got into difficulty of that kind again. Four years -after I left the Durhams I had a bad illness—rheumatic fever. My people -were very kind to me, but I was too proud to be a burden on them; and as -soon as I could be moved I left and went into lodgings, and was ill -there till I had spent all my money; it was only then that I had -recourse to the Spicers. Perhaps I ought to confess that, though Mr -Spicer is my uncle, I was ashamed of him and disliked him. I have felt -angry at my poor mother all my life for having such relations; but of -course there they were, and had to be made the best of. My money lasted -till I was almost well, but not well enough for another situation. My -father had died in the meantime; and only then I sent to the Spicers, -and asked if they would take me in for a time. I was a good needlewoman; -I knew I could repay them well for keeping me. That is how I went to -them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> What followed no one could have foreseen. You know how it was.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I cannot talk about my husband—yet. How could I talk about that which -was everything to me, which changed my life, which made me another -creature? People may love you, and it makes but little difference to -you. It is pleasant, no doubt; it softens your lot; it makes things -bearable which would not be bearable. I had known that in my life. But -to love—that is another thing. That is the true revelation—the lifting -up of the veil. It is as different from simply being loved as night is -from day. I suppose few women are, as I was, in circumstances to feel -this sudden lighting up of existence all of a sudden. Most women have a -great deal to love, and know that condition better than the other. They -would not make so much fuss about being loved did they not already -possess the other gift. But I had never really loved anybody, I suppose. -Various people had loved me. I had liked it, and had done what I could -to be kind and agreeable to them. Some (women) I had been very fond of. -It seems to me now that the world must have been a most curious, cloudy -sort of place in my early youth—a dim place, where nothing moved one -very much; where daylight was quite sober and ordinary, and nothing out -of oneself was exciting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> When I saw Mr Peveril first I had no warning -of what was coming. I did not feel even interested in him. He seemed too -gentle, too soft for my liking. What attracted me was, I think, chiefly -the fact that he was the only educated man I ever saw there—the only -being, man or woman, who was not of, or like, the Spicers. This was my -only feeling towards him for the first two or three times I saw him—but -then——.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I am afraid I did not think very much about Mary when we were married. -Of course I meant to do my duty by her: that goes without saying. And -her resistance and dislike did not make me angry. They rather amused me. -It seemed so odd that she should think herself of consequence enough to -be so deeply offended. She, a girl, with all her life before -her—fifteen—of no present importance to any mortal, though no doubt -she would ripen into something after a while. When Mr Peveril distressed -himself about what he called her want of respect to me, I used to smile -at him. He would have made her love me by force had that been -possible—as if her little sullenness, poor child, made any difference! -It was quite natural, besides—only foolish, if she could but have seen -it. She was a naughty child, and she thought herself a virgin-martyr. I -hope it is not wicked of me to be amused by that virgin-martyr look. I -know it so well. I have seen it over and over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> again in all sorts of -circumstances. To say a tragedy-queen is nothing. There is a sublime -patience, a pathos about your virgin-martyrs, which far outdoes anything -else. Poor little Mary! if I had not seen that she was quite happy in -her own thoughts, even when she thought herself most miserable, I should -have taken more notice of it. I can’t tell what she was always thinking -about—whether it was some imaginary lover or romance of her own that -she kept weaving for hours together; but it kept her happy anyhow. She -was very provoking sometimes—never was there such a spoiled child. She -balked me thoroughly in one thing, and would not let me be her governess -as well as her stepmother; which was what I wished. How often should I -have liked to box her little impertinent ears, and then laugh and kiss -her into good-humour! But in that point there was nothing to be done. I -had to leave all to time, in which I hoped—without, alas! having the -least thought, the least provision, how short my time was to be. You -will see that I am not one to linger upon my private feelings. I have -said nothing to you about my happiness. I can say nothing about my -grief. The beautiful life stopped short—the light went out—an end -seemed to come to everything. I cannot say more about it. Everything -ended—except one’s pulse, which will go on beating, and the long hours -and days that have to be got through somehow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> and the bread that has to -be eaten in spite of one’s self—and has to be earned too, as if it were -worth the while.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I wonder at myself sometimes, and you will wonder, that I did not break -down under my grief. It was my first real grief, as that which preceded -it had been my first real happiness. I have even envied the people who -got ill and who could go to bed, and darken their windows and lie still -and let the sword go through and through them in quietness, instead of -writhing on it as I did; but that must be nature. My first instinct was -to snatch at something, to lay hold upon something, lest I should be -carried away by some fiery flood or other. And what I snatched at was -Mary. I love Mary. You may think I have not acted as if I did; but that -is nothing; and she does not love me. But still I have that distinct -feeling for her which I never experienced till her dear, dear father -(oh, my God, my God, why is it that my child will never call him so!) -showed me the way. I have had a great deal to bear from her; she is not -like me; and there are many things I dislike in her. But all that does -not matter. And it is not as I loved him—but yet I love her. All I -remember about those dark days was that I laid hold upon Mary. She could -not escape from me when I seized her so—few, very few, people can. To -resist kindness is easy enough, but downright<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> love has a different kind -of grasp; you cannot get free of that. It is because there is so much -fictitious love in the world that people are not aware of the power of -the true.</p> - -<p>I secured her—for the time. You may say it did not last very long; but -that was not my fault; it was because she too, in her time, woke up from -her affection for me, and all the torpor of her youth, and heard the -call of love, and got up and left those that did but love her. The time -we lived together was a strange dreamy time, between blank despair and a -kind of languid happiness. Sometimes I would feel almost happy because -of what was coming, and then I would be plunged into that horror of -darkness, that shadow of death, which is of all things on earth the most -terrible—worse, a thousand times worse, than death itself. I say this -with confidence, because I as good as died once. I was so ill that I had -floated off into that unconsciousness which would have been death had -they left me alone; and it was not unpleasant. Had they left me alone I -should have died, therefore I am justified in saying that this was -death; and it was not disagreeable—just a soft floating away, a gradual -growing dim and shutting out, without any of that sense of desertion and -loneliness which one feels must be so strong in the dying. But the -shadow of death is very terrible. No one can exaggerate its terror. When -it seizes upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> soul, all that surrounds you is lost in one sea of -misery. The waves and the billows pass over you. You feel as if you -could not endure, could not last through that flood of pain—and yet you -do last. The great billow passes over, and there is a calm, and your -soul is so fatigued and worn out that it lies exhausted, and a languor -of rest, which is almost ease, passes over it. This was how I lived for -three months with Mary; until the shock of the other who thrust himself -into our life—the stranger, who was no stranger, came.</p> - -<p>His first appearance was nothing but an insignificant trouble, a mere -annoyance to me,—why should I care? I had not thought of him at all for -years; and I never had thought of him much. But still I did not want him -there: he annoyed me; he was a kind of constant menace of more annoyance -to come. But I don’t know what steps I could have taken. It was a long -time before I could realise that he would fall in love with Mary. I -rather think it is difficult to believe that a man who has loved you -will love some one else. That is—if you are quite indifferent to him; -it is so much easier then, to believe in his faithfulness. The idea did -not occur to me. I feared a little for Mary once or twice, and tried to -warn her; but she was always a dreamy sort of girl, and it was hard to -tell when a new influence came over her. She had lived in dreams of one -kind or other ever since I knew her; and I knew nothing, really nothing, -about what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> was going on, till that unhappy afternoon when he recognised -me, and came in and talked foolishly in Mary’s hearing, about things -that had happened so long before. Poor child!—I don’t blame her, for -her foolishness was natural enough. She thought I had stolen away her -lover, as I had stolen away her father. She would not listen to me, and -when she did listen to me she did not believe me; and there on the other -hand was he, demanding explanations. Good heavens, what right has a man -like that to ask explanations—a man one had never cared for, and would -have died of? He worried me so that I could not be civil. What with -grief, and what with vexation at the turn things had taken, and -disappointment in Mary, and illness in myself, I had no patience with -the man, maundering on about things that had happened ages before, that -were of no importance to any living being. When he waylaid me on my way -to her, keeping me back from her, in her agony of temper and -mortification and humiliation, what I could have done to him! I was in a -nervous state, I suppose, and easily irritated. I could have struck him -when he came out and worried me. And there was Mary turning her face to -the wall, shutting out the light, shutting her ears, determined to be -miserable. Oh! when I toiled up and down stairs going to her, when I -felt ill and knew that nobody cared, when I saw her absorbed in her -foolish misery, and him tormenting himself and me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> about dead nonsense -that never had been anything, you may excuse me if I had very little -patience. After a night of it I got tired and sick of the whole -business. It seemed too hard to be obliged to put up with all this folly -on the eve of being ill. And who would care whether I was ill or not, if -things went on so?</p> - -<p>Then I took my resolution suddenly, as I had done before. It was not -with the hope and high spirit that had kept me up when I went off to -Ostend that I left Southampton Street, my own house. I was sick and -tired, that was all. I could not be troubled to go on. I was worried and -impatient and indignant—and then Mary had a friend to take care of her. -I went away. I went to an hospital after a while in the same irritated -hopeless state, feeling that it did not matter what happened; and there -my boy was born. Well! what did it matter? They are for honest, poor -women, these hospitals—and Heaven knows I was poor enough, but honest. -One cares for one’s self only when one has other people who care. I had -nobody. I did not lose heart altogether, because that is not my nature. -I could not if I would; but what did I care for what people would think -or for what they might say? no more than for the buzzing of the flies. I -should never even hear of it—there was nobody to tell me, nobody to pay -any attention. I thought most likely I should die; but I did not -calculate upon dying, for by that time I knew I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> had strength to go -through a great deal. And so I did. My boy was quite strong and well, -and I got quite well and strong too. Often I have thought this showed -how little heart I must have; but I could not help it. I got quite -strong. I reflected seriously whether I should not try for a nurse’s -place, which was very well paid, and where very little was required; but -even if I could have parted with my boy, I had no one to trust with the -care of him. So instead of doing this, I made shift to live for a whole -year upon my forty pounds of income, with a little more which I earned -by needlework. When you are a very good needlewoman, you can always earn -something. I did very well; I made baby clothes; my eyes were strong, -and my health was good, and I had my own baby to comfort me. There is -nothing that comforts like a baby. When the child laughs, you laugh too. -You laugh to make him laugh; first it is sympathy, then it is delight, -till gradually you grow a baby too, and are amused at nothing, and happy -for nothing, and live over again, beginning at the very beginning, in -the child.</p> - -<p>In this way I grew to be so tranquil, so eased in mind, and happy in -heart, notwithstanding my loss, which I never forgot, that I was tempted -to remain just as I was always; but then it occurred to me that I should -lose all that I knew, that I would never be able to teach him, or to get -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> education, or to rise in the world, as I wanted to do for his sake; -therefore it was clear I must do something else. This was what I did: I -found out about a situation in a school after a great deal of inquiry. I -went to the lady and told her my story; I said I would go to her for -almost nothing if I might have my baby and a little maid to take care of -him. When she heard of my “French acquired abroad,” my showy bit of -German, my music, and how I would make myself as useful as ever she -liked, having excellent health and no sort of prejudices about what I -did, she closed with me. I had two rooms, and board for myself and the -maid and the boy—no more at first—but I managed on that. And then by -degrees we improved. She gave me first twenty pounds, then a little -more. A baby’s white frock and a widow’s black gown do not cost much. We -did very well. I have fifty pounds now the school has increased so much; -and I believe I may have a share soon if all goes well. My French goes -for a great deal, and even my name and my widow’s cap go for something, -and everybody in the school likes to tell the story of the baby. Am I -happy, do you say? I never stop to ask myself whether I am happy or not. -One must form some idea of change in one’s mind, some thought of a -possibility which might make one happier, before one would think of -asking one’s self such a question. And as I have no reasonable prospect -of ever being happier than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> I am, I do not think about it. I am not -unhappy—of that I am sure.</p> - -<p>You talk of bringing Mary and me together again. Would it answer, I -wonder? Sentiment is one thing, but practicability is another. Having -told you that I loved Mary, I have said all that either woman or man can -say. Likings change and alter, but love is for ever. Yet, whether we -could live together, whether she could trust me, whether she would -understand the past, and feel how little I wished or intended to -interfere with her, I cannot tell; unless she could, it would almost be -better to leave us as we are. So long as a woman is young, as Mary is, -it is doubtful and dangerous, I am afraid, to try any relationships but -those that are quite natural. She is with you, you dearest, kind friend, -as if she were your own child. You can do her nothing but good; but I am -not so very much older than she is. I am older—centuries older—but not -to outward appearance; and can you not suppose a state of things in -which the last chapter of our lives might be, one way or other, repeated -again? I say this not with any sort of vanity, Heaven knows, but with -fear and trembling. For I should be happier with her—far happier—but -not if she came to me with a single doubt in her mind, a single thought -which was uncertain or suspicious. Do not tell her this one difficulty -which seems to me to stand in our way, but judge for us both what is -best. I want her for myself and for my boy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> We belong to each other, -and no one else in the world belongs to us. How often I long for her -when I am sitting alone! How many things I have in my mind to say to -her! But not unless it would be well for her, to whom anything may -happen. Nothing that I know of, except through her or my baby, can now -happen to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="VIII-2m" id="VIII-2m">CHAPTER VIII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> WILL not enter into all the particulars of our discussion after this, -for time would fail me. The last part of Mary’s letter, which she said -was not to be shown to me, made me angry. I thought it was vanity on her -part to be afraid of interfering with me again. “In what way?” I could -not but ask, and that sharply; how could the last chapter of our lives -be repeated? Mrs Tufnell only smoothed my hair and soothed me, and -called me “dear” and “darling,” but would give no explanation. “What -does she mean?” I asked. “Oh, she means, my love—probably she means -nothing. It is just a way of talking that people fall into,” said my old -lady. I knew this was said simply to quiet me, but on the whole perhaps -I preferred it to anything more definite; and, after a time, I allowed -myself to be persuaded to pay my stepmother a visit. What a strange -journey into the past it seemed! and yet actually we went far away from -the scene of the past, into a place so new and unknown to me, that it -could awaken no associations. We drove in the comfortable old fly, with -the old sleek horse and the old fat man, which was as good as Mrs -Tufnell’s private carriage. She did not keep a carriage of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> her own, but -I am sure this fly, in which she drove every day of her life except when -she was ill, cost her more than a carriage would have done. She was very -apologetic about it always. “I could not undertake the responsibility of -a carriage,” she would say; “horses are always getting ill, and your -coachman drinks, or he gets into trouble with the maids, or something. -Old Groombridge and his fly suit me quite well. No, he is not an old -rogue. I have to pay him, of course, for all his trouble, and for the -loss of customers, and so forth. You know, Mary, he always suits himself -to my convenience at whatever sacrifice——”</p> - -<p>This was her idea, and nothing would convince her otherwise. So we drove -in Groombridge’s old fly—which was one of the most expensive vehicles -in town—out Hampstead way, but past all the houses, past everything, -till we came to new houses again, and skeleton roads and villas growing -up like mushrooms, in one of those long straggling arms that London puts -out into the country. I had got excited so often thinking that we must -be quite close upon the place, that at last I ceased to be excited, and -felt as if we had set out upon a hopeless circle, and were going to wind -in and out and round and round, till we worked back to the point from -which we started. How dreary they look, those new places—roads newly -laid out, breaking in upon the fields, which somehow look so superior, -so desecrated, and vulgarised by those new muddy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> lines with the -unnecessary kerbstones; and then all the half-built houses, each one -uglier than the other, with their bow-windows, all made by the gross (I -suppose), and their thin little walls that the wind whistles through, -and even their monotonous attempt at irregularity. A steady, solid row -which is very ugly and nothing more, is endurable. I was saying this, -when suddenly the fly made a sharp turn, and immediately the villas and -the kerbstones became invisible. We had got within a mossy wall, through -a large old-fashioned gate. There was an avenue, not very long nor very -grand, but still an avenue, with odd old trees all gnarled and mossed -over, and I suppose in a very bad condition, but still old, and -trees—trees which our grandfathers might have walked under. The house -was an old red-brick house, very dark red, and covered with little brown -and yellow lichens. It was neat, but yet one could see it was in want of -repair, and looked like a poor lady in a faded gown and mended lace by -the side of the fine shop-people in silk and satin. It was a winter -day—a very still and bright one. The shadows of all the leafless trees -made a network upon the brown gravel path. The old house seemed to be -basking, warming itself in the sun. There were a great many twinkling -windows, but not a creature to be seen except one little child on the -white step of the deep doorway. There was a porch, and probably his -nurse was there, but the little fellow was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> standing out in the sun, -cracking a little whip he had, with his hair shining in the bright -light, and his little face like an apple-blossom. He was shouting out -some baby nonsense at the top of his voice. He did not care for us, nor -for anyone. He was the monarch of all—quite alone in his kingdom, -independent of everybody.</p> - -<p>“Who do you think that is, Mary?” said Mrs Tufnell, taking my hand -suddenly, as I looked out laughing and amused by him. Good heavens! I -had never once thought. I fell back into my corner and began to cry, I -cannot tell why. Of course I knew at once whom it must be.</p> - -<p>And then <i>she</i> came, not in the least altered, kissing me just as if we -had parted yesterday. But she was agitated, though she tried not to show -it. She took the little boy and brought him to me, and thrust him into -my arms without a word, and her lip quivered, and for some minutes she -could not say anything. The meeting was hard altogether. When the thing -that sundered you is too far off to be talked about, and when everybody -counsels you to avoid explanations and go on again as if nothing had -happened, it is very hard; you may succeed in uniting the old strands -and twisting them together once more, but it is perhaps more likely that -you will fail. We went into Mary’s new home, and saw the lady who was -the head of the school. It was holiday time—the Christmas holidays—and -they were alone. This lady was middle-aged, older<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> than Mary, but not so -old as Mrs Tufnell. She was an unmarried woman, and I could at once -understand what Mary had said, that her very name and her widow’s cap -told for something in the place. But what was most evident of all was -that little Jack was the sovereign of Grove House. Whatever anybody -might do or say, he was supreme. Miss Robinson was fond of his mother, -and “appreciated” her, as she told us; but little Jack was the monarch, -and did what he pleased.</p> - -<p>Our visit was, as people say, quite successful. It went off perfectly -well—we kissed when we met and when we parted—we had a great deal to -say to each other of what had passed since we met—and there was little -Jack to make acquaintance with, and a great many of his wonderful -adventures to be told of. Mrs Tufnell came away with the thought that it -had been a great success, and that henceforward nothing more was -wanted—that Mary and I would be one again.</p> - -<p>But Mary and I felt differently. I did, at least, and I am sure so did -she. You cannot mend a rent so easily. Such a rent—a rent that had -lasted more than five years—how can it be drawn together again by any -hasty needle and thread like a thing done yesterday? We parted friends, -with promises to meet again; but with hearts, oh! so much more apart -from each other than they had been an hour before! An hour before we met -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> had all sorts of vague hopes in my mind—vague feelings that she -would understand me, that I should understand her—vague yearnings -towards the old union which was almost perfect. Did you ever see the -great glass screen they have in some houses to shield you from the heat -of the fire? You can see the cheerful blaze through it, but you feel -nothing. Something of the kind was between Mary and me. We saw through -it as well as ever, and seemed, to enjoy the pleasant warmth; but no -other sensation followed, only the chill of a disappointment. I felt -that she was now nothing, nothing to me; and I—I cannot tell how I -seemed to her. We had the old habit suddenly brought to life and put on -again, but none of the old meaning. We were like mummers trying to make -ourselves out to be heroines of the past, but knowing we were not and -never could be what we appeared. I was very silent during our drive home -I did not know what to say to my dear old lady. She looked very fragile -with her pretty rose-cheeks, lying back in the corner of the fly; she -was fatigued, and in the daylight I suddenly woke up to see that she did -look very fragile. I had not believed in it before. And how could I vex -her by telling her of my disappointment? I could not do it; she was -pleased and happy; she held my hand, and nodded to me and said: “Now you -see you are not so much alone as you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> thought you were. Now you see you -have friends who belong to you.” How could I have had the heart to say -otherwise—to say I had found out that we were separated for ever, Mary -and I?</p> - -<p>That evening, however, after tea, she began to talk to me very -seriously. We were sitting over the fire—she on her favourite sofa, I -on a low chair near her. The firelight kept dancing about, lighting up -the room fitfully. It was a large room. We had some candles on the -mantel-piece, which shone, reflected in the great mirror, as if from -some dim, deep chamber opening off this one; but it was really the -firelight that lighted the room. I had been singing to her, and I half -thought she had been asleep, when suddenly she roused up all at once, -and sat upright in her little prim way.</p> - -<p>“I want to speak to you, Mary,” she said; and then, after a pause—“You -think I meant nothing but love and kindness when I took you to see Mrs -Peveril to-day; but I am a scheming, wicked old woman, Mary. I had more -than that in my mind.”</p> - -<p>I was a little, but only a little, startled by this: I knew her way. I -looked up at her, smiling. “You are so designing,” I said; “I might have -known there was something underneath. You are going to ask them to spend -the rest of their holidays here?”</p> - -<p>“That if you like,” she said brightly, encouraged,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> I could see, by my -tone; “but more than that, Mary; more than that.”</p> - -<p>I was not curious. I looked with an indolent amusement at the shining of -the firelight and the reflection in the mirror of the flame of the -candles, which shone out of its surface without seeming to move the dark -ruddy gloom beyond. A glass is always an inscrutable, wonderful thing, -like an opening into the unseen: it was especially so that night.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” Mrs Tufnell resumed, with a voice that faltered, I could not -tell why; “do you remember when I first spoke to you of Mrs -Peveril—when I was ill?—and what I said?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I answered, with sudden alarm, looking up at her. “You don’t feel -ill now?”</p> - -<p>“No, but I have got a shake,” she said. “When a woman at my time of life -is ill, though it may seem to pass quite away, it always leaves a -something. I shall never be as strong as I have been, my dear child. I -feel I have got a shake. My life has come to be like the late leaves on -the top of a tree. They may last through many gales, but the first gust -may blow them off. I cannot feel sure for a day.”</p> - -<p>I went close up to her in my fright, and knelt down by the sofa, and put -my arms round her. “Do not speak so,” I said; “you could not leave me? -What could I do without you? I am not an orphan as long as I have you. -You cannot have the heart—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mary! hush; don’t overwhelm me. It was of that I wanted to speak. I -shall live as long as I can, for your sake. But, dear, old people cannot -stay always, however much they may be wanted. I have been thinking of it -a great deal, and there is a proposal I have to make to you—with Mrs -Peveril’s consent, Mary. You must listen to all I have to say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you have consulted Mrs Peveril!” said I; and I got up, feeling my -heart grow chill and sore, and went back to my seat to hear what was to -be said to me. In the depths of my heart I must have been jealous of her -still. It came all back upon me like a flood. My dear old lady gave me a -grieved look, but she did not stop to explain. She went quickly on with -what she had to say:—</p> - -<p>“Grove House is a nice old-fashioned house, and cheap, and they have a -good list of scholars; and Miss Robinson would be glad to retire, and -would not ask very much for the furniture and things; and Mrs Peveril is -so much liked by everybody. I have always set apart as much as I thought -was right of my little property, intending it for you, Mary——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” I cried, in a voice so shrill and sharp that it startled even -myself who spoke.</p> - -<p>“It is not very much,” she went on, “but it is all I can give away, and -my whole heart has been set upon doing something for you with this money -that would make you independent. My dear Mary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> I am half afraid you -don’t like the thought, you are so silent. I had thought of buying Grove -House for Mrs Peveril and you.”</p> - -<p>“For Mrs Peveril and me!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—don’t you like the idea, Mary?—don’t you like the idea? I thought -it was something that would please you so much. You have always said you -liked teaching, and it would be a living for you, dear, and a home when -I am gone. I have so wished to make these arrangements for you, -Mary——”</p> - -<p>“Is it all settled?” I said.</p> - -<p>“Nothing could be settled without your consent. All that I want is your -good. I could not leave you, could I, at your age, without anyone to -stand by you, without a home to go to, without a friend——”</p> - -<p>Thus she apologised to me for those kind, tender plans of hers; and I -sat like a clod, feeling that I could not reply. I was dull and heavy -and miserable; not grateful, yet feeling how grateful I ought to be; -understanding her, yet not owning even to myself that I understood her. -It was not a very great destiny that was thus allotted to me, but that -was not what I was thinking. My mind did not revolt against the idea of -being the mistress of a school; which was a natural lot enough. To tell -the truth, I cannot quite say what it was that gave me so miserable a -feeling. Here was my life marked out for me; there was never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> to be any -change in it; no alteration for the brighter or better occurred to this -dear old woman who loved me. She wanted to make sure I should have daily -bread and a roof to shelter me, and some sort of companionship. How -right she was! How good and how kind! and yet, oh, how dreary, how -unutterably blank and hopeless seemed the prospect! I felt this with a -dull fighting and struggle of the two things in me—wanting to please -her by looking pleased, feeling how good she was, and how kind, how -just, how suitable was the arrangement. I felt all this in a kind of -way, and then I felt the struggle not to be wildly angry, not to burst -out and ask her how she could think of condemning me so—for my life?</p> - -<p>She was grieved and disappointed at the way I received her proposal, but -she was so good that she took no notice, but kissed me, and said nothing -should be done or thought of against my consent. For my part my heart -was so heavy and dull that I could not even thank her for her kindness; -but I hung about her when she went to bed, and held her fast in a -speechless way that she understood, I think, though I said nothing. She -cried; she looked at me with her kind old eyes full of tears. “Oh, -Mary,” she said, “don’t break my heart! If I could live for ever and go -on always taking care of you, don’t you think I would do it, for your -sake and your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> father’s too? But I cannot. One must die when one’s time -comes, however much one may be wanted: and I must provide for that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, why can’t I provide for it?” I cried. “Why can’t I die too? That -would be the best way.”</p> - -<p>And then she was angry—half angry—as much as it was in her nature to -be. And presently I found myself alone, and had to sit down and think it -over, and make up my mind to it, as one has so often to do in this life. -I had to teach myself to see how good it was. And I did. I made up my -mind to it. What was there else in heaven or earth—as I could not die -with my only friend, or compel her to live, what was there else that I -could do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="IX-2m" id="IX-2m">CHAPTER IX</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>EXT morning when I woke, the impression on my mind was, that Mrs -Tufnell must have died in the night. I cannot tell why I thought so, but -I woke with such a horror in my mind, that I threw a shawl over my -shoulders and rushed to her door to ask how she was, before I could take -breath. She was not up; but smiled at me from her bed, where she lay -with all the pictures and the portraits of her friends about her, the -centre of a silent company. “I am quite well—better than usual,” she -said; but I think she knew the meaning of my terror, and felt that after -all that had been said it was natural I should be afraid. This perhaps -threw just a little cloud upon her serenity too, during the morning, for -however calmly one may think of dying, I suppose it must startle one to -see that others are thinking of it. I suppose so—it seems natural. She -was very grave, thoughtful, and somewhat silent during the forenoon; and -when I went and sat down by her, and asked her to forgive me, and said I -was ready to do whatever she thought best, she took me into her arms and -cried and kissed me. “Oh, that it should be necessary to change!” she -said. “I do not feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> as if I could face the change—but, Mary, for your -good——”</p> - -<p>It was about noon as we thus sat talking it over. It comforted me to see -that she liked it as little as I did; that she would rather have kept me -with her to the last moment of her life. But then what should I have -done?—this was what she thought of. We were talking it all over very -seriously, with more pain than either of us would show. It was a chilly -winter morning. The room was bright, to be sure, with a good fire -burning, and all the comforts that so many poor people are without; but -there was a chill that went to one’s heart—the chill of the grave for -her, which she thought near; and the chill of the outside world, from -which she had sheltered me so long, for me. I remember the look of that -morning—there was a black frost outside which bound all the dry street, -and seemed to hold the naked trees in the square so fast that they dared -not rustle, though an icy wind was blowing through them. There were -traces still on the windows, notwithstanding the fire, of the frosty -network of the night. The sun had begun to shine as it approached noon, -but even the sun was white and cold, and seemed rather to point out how -chilly the world was, than to warm it. After we had got through all our -explanations and said all that was to be said, and arranged that Mary -was to be invited to the Square with her child to spend a week of the -holidays and arrange everything, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> still kept sitting together holding -each other’s hands, not saying much. I could not pretend that I liked it -even to please her, and she did not like it, though she thought it -right; but all the same it was settled, and there was nothing more to -say.</p> - -<p>It was all settled by twelve o’clock, fixed and decided with that double -certainty which is given by pain. If we had liked it we should not have -felt half so sure. At half-past twelve the mid-day post came in, and I -was still sitting by my dear old lady, holding her hand, feeling my -heart sink lower and lower every moment, thinking how I should have to -leave her when she wanted me most—when Mrs Tufnell’s maid came in with -the letters. She gave some to her mistress, and she gave one to me. I do -not think I recognised the writing at first. But I got few letters, and -it gave me a little thrill of agitation, I could not quite tell why. It -was a foreign letter, with a number of unintelligible postmarks. I got -up and went to the window, partly because my heart began to beat very -loud, and partly to leave Mrs Tufnell at liberty to read her letters. I -recollect looking out unconsciously and seeing the dried-up, dusty, -frosty look of everything, the ice-wind sweeping the dust round the -corners, the bare shivering trees—with a momentary thrill of sensation -that my life was like that, dried-up, frost-bound, for ever and ever. -And then, with my fingers trembling and my heart beating, and a -consciousness of something coming, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> could not tell what, I opened the -envelope and found—— This was what I found; without any preface or -introduction—without anything to soften the difference between what was -before my eyes and what was going to be.</p> - -<p>There was no beginning to the letter; there were a good many blots in -it, as if it had been written with a hand which was not very steady. -There was not even a date until the end. He who had written it had been -as much agitated as she who read it; and she who read it did so as in a -dream, not knowing where she was standing, feeling the world and the -white curtains and the frosty square to be going round and round with -her, making a buzzing in her ears and a thumping against her breast.</p> - -<p>What a plunge into a new world—into an old world—into a world not -realised, not possible, and yet so strange in its fascination, so -bewildering! Was it a dream—or could it be true?</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I have long wanted, and often tried, to write to you again. I do -not know now whether I may or whether I ought. If this letter -should come to another man’s wife, if it should fall into your -hands in such changed circumstances that you will scarcely remember -the writer’s name—and I cannot hide from myself that all this may -be the case—then forgive me, Mary, and put it in the fire without -further thought. It will not be for you, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> your new life, but for -someone else whom you will have forgotten, though I can never -forget her. But if you are still little Mary Peveril as you used to -be, oh, read it! and try to throw your thoughts back to the time -when you knew me—when we used to meet. You were not much more than -a child. How much I have thought of that time; how often and often -I have gone over it in my thoughts I need not tell you. You were -badly used, dear Mary. I was wrong—I will say it humbly on my -knees if you like: having got your promise and your heart—for I -did have that, if only for a little while—nothing could have -justified me in appearing for one moment to place you otherwise -than first in all I did or said. I will not excuse myself by saying -how much startled I was by the sight of Miss Martindale, nor how -anxious I was to know whether my mother had any share, or what -share she had, in her disappearance from our house. I will say -nothing about all that, but only that I was wrong, wrong without -any excuse. Had I thought of what I was risking by my curiosity, I -would have bitten my tongue out sooner than have asked a single -question. Do you think, could you think, that I would have -sacrificed you to the old foolish business which was over years -before? I was an utter fool, I allow, but not such a fool as that. -Therefore, Mary dear, dearest, whom I have always thought of, -listen to me again; take me back again! I will beg your pardon a -hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> and a thousand times. I will humbly do whatever penance -you may appoint me; but listen to me now. You would not listen to -me at first—and perhaps I was not so ready at first to acknowledge -how wrong I was. I have had five long years to think of it, and I -see it all. You were rightly angry, dear, and I was wrong; and if -ever man repented, I have repented. Mary, Mary! take me back!</p> - -<p>“I have been wandering about the world all this time, working and -doing well enough. I can offer you something better now than the -little cottage we once spoke of, though that would have been -Paradise. I am leaving along with this letter, and hope to arrive -in England almost as soon. I do not ask you to write—unless indeed -you would, of your own sweet kindness—one word—to Chester Street? -But even if you don’t do that, I will go to Russell Square in the -hope of finding you. Mary! don’t break my heart. You liked me once. -If I knew what to say that would move you, I would make this letter -miles long; but I don’t know what more to say, except that I love -you better than ever, and no one but you; and that I am coming back -to England for you, for you only—half hopeless, only determined to -try once more. Perhaps by the time you have read this I may be at -your door.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Ever and ever yours,<br /> -<br /> -“<span class="smcap">George Durham</span>.”<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p></div> - -<p>“Mary!” cried some one calling me; “Mary, what is the matter? Have you -bad news, my dear? Mary! Good gracious, the child will faint! Mary, -don’t you hear me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush!” I cried, not knowing what I said. “Hark! listen! is -that him at the door?”</p> - -<p>It was not him just then; and after a little while the curtains stopped -going round, and the floor and the Square and everything about grew -solid and steady, and I came to myself. To myself, yes—but not to the -same self as had been sitting so sadly holding my old lady’s hand. What -a change all in a moment! If I had not been so happy, I should have been -ashamed to think that a man’s letter could all in a moment make such a -change in a woman’s life. It is demoralising to the last degree—it -comes in the way of all the proper efforts of education and independent -thought, and everything that is most necessary and elevating. If in a -moment, without any virtue of yours, without any exertion of yours, you -are to have your existence all altered for you—the greyness turned into -brightness, the labour into ease, the poverty into wealth—how is it to -be supposed that you can be trained aright? It is demoralising: but it -is very pleasant. Oh, the change in one half-hour!</p> - -<p>But I should find it very difficult to explain to anyone how it was that -I behaved like a rational creature at this moment, and did not take a -bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> turn and torture him and myself with objections. It was not wisdom -on my part; I think it was the absolute suddenness of the whole -transaction. Had he left me more time to think, or prepared me for his -reception, my pride and my delicacy would have come in, and probably I -should have thrown away both his happiness and my own. But fortunately -he arrived that very afternoon, before the first excitement was over, -and hearing that Miss Peveril was at home, and that the servants had not -been forbidden to admit him, walked upstairs when I was not thinking, -and took possession of me as if there had been no doubt on the subject. -Mrs Tufnell was begging me to write to him at the very moment. I had -shown her my letter, and she was full of excitement about it. “Be an -honest girl, Mary,” she was saying: “a girl should not worry a man like -that: you ought to be frank and open, and send him a word to meet him -when he comes home. Say you are as fond of him as he is of you——”</p> - -<p>“No, I could not—I could not,” I was beginning to say; when suddenly -something overshadowed us, and a big, ringing voice said behind me, “How -could she? Let us be reasonable.” Reasonable! After that there was no -more to say.</p> - -<p>But if it had not all passed like a dream; if he had not been so sudden; -if he had taken more time and more, care—the chances are, I know,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> that -I should have behaved like a fool, and hesitated and questioned, and -been proud and been foolish. As it was, I had to be honest and -happy—there was no time for anything else.</p> - -<p>This was of course the ending of the whole matter. I have often wondered -whether, had my dear old lady been burdened with the anxiety of her -charge of me, she would have died. As it is, she has not died. She lives -with us often now, and we with her. On my wedding day she talked of -departing in peace; but so far from departing in peace, she has been -stronger ever since, and has a complexion any girl of twenty might envy. -When I look back to Southampton Street and to Russell Square, where I -was so unhappy, they all grow delightful and beautiful to me. It was -very bad, no doubt (I suppose), while it lasted, but how I smile now at -all my dolours! The delightful fact that they are over makes them -pleasant. “That is how it will be, Mary,” my dearest old lady says, -“with all our sorrows, when we die and get safely out of them. We shall -smile—I know it—and wonder how we could have made such a fuss over -those momentary woes.” This is a serious way of ending a story, which -after all has turned out merely a love-story, a thing I never -contemplated when I began to confide my early miseries to you. How -miserable I was! and how it all makes me smile now!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<p>As for Mary—the other Mary—we carried out that arrangement for her -which had been proposed for me. We bought Grove House for her. I do not -know what we could have done better. I never see that she is dull or -weary of her life. What languors she may have she keeps from common -view. Little Jack has grown a great boy, and she is very happy in him. -But she does not give herself up to him, like so many mothers. “I must -keep my own life,” she said to me once, when I wanted her to give up, to -live quietly at home and devote herself to my little brother alone. “He -will go out into the world after a while,” she went on; “he must, he has -to make his way—and I, what should I do then? follow him or stay at -home all alone?—No! I must keep my own life.” And so she does. -Happiness? I cannot tell if she has happiness: so many people get on -without that—though some of us, I thank God humbly on my knees, have it -without deserving it—without having done anything for it. Mary, I -believe, never takes time to ask herself how about that. She said so -once; she is not unhappy, and never will be; she has her life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="GROVE_ROAD_HAMPSTEAD" id="GROVE_ROAD_HAMPSTEAD"></a>GROVE ROAD, HAMPSTEAD</h2> - -<h3><a name="I-gr" id="I-gr">CHAPTER I</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“W</span>HERE shall we go first? that is the only question. I know there are a -hundred places to go to. Westminster and Whitehall, and the Tower, and -St Paul’s, and to see the pictures, and the river, and the Temple, and -Cheapside. We cannot, of course,” cried the eager girl, half -regretfully, half pleased with the certainty of so much excitement, “see -them all in one day.”</p> - -<p>“Considering that they are at different points of the compass, no,” said -the father, a serious man, who rarely relaxed even with his children. -They were seated round a breakfast table in a London hotel—not one of -the great caravansaries of the present day, but a small, grey, -comfortable, quiet, very dear hotel in a little London street not far -from Piccadilly. The houses opposite seemed almost within reach of their -hands to the two girls, fresh and young and eager, who had for the first -time that morning opened their eyes upon England. England! The thought -made the blood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> dance in their veins. It was a little disenchanting, no -doubt, to look out upon those grey houses opposite; but the fog through -which the said houses loomed vaguely had an attraction of its own. A -London fog: it was the right medium through which to see the metropolis -of the world: they were almost as much interested in it as in Hyde Park -or St Paul’s. They were interested in everything; the very names of the -streets made their hearts beat. They had arrived from Canada in the -great steamboat the day before, had travelled up from Liverpool through -a country veiled in the early and lingering dusk of a winter -afternoon—for, though it was nominally spring, it was still winter—and -entered London in the dark. When they opened their eyes this morning it -had been, as they thought, upon a new world. They could hear the noise -of wheels in Piccadilly, and that sound also went to their hearts. All -England was before them. They had heard of it all their lives, and this -arrival had been before them for months, a sensation keenly anticipated, -and experienced now with a commotion of their whole being. -Notwithstanding, it was a very ordinary table at which they sat, -scarcely able to eat anything for sheer excitement. The room was -somewhat dingy. The fog pressed upon the window like something palpable, -the houses opposite looming grimly through it. There was very little in -their external surroundings to justify the sublimated state of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> -feelings; but Grace and Milly Yorke wanted nothing to justify their -feelings. These sentiments sustained themselves. They had never been out -of Canada before, but England, as long as they could recollect, had been -called “home” to them. They had said, “We are going home,” when they -communicated the great news to their friends. And now the moment had -come to which they had looked forward for years.</p> - -<p>Their father was not moved by the same ecstatic sentiments. He was not -Canadian born, as they were. He had left England about thirty years -before, and probably his return had recalled some feelings that were not -altogether delightful. He was an angular, tall man, not unlike the -commonly received type of an American, with a long face, somewhat sunken -cheeks, a very resolute and determined mouth—altogether grey and -rugged, like a gnarled tree. His eyes were deep-set and apt to get a -fiery sparkle in them on occasions. He was a man of hot temper and -inflexible obstinacy, not easy to deal with. But he was never -ill-tempered to his children. The boys, indeed, were often more or less -in conflict with their father; but to the girls he was always gentle and -kind. Perhaps they knew better how to glide over all shoals and reefs, -and find the safe channel to his favour. They and their mother knew very -well what subjects it was best to avoid. They had put up danger signals -on every side, and warned each other off this and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> difficulty with -a glance. They did this without intention, only half conscious of their -own diplomacy. But so it was, that the girls were on the best of terms -with their father, and to them he never said a hasty or unkind word. He -sat very gravely between them, his countenance taking no reflection from -the light in theirs. He was disposed rather to say, Confound the fog. He -thought London just as dingy and disagreeable as it always had been; but -he said nothing. The girls! The girls had their heads turned, poor -children. He would not say anything to disturb their illusion. Let them -entertain it as long as they could. But he had other things to think of. -His mind was thronged with recollections. England was not to him a -historical country, a place full of poetry, full of great events; but a -very real world, with his own past in it, and many a thought and intent -of which the girls knew nothing. He sat between them, scarcely hearing -their eager chatter, but recalling with all the force of reality, as if -they had happened yesterday, the circumstances which had attended his -going away. He had not been very many years older than Grace, he -recollected, with a sort of wondering half amusement; but how clear it -was! Yesterday was not clearer—not so clear, indeed—for yesterday was -nothing very important in his life; whereas that day——</p> - -<p>“It is quite true what Mr Winthrop said. I never saw anything so -poetical,” said Grace;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> “such a wonderful dreamy vista!—don’t you think -so, papa? When you look out to the end of the street you can’t tell what -it is you see. The light is just like a dull topaz—wasn’t that what Mr -Winthrop said? and you can’t tell what is beyond; it might be palaces or -mountains, or one can’t tell what. And to think it is England! and then -that sort of roar of the carriages. It is not like the sea; it is -like—— Oh, why should one try for similes?—it is like—just London, I -suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Wait till you know a little more about London,” said the father, -“before you pronounce what it’s like.”</p> - -<p>“One knows,” said Grace, with a little solemnity. “One does not need to -wait. I suppose London is like no other place in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not,” Yorke said with a half laugh; “but you will never know -what it is if you should live a hundred years.”</p> - -<p>He spoke in one sense, they responded in another.</p> - -<p>“I can believe that,” said Grace, with the same gravity. “It is a -mystery. We cannot know, but we can divine.”</p> - -<p>“God forbid!” her father said, and then he changed his tone. -“Westminster is one way and St Paul’s another,” he said. “You can’t go -both ways at once. You had better make up your minds which you will -have.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span></p> - -<p>And then a little argument ensued. The girls had read a great deal, and -they had good memories. One of them espoused the cause of St Paul’s and -the other that of Westminster: the one going over the glorious -inhabitants of the Abbey, demanding, with Milton—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The labour of an age in pilèd stones?”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">though I hope they knew that Shakespeare was not there—while the other -launched herself upon Tennyson’s ode—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Mighty Seaman, this is he,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Was great by land as thou by sea.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The father remained quite silent in the midst of it all. It seemed, -indeed, as if he had betrayed them into this fanciful controversy on -purpose that he might be able to take refuge in his own thoughts. What -was Westminster or St Paul’s to him? His mind was busy with events which -no poet had ever celebrated, which had never been put into history. -Neither wife nor children knew of them—only some people at home, people -who might be dead long ago, whom he had not heard of, and who had not -heard of him for thirty years. He got the required leisure and quiet to -think this all over while the others were busy with their poetry. They -appealed to him, and he gave them a little nod and half smile, one of -those smiles that are but for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> moment, a gleam of enforced attention -instantly falling back into the gravity of prevailing thought. The -decision finally was for Westminster. As for these young people, they -did not know the difference between St Paul’s and the Abbey. They were -both old, reverend, glorious structures to Grace and Milly; but what it -might be that made the difference between them they did not know. One -meant Poets’ Corner, the other that about the mighty Seaman. They had -never seen a Gothic cathedral in their lives.</p> - -<p>And perhaps it is not ignorance so profound as this that is qualified to -see and understand what is best. The girls read the names on the -monuments with a kind of silent ecstasy of wonder. To think that they, -two little girls from Canada, should actually be treading the storied -pavement in Poets’ Corner, and should be able to read with their own -eyes the names upon those monuments, and see the Kings and Queens lying -in marble, in solemn state, and touch with their little living modern -fingers the chair in which the Confessor had sat! Could anything be more -wonderful? They went through it all as if they were in a dream, looking -at the monuments, reading all the names, thinking it was their own want -of clear historical knowledge that made them at a loss about one here -and there. But the Abbey itself was above their comprehension. They -thought the Houses of Parliament finer, and were a little shocked that -everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> should be so grey and old. When you have seen nothing that -is not new, all your life, it is difficult to understand the darkening -of ages. But they spent the entire morning in one dream of pleasure, -their hearts standing still as they came upon name after name, which -they had heard of all their lives. There too was Whitehall, and that -gloomy window, of which, perhaps, it is not true that from thence King -Charles stepped to his execution; but they were not too critical; and -they walked up the Mall to St James’s Palace with a little thrill of -easier admiration (which they thought rather vulgar in themselves, and -were disposed to blush at) for the Lifeguardsmen on their horses. The -little dingy old palace wounded their feelings somewhat, and brought -down the bewildering splendour of imagination into very shabby limits; -but they got over that. When they were not silent with awe, or with the -shock of trying to reconcile to their own ideal something that fell -short of it, they were talking all the way, calling upon each other to -see this or that, reading out even the names of the streets to each -other with many an “Oh, Milly!” and “Oh, Grace!” They were so absorbed -in their sight-seeing that they never noticed the people who looked -after them, the amused admiring looks with which the passers-by would -contemplate their fresh faces. They were very fresh faces, delicate in -colour, clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> and animated, and so full of interest that their -superabundant life brightened the foggy street. But fortunately the fog -had lifted a little, and all the ghostly houses round the park, and the -leafless trees, became more real under the mid-day radiance of a veiled -sun doing his best to break through; and if they had thought the fog -poetical before, you may imagine what they thought it now, with those -rays streaming into it. It could not be real, they said to each other; -by-and-by they would wake up and find themselves, let us say, in that -other London which is on the farther side of the Atlantic. It could not -be real; it was too wonderful to be true.</p> - -<p>Meantime the father went on responding a little, but only a little, to -the constant claim made upon his attention. He said “Yes” and “No,” or -even “Very pretty,” “Very nice,” “Very interesting” on occasion. For his -part he did not care very much about the monuments. Sometimes his eye -would wander away among the aisles, or through the lovely tracery and -carved work of the roofs, to where the faint red sun caught a painted -window, and threw a rosy oblique ladder of many colours across the grey. -He understood the Abbey better than the girls did; but what he saw in -the Abbey was, scenes of the past—the past, not of Shakespeare or the -old Kings, but his own. He had been there in his youth, and he had been -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> other places which were recalled and suggested by this, and he -remembered and mused in his heart. His companions were not surprised, -because he was always a man of few words; though afterwards it gave them -many thoughts, and the question, what he had been thinking of, what -fancies might have been rising unconsciously in his mind, was often -discussed by them; but at the present moment, as was natural, they did -not realise that there was anything out of the way in his silence. They -went back to their hotel late for their luncheon; they were tired in -body, but not in their minds, which flowed over with wonder and -pleasure. “Are you the least little bit disappointed?” said Milly to -Grace. “No, not the least. Disappointed!” cried Grace with enthusiasm, -though the next moment she was conscious of that little chill in her -soul about St James’s, and even felt that she had missed something in -Westminster. This being the case with Grace, Milly cleared up in a -moment from the slightest little cloud that had fallen upon her, and -felt that neither was she disappointed, oh, not the least in the world! -It was like walking with Shakespeare, they both said. And Mr Yorke gave -a little nod across the table, and lifted his eyebrows at them. It was -almost as much as he ever did when they were in full tide of enthusiasm. -Papa was always quiet; though perhaps, indeed, he was more preoccupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> -than usual to-day. The winterly spring afternoon was beginning to close -in a little before their meal was over. They were preparing, however, to -go out again when their father called them to the window where he was -sitting, looking more grave even than he was accustomed to look.</p> - -<p>“I am going out,” he said. “Can you manage for yourselves till dinner? I -have something to do—out.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t we go with you, papa?” they both said in a breath.</p> - -<p>There was a kind of embarrassment on his face. “Not to-day, I think. -After—perhaps: I have a call to make.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is about business!” said Milly, wondering, yet apologetic, -looking at Grace.</p> - -<p>“If it is not about business,” said Grace promptly, “you ought to take -us with you, papa. It is the right thing in England. In England girls -don’t go about by themselves; and then we want some friends, we want to -know the people as well as the place.”</p> - -<p>A half smile went over his face. “You shall get the benefit of all the -introductions,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; but you must not expect to be -taken much notice of in London, just on the edge of the season, you -know. People are very busy here; and then there are so many to be looked -after—people of more pretensions than you. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> must not expect too -much; but I am not going to deliver any of the letters. I am going—to -see an—old friend.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then, bring him here—will you please bring him here? Do, papa, do! -If it is an old friend, so much the more reason that we should know him. -Is it a friend you had before you went to Canada? Why has he never come -to see us? We have always wondered that you never had any old friends -come to see you, papa.”</p> - -<p>Yorke did not make any direct reply. He said only, “What will you do -with yourselves while I am away?”</p> - -<p>The two girls looked at each other somewhat blankly.</p> - -<p>“We can’t stay in here,” cried Milly, while Grace drew herself up with -youthful dignity.</p> - -<p>“As for staying in every time you have any business to do or any calls -to make,” she said, with serious emphasis, “you must see that is -impossible, papa. English girls may stop in-doors if they please, but we -cannot. We are Canadian girls; we are used to take care of ourselves. -Milly and I can surely take care of each other wherever we go. It would -be too humbling,” she cried, “in the country of Shakespeare, to think -two girls couldn’t go out without—what was it, Milly?—unpleasantness. -I don’t believe a word of it. Mrs Bidwell is only a vulgar Englishwoman. -Unpleasantness! I don’t believe it; and even if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> I did believe it I -shouldn’t allow it to be true.”</p> - -<p>“Come,” said her father, “you must not talk so of vulgar -Englishwomen—you who are such enthusiasts for England. No, I don’t see -any harm in it. Come with me so far, I’ll take you to where the shops -are. Of course you would like to look into the shops.”</p> - -<p>They would have liked a great deal better to go with him upon this -mysterious call, but he would not permit it, and accordingly they were -taken to Regent Street, where he left them with a beautiful confidence. -It might not be the best place in the world to leave young girls alone -on a spring afternoon, no doubt; but what did they know of that? They -were innocent, proud, modest girls, to whom no one had ever said a -disrespectful word, and who were afraid of nobody. Nor did they get any -new light upon the subject from that walk. The innocent do not even -suspect the dangers which the knowing see all about them. Nobody -molested Grace and Milly: they walked along in their armour of honest -maidenhood, knowing no evil; and were as safe as in their own rooms. It -was true, however, that their rapture waned a little, and a touch of -local patriotism came over them.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so very much of the shops,” said Milly doubtfully.</p> - -<p>Milly was often the first to start an opinion, but she never was quite -sure whether she held it or not till<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> she had the support of Grace’s -authority, which this time, as so often, was unhesitatingly given.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think anything of the shops,” said Grace. “Of course one -doesn’t come to England to look at shops. Paris for that, I suppose; but -it is England all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” said Milly, “certainly it is England all the same. I wish the -houses were a little bigger and cleaner-looking, and the streets -broader. I wish there were some trees——”</p> - -<p>“Trees! in the heart of London,” said Grace with high contempt. “Trees -are the things that show how new a place is. Where you have nothing else -you have trees. But think how many people must have walked about here. -If we only could see them all strolling up and down this -pavement—people you would give your head to see.”</p> - -<p>“But Shakespeare—and people like that—could not have walked about -Regent Street: it is not old enough.”</p> - -<p>“No; not Shakespeare, perhaps. I don’t know—he might have walked about -here, though it was not Regent Street then.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Milly suddenly, “where papa can have gone. I never -heard him talk of any old friends before; nor relations. By the way, -isn’t it very funny that we have no relations in England, Grace?”</p> - -<p>“It is strange,” said Grace thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>It was not a subject which had occurred to them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> till now. Their father -they were aware had been thirty years in Canada without ever going -“home;” and he had no family correspondence, nobody belonging to him -that they knew of except themselves. Their mother was a Canadian born, -and she had relations in plenty; and cousins on their father’s side had -not seemed a necessity before. But as they thought of it, a little -additional chill came into the air. England—so dear and delightful as -it was, the home of all their traditions—they had begun to make -acquaintance with. But to think that they had not a relation in England, -nothing to justify their fond identification of themselves with this old -country! The idea was somewhat alarming as it burst upon them. It -increased the little shade of disappointment which had crept over them -against their will, and sent them to their hotel, which was all that -answered for home at this moment, with a little heaviness at their -hearts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="II-gr" id="II-gr">CHAPTER II</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R YORKE went out in the quickly fading spring afternoon with an air of -seriousness and resolution, which, indeed, had been upon his countenance -all day; but which was not much like the expression of a holiday -visitor. He had a long drive out to the northern outskirts of London, -across those miles on miles of insignificant streets which are almost -more imposing in their shabby dreariness than the more important -portions of the greatest of cities. But though they wearied him with -endless lines of shabbiness and monotony, the mind of the stranger was -not sufficiently at liberty to make any reflection upon them. It was -twilight before he reached, mounting upwards slowly for the last mile or -so, the suburban heights to which he was bound. He dismissed his cab at -the entrance to a leafy lane, lined on each side with detached houses, -which were scarcely perceptible among the bare trees and thick hedges. -To the servant who admitted him he gave a name which was certainly not -that which he had borne an hour before in his hotel. The house which he -entered just at the moment of twilight, before the lamps were lighted, -was very warmly carpeted and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> curtained, and almost too warm in the air -of its balmy soft interior. He waited for a moment in the hall, with an -extraordinary gravity—the seriousness of painful restrained excitement -on his face. Then a door opened suddenly, and a lady came out carrying a -candle in her hand. The light shone pleasantly upon a fresh face and -pretty eyes, undimmed by some fifty years of life; but those eyes were -puckered up with a curious, anxious, alarmed gaze, looking into the -darkness. She advanced hurriedly for two or three steps, then stopped -short in front of the stranger, examining him not without some distress -in her look. “Leonard Crosthwaite?” she said, “it is very many years -since we have heard that name. Is it some distant cousin we know nothing -about? or is it—— is it——”</p> - -<p>“It is I, Mary. We have not seen each other for thirty years—but I -should have known you anywhere, I think. Certainly, here, in the old -house.”</p> - -<p>She held up her candle and gazed at him, then shook her head slowly. “It -is so sudden,” she said. “It is such a long time——”</p> - -<p>“And you did not expect to see me, while I expected—hoped—to see you.” -Then he put out his hand. “Mary—you are not still Mary—not a -Crosthwaite still, as in the old time? No—I can see that. You have -married, and had children—like me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>This drew a faint little smile from her in spite of herself. “Yes, I -have married. I have a son as tall as you. I am a widow. I—— Oh, but I -don’t know if I ought to enter into family particulars. How am I to know -that you are—Leonard? You are—a little like him.”</p> - -<p>“Is there any reason why you should hesitate to own me?” he said, half -sternly, yet with a smile.</p> - -<p>This brought an overpowering flush of colour over her comely, matronly -face; but the next moment she cried out with agitation, “Oh, no, no! How -could you think so of me?—not for the world, not for the world! If -every penny we had depended on it”—and here she stopped short, -confused, and looked at him again.</p> - -<p>“I will not meddle with your pennies, Mary, whatever you may mean by -that. I have plenty. You need not fear for me. Ah!—Uncle Abraham, I -suppose, is dead?—he must be dead long ago: and there is something—— -The old people are all dead, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“It is not that,” she said, faltering, which was no answer to his -question; but he understood it well enough. He looked at her with -increased seriousness, and she shrank before his eye.</p> - -<p>“Yes: they are all dead——”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Abraham and all——” He looked at her more and more keenly, with -a slight smile on his face. “But he did not take his money<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> with him, I -suppose, as he used to threaten to do?”</p> - -<p>To this the lady made no reply; and there was a pause, he standing -somewhat sternly, with his eyes fixed upon her; she with her head -drooping a little, drawn back a few steps, not looking at him. The door -behind her was open, and after a minute, a voice called from it, “Mary, -to whom are you talking?”</p> - -<p>The stranger started visibly. He said, with a sudden catch in his voice, -“Anna! Is she here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Leonard, yes,” said the lady. “She is here—so changed! so -changed! I think it is because she has been unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“Unhappy!” he said softly. His tone had changed and softened; only to -hear it the listener might be certain that there were tears in his eyes. -“Unhappy! after thirty years.”</p> - -<p>The man was touched and flattered and compunctious all in one. There was -no difficulty in interpreting the inflections in his voice. It was full -of tenderness, of a mournful pleasure, and surprise as well—“while I -have been making myself so comfortable,” he added in an undertone.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not in that way,” the lady said, but in a whisper. “No, no,” -shaking her head, “not in that way.”</p> - -<p>His mood of tender complaisance was perhaps a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> little subdued by this, -but only a little. “If you think she would let me see her,” he said—</p> - -<p>At this moment she was called again—“Mary! there is a perfect gale -blowing in at the door. Who have you there?”</p> - -<p>The lady who was called Mary advanced to him confidentially. “She heard -your name just as well as I did,” she said, “but she pretends to take no -notice; wait here till I go and speak to her. Oh, she is so changed!”</p> - -<p>He caught her by the hand and detained her. “Nothing has happened? She -must be old like all of us, I know——”</p> - -<p>“She is as handsome as ever she was,” said the other hastily. “I am -coming, I am coming, Anna! It is a visitor—an old friend”—and she -turned round with the quickness of a girl, leaving the stranger standing -where she had found him, the candle on the hall table watching him like -a little wakeful sentinel. A glow of warmth and light came from the door -of the open room. He had not noticed it before; now it appeared to him -like a glimpse into some sanctuary. He could see a beautiful Persian -carpet, a softly-tinted wall hung with pictures; not that he noticed -what these details were, but took them in vaguely as producing an effect -of delicate brightness and luxury. Memory stole softly over the -far-travelled visitor. His present life had departed from him -altogether—he was living in the past, in his youth, thinking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> of the -pretty caprices of the girl whom he had thought the most beautiful, the -most delightful creature that God had made, in all her whims and -fancies. She had always been like that; and through all those thirty -years it had been constantly suggested to him, in the inmost recesses of -his mind, when he saw anything that was graceful or pretty, “It is just -like Anna—Anna would have liked that.” He had felt inclined to say it -to his wife a thousand times—his good wife, who never had heard of -Anna, and would not have heard of her with any pleasure. And now, here -was Anna close to him, enshrined in the warmth and surrounded by all the -prettinesses she had loved. It made his heart beat to think that he was -so near her, that he would see her presently—and even that she had been -unhappy. At fifty-five men are not often sentimental, but the hardest -would be softened by the thought of a beautiful woman who had been -unhappy about him for thirty years. He stood quite patiently, and waited -for admittance. The hesitation of the other, her evident unwillingness -to consent to his identity, which he could see was mingled all the time -with a conviction that he was the person he claimed to be, had irritated -and filled him with suspicions; but all this flew away upon the breath -of old, old, unchangeable feeling. Anna! he had never ceased to think -that the very name was music all these years.</p> - -<p>The sound of the voices within the room was low<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> at first, but -afterwards grew louder. Then it was mingled with impatient tappings as -of a stick on the floor, and Mary’s voice—he could trace both voices, -they were so different, even in the murmur of talk at the -beginning—took an expostulatory tone.</p> - -<p>“I assure you, Anna—”</p> - -<p>“Assure me nothing. Let him come in, let him come in: and I will let him -know what I think of him.”</p> - -<p>It was certainly her voice; but in all his recollection he had never -heard this tone in it. He waited listening, half amused, half sad, -beginning to wonder more and more. At last he yielded to a sudden -impulse, and went straight forward to the half-opened door.</p> - -<p>There he stood for a moment arrested, struck dumb. And they, too, struck -by the sound of the man’s foot, so different from their own velvet -steps, turned round and looked at him. Was that Anna? His heart, which -had been beating so high, stopped short, and seemed to drop, drop into -some unknown depths. “Oh yes, I see,” he said to himself. “I see, I see. -She is as handsome as ever——” But was that Anna? He stood on the -threshold of this room, which was sacred to her, holding his breath.</p> - -<p>Then the strange old woman, who was Anna, beckoned to him imperiously -with her hand.</p> - -<p>“Come in, come in,” she said, “whoever you are,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> who are using a -name—— Come in. I do not know if you are aware that Mr Leonard -Crosthwaite, whose name you are assuming——” Here she stopped and fixed -two great, brilliant, dark eyes upon him, opened to their full width, -glowing like angry stars. She made a pause of about a minute long, which -seemed to the two others like an hour. Then she dropped her voice with a -careless inflection, as if after that gaze she disdained the risk she -was running—“died,” she added indifferently, but pausing on the -word—“at least twenty years ago.”</p> - -<p>“He did not die, Anna, since I am here,” said the stranger.</p> - -<p>It was impossible to speak to her, even now, without some tenderness -getting into his voice.</p> - -<p>“Do not venture to speak to me, sir, by my Christian name. Do you know -there is a punishment for impostors? Oh, you think perhaps you know just -how far you can go without infringing the law. Perhaps you think, too, -that we are alone here, and you can frighten us. But that is a mistake. -There is a butler, a strong man, whom I can summon in a moment with this -bell, and there is my nephew. Any attempt at bullying or extortion will -be useless here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna!” her sister cried; then she clasped her hands, turning to the -visitor—“I told you she was changed.”</p> - -<p>A series of different emotions passed over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> Canadian’s face—he -smiled, then laughed angrily, growing red and hot; but over these -variations stole such a softening of regret as combined all in one -sorrowful sense of change. He nodded his head gently in reply to what -the other sister said.</p> - -<p>“You are right,” he said in a low tone; “as handsome as ever, but how -different! Anna, Anna, though we have been separated so long—though you -cast me off, and I thought had forgotten me—though I am married and a -happy man—yet you have never been put out of your place in my heart all -these years.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with those keen eyes; though she kept up wonderfully -her air of lofty scorn and indifference, it was possible to perceive a -gleam of something else, a mixture of satisfaction and anger in her -face. “It is part of the rôle, of course,” she said, “to call me by my -Christian name. But Leonard Crosthwaite, whatever he might be else, was -a gentleman. So you will keep to your part better by acting like a -gentleman in this point. That is one way of making an impostor look like -him.”</p> - -<p>He restrained himself with an effort. “What am I to call you then?” he -said, looking at her sister. “Has she never married? How wonderful that -is! Miss Crosthwaite then: since you wish it, I will call you so.”</p> - -<p>A momentary shadow of humiliation went over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> the proud face. She had -chosen not to marry. She had always been beautiful, and she was not -without fortune; but nobody whom she thought good enough had ever asked -Anna Crosthwaite to marry him. And she did not like to remember this in -presence of her old lover, whom she had loved once in her silly youth, -though she forsook him: it was not, however, because of that love, or -anything connected with it, that she received him thus now.</p> - -<p>“I am Miss Crosthwaite,” she said, “though you affect to be surprised. -It is not all a woman thinks of to marry any fool that turns up, and to -become the mother of fools. Go away to your son, Mary. That was your -ambition: as it is your folly now, to believe in every deception, and -allow yourself to be led by the nose. I think your <i>protégé</i> had better -withdraw too, now that I have seen him. He has not a feature of poor -Leonard Crosthwaite,” she added, eyeing him steadfastly. “No one, I -suppose, can doubt my capacity to judge. His complexion is different, -his features are different. Go away, sir, and be thankful we don’t turn -you over at once to the police.”</p> - -<p>“Is this,” he said, half-stifled with astonishment and indignation, “is -this all you have to say to me—”</p> - -<p>“It is all I have to say to you,” she said; “and this is my room, where -I am supposed to have some right to choose my visitors. Go! You can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> do -anything you please; I, for one, am not afraid of you. You may go.”</p> - -<p>He burst out laughing at the extraordinary perversity of the scene. If -he had not laughed he must have been furious—it was his only -deliverance; and yet it may be supposed there was not much laughing in -his heart.</p> - -<p>“This is the most extraordinary reception to meet with,” he said, “after -coming so far, after staying away so long. If it is a jest, it is a bad -jest, Anna. Suppose that it is hard upon us after all this long -interval, to look upon each other with such changed eyes—still there is -such a thing as justice. You know me as well as I know you. It is by -instinct—it is because we cannot help it. For, heaven knows, you are as -unlike the Anna I left as night is to day.”</p> - -<p>She did not reply. A hasty gleam of passion came out of her keen eyes. -Then she put out her hand to the bell. “Simmons,” she said, “will see -this person to the door, Mary. I don’t want to be hard upon any -acquaintance of yours; you know a very strange set of people, I must -say; but I will not be insulted. Simmons must see this person out of the -house.”</p> - -<p>The other sister looked at him with a look of agonised entreaty, -clasping her hands. He was touched by it, though his only answer to Anna -was another outburst of harsh laughter. “I would not like to be in your -Simmons’ shoes,” he said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> “if he tries to see me anywhere that I do not -choose to go. But I do not care to thrust myself on anybody. Good-bye, -Anna; we shall meet ere long in different circumstances, never fear.”</p> - -<p>With that he went out hastily into the hall, where the sentinel candle -was still burning. There he was met by a young man who looked at him -surprised. There was so much resemblance in this new-comer to the lady -called Mary that there could be no doubt who he was. The Canadian did -not pause to inquire. He put his hand on the young man’s arm—“Come out -with me, or take me somewhere where I can talk to you. There is a -mystery that wants clearing up, and you can help me. I am your mother’s -cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. What! you have heard the name before?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I have heard the name; but you were supposed to be dead long -ago,” the young man said.</p> - -<p>“I am not dead—your mother will tell you—I am newly returned from -Canada. Tell me what reason there is to wish me dead,” he said -peremptorily. “It will be no worse for you——”</p> - -<p>“No reason at all, sir,” said the young man promptly. “I do not know who -you are, but there is nothing to conceal. You are welcome to hear it all -from me.”</p> - -<p>Then he led the visitor into a small room at the other side of the hall, -into which after a while the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> young man’s mother stole softly, crying -and greatly agitated. She was startled beyond measure to find the -visitor with her son, to whom she was going for consolation. But they -were not long in convincing her that it was better that all there was to -tell should be told.</p> - -<p>When Mr Yorke left the house it was very dark and cold, and the rain -beginning to drizzle. Young Geoffrey Underwood would have gone with him, -or, failing that, pressed all manner of wraps upon him, as his mother -had pressed refreshments: but the Canadian smiled at the cold, and the -dismal, continuous, but not violent rain. “I am used to worse cold than -this,” he said. He went out into the night, more grave than when he had -entered, but with a fire in his eye and in his heart of which there had -then been no sign. He walked slowly along making calculations, arranging -his course of procedure as he went down the hill. The rain came down -faster and faster, till it swept like a great sheet of water from the -inky sky. It swept all the suburban streets both of passengers and -vehicles; nothing was to be seen but the wavering dismal lamps, making -distorted reflections on the wet pavement—not a cab, not a place of -shelter. Mr Yorke was drenched to the bones and chilled to the very -heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="III-gr" id="III-gr">CHAPTER III</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>N evening in a hotel is seldom cheerful, and this evening was very -forlorn. Mr Yorke did not return, though the hour for which he had -ordered dinner was past. The girls sat very dolefully one on each side -of the table, and read the books which had been provided for their -amusement on board ship. Everything had been so lively on board ship, -there had been so much society, so many expedients to make the time pass -pleasantly, that they had not required to have recourse to these works. -It was very strange and dreadfully disenchanting on their first night in -London to be compelled to take to this way of getting through the -evening. They expected to have been dining, cheerfully chatting about -all their impressions, or, perhaps, though it was the first night, to -have been taken to a theatre, and seen Shakespeare, perhaps, on -Shakespeare’s native soil. Perhaps if they had attained this object of -their desires they might not have found it much more satisfactory—but -then that did not occur to their fresh minds. And instead of such -delights, to find themselves seated in a common-place room with a lamp -which smoked, and two dull novels,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> and the rain coming down in -bucketfuls outside, was as dreary and disappointing a termination to the -day as could well be supposed. The solemn waiter came in and laid the -cloth, and the girls had to change their places. Grace went to the -window and gazed out at the pouring rain and the street lamps twinkling -feebly through it. Milly sat down vacantly in a big chair, too far off -the lamp to continue her book.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said the soft-voiced waiter: “will you have -the dinner up, or wait till the gentleman comes?”</p> - -<p>“O, Grace!” said Milly, startled, appealing to her sister.</p> - -<p>“Of course, we will wait for papa,” said Grace, turning round from the -window.</p> - -<p>When the man went away poor little Milly, overtired and depressed, fell -a-crying. “Oh, how strange it is! Oh, how lonely it is!” she cried. “I -feel as if there was nobody alive—nobody that knew us.”</p> - -<p>Grace’s lip twitched and quivered a little too. “How silly!” she said; -“this is how you always are—up to the skies one moment, and down to the -depths the next. What does it matter if nobody knows us? Two of us can -go through the world—with papa.”</p> - -<p>“But what has become of papa?” said Milly.</p> - -<p>They did not know what to think. He was not a man to be out at night, -nor, though he was so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> undemonstrative, was he a man to abandon his -children to an evening in an inn by themselves. Could anything have -happened to him? There flashed across the minds of both recollections of -stories they had heard, of sudden disappearances, stories mixed up in a -great confusion with the Morgue, of which they remembered the name and -the dismal use, without clearly remembering where it was; and of people -found in the river, and all kinds of terrible catastrophes. These were -so much too terrible, however, that after a while Grace laughed.</p> - -<p>“What are you laughing at? I don’t feel at all like laughing,” Milly -said in an aggrieved tone.</p> - -<p>“We are behaving as if something had happened,” Grace said; “such -nonsense! Papa has been detained, that’s all. I hope he is not getting -wet out in this rain.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope he is not getting wet!” Milly said, rising up hastily and -running to the window. Milly had a turn for taking care of everybody’s -health. She was pleased with the importance of being a little “delicate” -herself.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how he should,” said Grace with another laugh, which was -somewhat forced, “when there are cabs at every step. Of course, he has -not made up his mind to get wet, or to get lost, or to have an accident, -solely to make us uncomfortable the very first day, like a naughty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> -child. The dinner will be spoiled; that is all that will happen.”</p> - -<p>“As if it mattered about the dinner!” said Milly with feminine -indifference, coming back from the window. The rain was not quite so -heavy, and their spirits began to rise.</p> - -<p>“Here is papa’s letter-case with all the introductions. Let us look them -over and imagine what sort of people they will be. First of all and -foremost,” said Grace, “Lord Conway; that is <i>our</i> Minister. He was once -at our house—don’t you remember, Milly? years and years ago, when he -was the Honourable Mr Something-or-other; at least I have heard mamma -say so——”</p> - -<p>“Mamma would be sure to say Something-or-other. Of course he will come -directly and call——”</p> - -<p>“And ask us to go and stay there,” added Grace seriously, “which would -be grander than a hotel; but then one would not be so free to go out and -in. I think I will advise papa not to go, or to go only for two or three -days, to see how noble people live. To be sure,” she added, “if he is -not married—I wonder if he is married?—he could not ask us; unless he -has a mother, or sister, or something, to keep his house.”</p> - -<p>“He is sure to be married,” said Milly, “if it is so long since he was -in Canada—longer than we can recollect; and a Minister too: he must be -quite old!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<p>“On the contrary, the Minister for the Colonies is often quite young, I -believe,” said Grace. What she founded this opinion upon we are unable -to state, but it was Grace’s peculiarity that she liked to be wiser than -her neighbours. “Put Lord Conway on one side. Now there is Sir John -Didcot. He is married; there is not any doubt about that. Don’t you -remember <i>him</i>, Milly?—a fat man who had to do with railways. He was -dreadfully rich. I should think very likely they live in the country, -and would ask us for—Easter, or that sort of thing. Everybody in London -goes out of town for Easter. There are several national solemnities of -that kind, you know,” said Grace half satirically, half complacently. -“Easter, and the Derby-day, and the 12th of August, and a few more.”</p> - -<p>“What do people do on the 12th of August? But we shall be back home,” -said Milly, “before that, shan’t we? How nice it will be to get back -home. I shall make papa buy loads of presents—presents for everybody. I -was thinking only to-day what Lenny would like, and old John.”</p> - -<p>“It is rather too soon to think of presents for home, considering we -only arrived yesterday,” said Grace: and then she, too, breathed a small -sigh, thinking of the bright room at home with all the boys laughing and -questioning, and the tables covered with the presents they would carry -back, and the baby, the darling of the whole house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> seated triumphant -in the midst of them, the fairy distributor of all these riches. Though -it had been such a great thing to come to England—though it was such an -ecstasy to be in England—yet, after all, home was a different matter. -She gave a glance round this inn parlour, and smothered another little -sigh.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we shall have to go to the Didcots,” she said, “sooner or -later. Oh, after that here is something delightful! Mr Rivers, the -author—you know. Of course, he will ask all the best people to meet -papa. That will be far the most interesting of all. Fancy, perhaps we -shall see Tennyson!” Grace raised a pair of great brown eyes opened wide -with awe and rapture. “I wonder how one ought to behave one’s self to a -great poet. I should like to go down on my knees and kiss his hand.”</p> - -<p>“Ladies never go down on their knees—except to the Queen,” said Milly, -rousing up. “I wonder if we shall be asked to Windsor Castle or -Buckingham Palace, or any of those places! It would be nice to know the -princesses, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“We ought to be,” said Grace sedately, “for papa had so much to do for -the Prince of Wales. Oh!” cried the loyal colonial maiden, clasping her -hands, “do you think the Princess will ask us, Milly? He will tell her, -of course, who we are. That beautiful, beautiful creature! I don’t know -which of the two would be most delightful—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> Princess or Tennyson. -One would have to call him <i>Lord</i> Tennyson, as if he were nobody, a -common peer,” she added with a plaintive tone; “but to the Princess one -would say Madam, or Your Royal Highness.”</p> - -<p>“Cissy Nunn told me you only said Ma’am.”</p> - -<p>“Cissy Nunn had no manners,” said Grace. “I like titles; they are so -pretty. Everybody that is beautiful, or delightful, or has genius should -have some beautiful title. Princess!—that is what I should like to call -her; but I suppose you can only do that when you are intimate—and I am -afraid, with so many people as she must have to see, <i>that’s</i> not very -likely,” the girl said regretfully.</p> - -<p>Thus they went on talking the greatest nonsense in the world without -suspecting it. The Yorkes were persons of importance at home. Whenever a -great personage from England appeared there, he was received with all -the resources of their simple and graceful, but by no means magnificent, -hospitality. The distinguished visitors accepted all these little -attentions cheerfully. They were the best to be had in the place, and -they were characteristic of it, and amused the wandering peers and lions -as much as if their hosts had been lions also, or peers. But it need not -be said that the Colonial Secretary was very unlikely to invite the -Yorkes to make his house their home, though that was how they had -treated him; and that even the most amiable of princesses would not feel -herself bound to invite,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> nor her august spouse even to recollect the -name of the good colonial people who had been altogether at his service. -Nay, we doubt much if the author would have felt himself bound to -assemble a literary party for the admiration of the Canadian family. The -simplicity of the girls considered all these natural returns of their -hospitality not only as natural, but inevitable, though some doubts on -the subject of the Princess did cross their minds. Still they could not -help thinking an invitation was at least possible. These anticipations -kept them amused, and made them forget the passage of time. The bland -waiter came up to the door, and looked in more than once. Finally he -entered, and asked respectfully if they would not like to have dinner -served? Then they looked at each other blankly, relapsing all at once -into alarm and gloom.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it will be better to have it put upon the table,” said Grace, -faltering.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t eat a morsel,” said Milly energetically.</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush!” said the elder sister, “most likely the people are angry -having to wait so long.”</p> - -<p>And this argument was too strong to be resisted. They were still a -little afraid of making people angry, and loved to please everybody they -were brought in contact with. Then came the soup, cold, which they tried -to swallow; then a terrible soaked rag of fish. But the next moment Mr -Yorke himself walked in. He told the girls hastily<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> that he had been -caught in the rain—that he had been paying a visit in a suburb, where -cabs were not to be got easily, and that he was so wet and it was so -late that he would go to bed at once and have something brought to him -to his room. This was a climax to the discomfort of the evening. They -sent away the joint notwithstanding the almost tears of the waiter. “Oh, -what do we care for dinner!” the girls cried. They had been warned when -they left home that, above all things, they were to see that their -father did not catch cold.</p> - -<p>“Mamma will think it is our fault,” said Milly, with quivering lips. Who -had ever heard of papa going to bed unless he were very, very ill? Even -Grace, though she had so much strength of mind, could scarcely keep from -crying. “Oh, how I wish we had never left home!” she said. “Oh, if mamma -were only here!” said Milly. Left to their own resources, they could -think of nothing but a longing, useless appeal to the one authority. -Mamma would know what should be done in such an emergency. She would -understand at a glance the position of affairs, and whether he might -safely be left alone, or what should be done for him. The girls knew -that he was a very difficult patient, and that nobody but their mother -could persuade him to attend to himself. It was a terrible problem for -them so soon, before they had even awoke to the possibility of such an -accident; for who ever thought of papa falling ill? it had been the -thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> against which no precaution had been taken. The girls had a -little medicine chest full of Mrs Yorke’s domestic preservatives, and -had received the minutest directions respecting their own health—but -papa! “Take care your father does not catch cold,” she had said: but -that was all. He had always been subject to bad colds. “But what could -we have done?” Grace asked of herself unconsciously, hearing her -mother’s warnings in her ears. After a while she ventured to go to his -room to see if anything could be done. Mr Yorke had not gone to bed; he -was sitting by a fire which smoked a little, in his dressing-gown, with -a steaming glass of brandy-and-water by his side. He did not send away -the girls, who floated into his room with a doubtful air, keeping close -together like a pair of doves; but he looked up with restrained -impatience from some letters he was reading. “What is it?” he said. Oh, -not crossly—not at all crossly! they said afterwards; but keeping from -being cross with an effort. The letters he was reading were old letters. -Some lying on the table before him did not seem even to have been -opened. He threw his handkerchief over them as the girls came in. “What -is it?” Clearly he had found something which was of more interest to him -than anything they could do or say.</p> - -<p>“I hope you have had something to eat, papa,” said Grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t want anything to eat. I am taking this by way of precaution,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“But you ought to eat. There is some mutton; it is quite hot still. May -I ring and ask the waiter?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t take any trouble about me. Don’t you think I am old enough to -look after myself?”</p> - -<p>Grace did not know what to do. Her mother, as she felt certain, and as -Milly immediately suggested when they left the room, would have asked no -questions; she would have had a tray brought in quite noiselessly -without saying a word, and made him eat something. “Why didn’t you run, -then, and ask for the tray if you knew that was the right thing?” Grace -asked afterwards, aggrieved: but Milly had not the courage to take any -initiative.</p> - -<p>They stood for two or three moments more, looking at him with an anxiety -that was altogether helpless.</p> - -<p>“Is your cold in your head, papa? Is it in your chest? Have you got a -cough? Do you feel any pain? Shall I bring you some lozenges?”</p> - -<p>Poor Grace! she was cudgelling her brain to know what to do; but to ask -questions was just the thing she was never to do. In the flurry and -agitation of her feelings she forgot that.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing the matter with me,” said Mr Yorke. “I have got a -little cold; that is all; not to-night; I felt it when we landed. Go to -bed. You must be tired too.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<p>“But, papa——” said Grace, gazing at him anxiously, helpless, with -nothing to suggest, yet a scared consciousness that there was certainly -something that she ought to do.</p> - -<p>He had the air of a man interrupted in something much more interesting -than their girlish talk. A little pucker of impatience gathered in his -forehead; but he was too serious to smile, or to make a joke of it, as -he often did. And there was a flush on his face, and he was very hoarse, -looking exactly as he did when he caught one of his <i>worst</i> colds.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said almost harshly, “have you anything particular to say? If -not, you see I am busy. I should prefer to be left alone.”</p> - -<p>Grace’s anxious eyes were surveying him from head to foot. Milly, -behind, plucked at her sleeve, meaning to convey some suggestion which -she could not put into words. They wanted to do something—anything: but -neither of them had the least idea what. Milly, who thus tried to prick -her sister into exertion, was still more destitute than Grace was of any -perception what to do.</p> - -<p>“Good-night then, papa,” said Grace slowly. She stooped over him to kiss -him; and, oh, how hot his head was! One of his worst colds! and nobody -here who knew what ought to be done, or what the danger was.</p> - -<p>“Good-night,” he said quickly. He gave a little sigh of relief as they -went away, and turned back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> to the papers which he had hastily -concealed. The girls saw this and it did not console them. They went -back much depressed to the sitting-room, which had never been very -bright, and which now was doleful beyond description. And this was their -first night in England! Hearing, however, a furtive sob from Milly, -Grace turned round upon her quite suddenly, and “snapped her up.”</p> - -<p>“Well!” she cried, “after all, it is not anything so very dreadful; papa -has a cold; he has often had a cold before. He is busy with something. I -don’t see why you should make a fuss about it. I dare say he had -something to eat when he was out. An old friend would be sure to offer -him something. Of course, he will be better to-morrow; and we had better -take his advice and go to bed.”</p> - -<p>Now Milly began to cry in earnest. “We did not come to England all this -long way,” she said, half miserable, half indignant, “only to go to -bed.”</p> - -<p>At which, though she was not much happier than Milly, Grace laughed. “Of -course,” she said, “you little goose, the first thing we do everywhere -is always to go to bed. We must do that. You may live without going to -the theatre,” Grace added philosophically, with a little sigh, “without -going into society—but not without going to bed.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was forlorn to be able to think at nine o’clock of no -other way of spending the evening. They occupied a little of the vacant -time by ordering tea, for the spoiled dinner had not tempted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> them; and -then sadly enough they put back the letters of introduction into the -letter-case. It seemed less probable now somehow, they could not tell -why, that the Princess would take any notice of them, or that Lord -Conway would carry them off to his house. They put away those passports -to society, through which they had seemed to have a momentary glimpse of -everything that was splendid. As they did so a little piece of paper -fell out. Milly took it up and read it first; then Grace came and looked -over her shoulder. It was very inoffensive and unimportant in -appearance—a simple address, 3 Grove Road, Hampstead, written in their -father’s hand. He had sent, they recollected, for the Directory and -taken an address out of it that morning. Could this be where he had been -visiting—the suburb in which he had not been able to get a cab? A -slight tremor ran over them, a sense of mystery which could scarcely be -called disagreeable. Who could it be who lived at 3 Grove Road, -Hampstead? And why had he gone the very first day to call there? The -girls held their breath. Visions of some old love, far too old to be -anything but a memory, came into their minds. They were divided between -a little jealousy on their mother’s account and a romantic interest -about the unknown.</p> - -<p>“It is a lifetime since he left England,” said Grace with emphasis. -Their imaginations leaped into a whole romantic story. They put back -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> scribbled address into the letter-case with a sort of awe. They had -never been so much interested in their father before.</p> - -<p>“I wonder who she is,” Milly said softly under her breath. “I wonder if -we shall ever see her.”</p> - -<p>“Whoever she is,” cried Grace, “and whether we see her or not, you must -recollect—not a word, not a word to mamma!”</p> - -<p>“As if I were such a goose!” cried Milly. “But she must be so old—so -old! Mamma would not mind.”</p> - -<p>This discovery, or supposed discovery, relieved them from the nervous -alarm and misery which was beginning to overpower them. After a while -they even laughed softly under their breath. Papa’s old, old love -affair, though it was interesting and even touching, as a relic of the -ancient ages, was yet more or less amusing too. They put back the scrap -of paper along with all the big, imposing letters, which were so much -more pretentious, but which it was very evident their father had not -been nearly so much interested by. They liked him for going <i>there</i> -first of all: and then they permitted themselves a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“I dare say,” said Grace, “they were quite young when they were parted. -How strange it must be to meet after so many years! One reads of it in -books sometimes. I wonder if he will take us to see her. I should think -she would like to see us—if she is nice,” she added with a little -hesitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>“She must be nice,” said Milly, “or he would not have remembered all -these years, and gone to see her the very first minute. I wonder if -mamma would be angry, Grace? I wonder if <i>she</i> is married too?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no!” cried Grace, decidedly. “Men may do that, but not women. -You may be sure she has lived all the time—oh, not making herself -unhappy—but always faithful! She will be good; she will do all sorts of -things for people; but marry—no! I <i>hope</i> he will take us to see her. -It is like England. It is what I have always thought of England. People -are so faithful here. Not changing about, not always looking for -something new. I do hope he will take us to see her, Milly.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose mamma would have no objection,” said Milly, her mind somewhat -divided on the subject.</p> - -<p>They exhausted this new theme, looking at it from every side. And at -last, much more cheerful—having, indeed, to exercise restraint upon -themselves not to chatter too much as they passed their father’s door, -and perhaps disturb him—they went to bed, no longer thinking it so -dismal. This hypothesis, which was built upon so slight a foundation, -was on the whole the most amusing and the most interesting suggestion -that had ever yet entered their minds in respect to papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="IV-gr" id="IV-gr">CHAPTER IV</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span>OBERT YORKE had gone to Canada about thirty years before the beginning -of this history. He was then a robust young man of about twenty-five, a -great athlete, and bringing from “home” all that science in cricket and -other cognate sports which people out there are proud to think is the -inheritance of every Englishman. He had begun in a very humble way, -without introductions or recommendations of any sort—a thing which made -the first steps of his course both slow and difficult; but besides being -a gentleman, which is a thing never without effect, he was a young -fellow of resolution and self-control, and there is no disadvantage in -the world which will stand against those qualities. He made his way -slowly, but very surely, always working upward. He was a man whom people -could not fail to note wherever he went, a man who was loved and hated, -or at least vehemently disliked: the mild approval of indifference never -was his. Perhaps it might even be said that the majority of people -disliked the man. He was not conciliatory. He was very silent, very -reserved, so reserved that his wife even knew nothing about him, where -he came from, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> were his relations, or if he had any. On the other -side of the Atlantic a man is permitted to be the son of his own -actions. Where there are so many new people there are not the same -researches into the antecedents of a candidate for social acceptance, as -are common among us. He did not belong to a Canadian family, but was -entirely a new man; and he was not enquired into. Any rash person who -attempted to do so made little by his motion. Such anxious inquirers as -ventured to put the question to him, whether he belonged to the Yorkes -of Hardwicke, or any other great family of the name, were met with a -stern and simple negative which made an end of them. “No,” he would say, -with a perfectly blank countenance, and remain silent, defying further -inquiry. When a man is married, then is the moment for investigations; -but though Yorke married into a very good family, a family which had -been settled in Canada for at least three generations—which is -something like coming in with the Conqueror—he would seem to have -successfully resisted all attempts to make him give an account of -himself. He said shortly that he had “no relations” to the inquiries of -his parents-in-law. It is not to be denied that they disliked this at -first; but finding that no better was to be made of it, they reflected -that it was rather a recommendation to a husband in some cases, and -permitted the marriage. Mrs Yorke was about ten years younger than her -husband,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> still a pretty woman, as she had a good right to be, having -had neither cares nor troubles to deepen the genial lines, or engrave a -single wrinkle on her pleasant countenance. She had never been required -to think of anything beyond the needs of her household. Her mind was as -fresh as her face. Though she was a great authority to her children, and -knew exactly what to do in household emergencies, and how to take care -of them all when anything was the matter with them—and even how to -manage her husband when he had one of his bad colds—she had never had -any harder intercourse with life. All went smoothly with her in its -bigger affairs. She had everything that heart could desire—according to -her position in life.</p> - -<p>That position was very different in Canada from what it would have been -at home. Here, in this old island, we ordinary folks, who modestly call -ourselves ladies and gentlemen without aspiring to rank or greatness, -are quite aware that we are out of the way of Princes and Princesses, -and Secretaries of State. When we go to London, even if we may have -arranged a royal entry into our special burgh, or been “of use” to a -wandering Prince, it never occurs to us that the Princess will have -heard of our arrival in town, and will forthwith ask us to tea. But on -the other side of the Atlantic things are different, and to be in the -best society, to be in the way of meeting, and even entertaining all the -illustrious wanderers of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> the earth, it is not necessary to be very rich -or great. Your position in life does not depend upon money, but upon -many things that are little taken into account in more formal -society—upon energy and civic services, and even sometimes upon that -faculty of keeping in the front of affairs which many people who have no -other merit possess, and which tells everywhere, more or less. The -Yorkes were not overwhelmingly rich. He had not made a colossal fortune; -but, on the other hand, his expenses were moderate. And without living -at all splendidly, or with any ostentation of wealth, it was recognised -that they were to be reckoned among the best people. They lived that -kind of life which to many people appears, or did once appear, an ideal -existence—a life of domestic comfort, of homely wealth, and family -companionship: in which Cowper’s picture of the close-drawn curtains, -the blazing fire, the hissing tea-urn was realised continually, with all -the warm family adoration and mutual knowledge, and also, perhaps, -something of the narrowness and sense of superior virtue which that -ideal implies. The Yorkes living thus quite simply and domestically, -parents and children together, had a position which people possessing -six times their income, and living ten times as expensively, would not -have had in England. They kept no more than one homely little carriage -of all work, and were served in-doors by maidservants; but, -notwithstanding, they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> among “the best people,” and were not afraid -to offer their simple hospitality, in happy ignorance of its want of -splendour, to all the strangers who pleased them, and sometimes, among -these, to very great people indeed.</p> - -<p>While their children were young it had been several times proposed that -Mr and Mrs Yorke should go “home” on a visit, to see England, and the -ways of the old world. Mrs Yorke in particular, who had never been in -England in her life, had been much excited by the idea of going “home;” -but many things came in the way. Sometimes the drawback was on her side, -in the shape of babies, or other natural impediments of a young mother’s -career; and sometimes on his, in claims of business. Indeed, it had been -generally remarked by all the friends of the family that Yorke himself -never showed any great inclination to go home. After it had all been -settled over and over again that they were to go, it came to be a -foregone conclusion with all observers that something would certainly -come in the way to change all the plans. Yet nobody could say that Yorke -was to blame; the accidents that detained and deterred them were -perfectly natural, and so far as could be seen, quite unavoidable. After -the two elder girls grew up matters became more pressing, for while Mrs -Yorke, with her children always on her mind, very easily accepted any -excuse for giving up an expedition which must have carried her away -from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> them, Grace and Milly had no such reasons to hold them back, and -clamoured for the tour in which they themselves were to have a share.</p> - -<p>What it was which at last decided their father to this journey, nobody -knew. He was no more explanatory upon this matter than upon so many -others. All he did was to announce one evening, coming back from his -business, that he thought if they could get ready to start by next mail -he really would be able to go. There was reality, and there was meaning -in his tone. This time nobody said, “You will see: nothing will come of -it.” From the very beginning everything was different this time. He went -at once and inquired about berths in the steamers; he inquired after the -outfits, the preparations which the ladies had to make, warning them -that they could get all the new fashions in London—“or in Paris,” he -added, seeing the smile of scorn upon the girls’ faces. But by this time -Mrs Yorke had become more reluctant than ever to leave her little -children, and encounter all the troubles of a long voyage. She had grown -a little stout, not more than was becoming, all her friends said, though -people who did not take any interest in her good looks were perhaps less -flattering; and with this increased fulness there had come an increased -disinclination to budge. She made a thousand excuses. Reginald was a -little delicate. Lenny was just at that crisis in his education when, if -he was not kept up to his work, something dreadful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> might happen. (“And -mamma thinks she can keep him up to his work!” the girls said aside, -with incredulous laughter; for, indeed, she was always the first to find -out that he had a headache, and that health was of far more importance -than any examination.) Then little Mary, the baby, had not yet got all -her teeth. “And how a woman could find it in her heart to leave a baby -teething—when everybody knows convulsions may come on at any moment,” -Mrs Yorke protested she did not know. The end was that two days before -the day of sailing, she announced point-blank that it was impossible. -She could not do it. Home! why this was home, where they had all been -born. She was very glad that the girls should go, who had the energy: -but she had not the energy; and the little ones wanted her. All the -bystanders, breaking out into accustomed smiles, declared that they knew -it from the beginning. When it was not one thing it was another. When it -was not Robert Yorke who could not leave his office, it was Louisa who -could not leave her nursery—everybody knew from the first mention of -the plan that it never would be carried out.</p> - -<p>But this conclusion, though so often justified, was not infallible. On -hearing, in an outburst of despair from the girls, mamma’s resolution, -Mr Yorke stood stoutly to his colours. It was very unfortunate that -mamma should feel so, but in that case he must go without her, he said; -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> he believed that he could take care of Grace and Milly, so as not -to lose the passage money altogether. Mrs Yorke was very thankful to -consent to the compromise. She was not of an anxious mind; everything -had gone well in her family up to this time; there had been no losses, -no accidents; there was no tradition of misfortune in the household, -such as chills the hearts of some; and she saw them go with a cheerful -countenance. The wind blew rather strong the first night, nothing to -hurt, only a quarter of a gale; and she shuddered, and was thankful she -was not with them. “Robert is an excellent sailor, and the girls are -young. They were never at sea before; they will take pleasure in being a -little ill as a new experience. But I cannot bear it, it puts me out -altogether. I am thankful I am not with them,” she said; and so settled -herself quite quietly with her nursery tea-party to wait till the -travellers should return; which would be “such an amusement.”</p> - -<p>This is how it happened that Mr Yorke and his daughters came to England -without her. The girls lamented her withdrawal loudly; but Yorke himself -said little. He made a half confidence to her the evening before they -left. “To tell the truth,” he said, “it is something I saw in the -English papers that decided me, something about some property.”</p> - -<p>“What property?” said Mrs Yorke, to whom, as she had six children, the -question of property<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> was by no means uninteresting; but he only said, -“It may come to nothing. I will tell you all about it when I come back.” -She had curiosity enough after he was gone to send to the office for the -old newspapers, and to examine them carefully to see if she could find -any clue to this mysterious speech; but she could not. And she was an -easy-going soul, and found it not in the least impossible to wait for -the information until he should come home.</p> - -<p>Thus the father and daughters crossed the Atlantic, justifying her easy -confidence in the invariable good fortune of the family by having a most -prosperous voyage. And nothing could be more bright than the cheerful -assault with which the two girls on that first morning took possession -of London and all its associations. They had a delightful morning, but -not a very cheerful night. As, however, the girls were both alive to the -thought that a cold generally (“very often,” said Milly; “almost -always,” cried Grace, more confidently still) goes off, when proper -precautions are taken, in the night—they consoled themselves. To-morrow -is always a new day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="V-gr" id="V-gr">CHAPTER V</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE girls knew nothing more till next morning. There was no reason why -they should be alarmed. After all a cold is no such great matter. When -they went to bed they went to sleep, as is natural at their age, and -heard nothing more till they were up and dressed, having almost -forgotten their father’s illness altogether. Before, however, they were -quite ready to leave their room, something occurred which startled them -greatly. There was a knock at the door, in which of itself there was an -alarming sound. Mystery and meaning were in it far beyond the sound of -an ordinary knock. When one of them rushed to open it, a woman came in -of imposing appearance. She did not speak to them at the door, as the -servants of the hotel did, but came in even without being asked. -Importance was in her look, in her rustling silk dress and lofty cap, in -her soft and almost stately step.</p> - -<p>“My dear young ladies,” she said, “you must not be alarmed;” and with -this came in, and with her hand behind her shut the door. Naturally the -girls’ imagination immediately leapt at things terrible—bad news from -Canada, a summons home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>“What is the matter? Is it a telegram?” they cried with one breath.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it is no telegram; fortunately, the poor gentleman is in his -own comfortable room, where he will be seen to as comfortably as if he -were at home. He said you were not to be alarmed.”</p> - -<p>“We are thoroughly alarmed now,” said Grace; “tell us the truth at -once.”</p> - -<p>“Your poor papa, my dear young ladies, is very poorly,” said their -visitor. “I am the manageress of this hotel. He rang his bell in the -night, and we sent for a doctor; everything has been done that could -have been done. I made the mustard with my own hands for his poultice. -We are always ready in our great way of business for everything that can -be required. I had the <i>Foil de Rigolette</i> ready, but he preferred -mustard. Everything was done that could be done.”</p> - -<p>The two girls instinctively had drawn together, and caught each other by -the arm in mutual support. “Oh, tell us, tell us,” they cried; “is -papa——” and then their lips refused to fashion the other dreadful word -that leapt to them. The manageress was satisfied with the effect she had -produced. Instead of the fresh and cheerful girls to whom she had -introduced herself, two woebegone and colourless ghosts stood before her -trembling with dismay and terror.</p> - -<p>Then she nodded her head encouragingly. “A little better—yes, a little -better. We have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> as much progress, the medical gentleman says, as -can be expected in such a sharp attack. Mustard chest and back have -eased the breathing, and though he does not wish it to be concealed from -you that it is a very sharp attack——”</p> - -<p>Milly dropped her sister’s arm, and, sinking down upon a chair, fell -a-weeping in mingled excitement and terror and relief. Grace stood -still, holding by the table for support, very pale, and with trembling -lips.</p> - -<p>“You have not told us what it is. He had a bad cold.”</p> - -<p>“That is how it always begins,” said the manageress; “but you will have -the consolation of knowing that it has been taken in time, and that -everything has been done. I was called up at once, and I have given him -my best attention. I always say I am half a doctor myself. Yes, it is -congestion of the lungs; but you must not be alarmed—indeed you must -not be alarmed, my dear young ladies; there’s no reason to suppose that -he won’t recover——”</p> - -<p>“Recover!” they both cried together like a lamentable echo, turning -towards her four beseeching eyes, as if she held in her hand the issues -of fate.</p> - -<p>“And do well—and do well,” she said hastily. “That’s what I meant. Go -and take some breakfast, and fortify yourselves like good dears; and -when the doctor comes, we’ll see. You can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> ask him; and if the sight of -you wouldn’t agitate your poor papa——”</p> - -<p>Why should it agitate him? Why should it not be the most natural thing -in the world to see them by his bedside? That this should not have been -his first thought was beyond measure extraordinary to the girls; but -they yielded to the wonderful, appalling argument after a little. If it -would agitate him, if it might hurt him, whatever it might cost them, -they must stay away. There could not be any question about that. After a -while they went, sick-hearted and miserable, into the sitting-room where -their breakfast was laid, and where, the one persuading the other, they -swallowed each a cup of tea. Then they sat down to wait the coming of -the doctor. They had a long time to wait. It was a bright morning after -the rain, and they sat at the window and watched all the comings and -goings in the dingy London street. Opposite to them was a tall house -with a balcony, filling up all the horizon; and the tradesmen’s carts -jostled up and down for an hour or two, and lugubrious organ-grinders -stopped underneath, encouraged by the sight of the two faces, possible -listeners, which appeared at their window. And thus the first of the -morning passed, and hansom cabs began to rattle about, depositing, with -loud clang and hum, now young men and now old, at the different doors; -and the stream of passers-by quickened; and postmen and telegraph boys -came and went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> with sharp rattles of knocking; and quick footsteps -beating up and down the street. The girls were not always at the window: -now one, now another would go to the door of the sick-room and listen to -the sounds inside. And sometimes the door would be opened, and something -asked for, which Grace or Milly, far more rapid than any waiter, would -rush to get. “Just the same, just the same,” was all the nurse could say -to them. They began to feel as if they were entirely dependent upon this -woman, and that in her hand was the decision of all.</p> - -<p>When the doctor appeared at last he was so rapid and so hurried that it -was all they could do to get him to pause to speak to them as he left -the room. “No better; but I did not expect it,” he said. “No worse: -these things must take their course.”</p> - -<p>“But we are his daughters,” cried Grace. “Is it possible that you will -shut us out from his bedside? Whenever he has been ill, we have always -nursed him. Oh, why must we be kept out now?”</p> - -<p>“Always nursed him?” said the doctor; “that is well thought of. Step in -here. Do you mean to say that he has had this before?”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said Grace. “He has had bad colds, very bad colds. Mamma -was always anxious when he had one of his colds.”</p> - -<p>“And mamma told us above all things that we must not allow him to catch -cold,” cried Milly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> “Oh, how badly we must have managed! but how could -we know? and what could we do? And it was only the second night.”</p> - -<p>The doctor was quick-witted and sympathetic; but naturally he thought of -his patient as a case, and not as a man. “Not to allow him to catch -cold! that’s easier said than done,” he said with a half-smile, shaking -his head. “I thought there must be delicacy of the chest to begin with; -all that could not have been done in one day.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, there was no delicacy; he was always well and strong—always -strong,” the girls cried, emulating and supplementing each other. They -poured upon him instantly a hundred examples of their father’s -robustness. He had never been ill in his life, except with a cold, and -everybody has colds. He never took any special care. Mamma was anxious, -but then mamma was always anxious about us all, though we are known to -be the healthiest family! To all these eager explanations Doctor Brewer -listened with that half-smile, shaking his head; but he was interested. -From looking at this matter as only a case, he began to realise the -human creatures involved in it, and to perceive that the man who was ill -was the head of an anxious, probably dependent family, and that these -two pale, frightened, eager girls, with their young beauty all obscured -by this cloud of pale terror and confusion, were his children. He began -to look at them with a certain tenderness of pity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>“You are very young,” he said at last, when they gave him time to speak. -“I think you had better telegraph at once for your mother.”</p> - -<p>“For mamma?” their faces were pale before, but this suggestion withdrew -from them every tinge of colour.</p> - -<p>“She is the best nurse he can have; she ought to be here to take care of -you in any case. Give me her address, and I will telegraph. She ought to -know at once.”</p> - -<p>“Doctor!” said Grace, separating herself from her sister, “oh, let <i>us</i> -know at once. Is it so serious? is it dangerous? I am not very young, -and I am the eldest, and have had a great deal of experience. Mamma -could not be here for nearly a fortnight; and think what a thing it -would be, the long voyage alone, and the fear of what she might find -when she came, and no news—no news for ten days or more—for she might -not have so good a passage as we had. And then she has never been used -to travel, or do anything by herself. Oh, doctor, do you think—do you -think that it is so serious as that?”</p> - -<p>“Where is your mother?” he said.</p> - -<p>“In Canada,” they both cried in one breath.</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer began to be more interested than was at all justifiable in -what was after all only one case out of a hundred. “Poor children! poor -children!” he said. They stood with their faces intent upon him, four -great brown eyes, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> eyelids curved and puckered over them in -deep arches of anxiety and terror, appealing as if to a god who could -kill and make alive. He was overcome by this passionate trouble and -suspense. He put out his hand (he had children of his own) and touched -lightly with a soothing touch the nearest shoulder. “You must not be -frightened,” he said. “I see you are brave girls; you will do your duty. -No; if she is so far away as that, we will not frighten your mother -to-day—not to-day.”</p> - -<p>“You think he is very ill?” they said, searching his face as if it were -full of secret folds and hieroglyphics which searching could find out.</p> - -<p>“He has a sharp attack. Come, one of you shall go, one at a time, and be -at hand if anything is wanted. I sent him a nurse last night, whom I -happened to be able to lay my hand upon. She will want a rest -occasionally. If you will obey orders exactly, and call her whenever you -are at a loss—one at a time.”</p> - -<p>“Milly is not strong—not so very strong,” cried Grace; “let it be me. I -nursed them all when we had scarlet fever: and I never cry nor break -down.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace! I should not cry if I were with papa,” cried Milly, with -streaming eyes.</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer almost cried too. He was tender-hearted, as so many doctors -are, and then he had girls of his own. But he could not spend all his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> -morning with these two pretty forlorn creatures, and their father, who -was struggling for his life.</p> - -<p>This went on for more than a week, during which there was to these poor -girls neither night nor day, but all one confused languor and excitement -and anxiety; the monotony of the sick-room, broken only by now and then -a terrified consultation with nurse and doctor, or between themselves, -as to what was to be done. During all this time they defended their -mother from the telegram with which the doctor had threatened her. The -more they thought of it the more impossible it seemed that she should be -summoned upon such a journey at a moment’s notice and kept, during all -its course, in the terrible anxiety which was inevitable if once she -knew what was hanging over them. After the first days Dr Brewer himself -did not urge it. He said to himself that all would be settled one way or -other before the poor woman could come: and that the girls, poor things! -must bear it as they could if matters came to the worst.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, as the dreary days went on, the sick-room, in its stillness -and monotony, became the scene of one of those hand-to-hand struggles -with death in which there is all the terrible force of a tragedy to -those who are aware of the conclusion which is drawing nigh; but it is -seldom that the persons who are most interested are aware of this. And -Grace and Milly were too young and inexperienced to realise more than -that papa was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> better from morning to morning, from night to night. -There was always one of them in the room with the nurse, and -occasionally Mr Yorke was well enough to talk to them. But either he did -not realise the seriousness of his own position, or the torpor of -approaching death, and the self-absorption of weakness and suffering had -begun to steal over him. He liked Grace to do what was needful for him, -but smiled at poor little Milly, bidding her run away and amuse herself. -“You ought to be doing something. You ought to be taking advantage of -your opportunities. Who knows if you will ever be in London again?” he -said, once or twice, with that strange forgetfulness of all the -circumstances which bewildered the girls; but either he had nothing -important to say, or, in the languor of his illness, he deferred the -saying of it, preferring to turn his face to the wall and escape from -all consideration of what was coming. Once only this silence was broken; -but not to much purpose. He had asked for something to drink; and as -Grace raised him—she could do this now as easily as if he had been a -child—he caught and was touched by the look of anxiety on her face.</p> - -<p>“Poor little Grace!” he said, when he was laid back again upon his -pillow, “this is a curious way of enjoying London.” He had not much -breath to talk, and had to pause between his words.</p> - -<p>“Not at all, papa. Yes, it is dreadful for you to have to suffer, but -for me quite natural, you being ill.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span></p> - -<p>Then he gave a feeble laugh. “Your mother—will not suppose—that we are -engaged like this.”</p> - -<p>“Milly has written to say you are not well.”</p> - -<p>“Not well—that was right—not to make her anxious.” He laughed a little -again. “But she will have to be told—some day: my poor Milly.” This was -his wife’s name as well as his child’s.</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa, when you are quite well again. She will not mind then; but -don’t you think that it is best to say little till you are better? for -she would be so anxious; and what would be the use of bringing her over, -when you will be all right again before she could get here?”</p> - -<p>“I shall be all right again,” he said, pausing upon each word. The smile -had gone off his face. He seemed to weigh the words, and drop them one -by one. Was he asking himself whether that would ever be, or only -lingering for want of breath? “Remind me,” he said, “of the people I -went to see: there is something I want—to tell you about. But I -can’t—be troubled now,” and with that he turned once more, as he was so -fond of doing, his face to the wall.</p> - -<p>Thus the melancholy days went on. Grace had begun to feel something -fatal in the air, but Milly had not yet gone farther than the fact that -papa was very ill, and that it might be weeks before he was well again, -when Dr Brewer came into their room after his nightly visit. They had -been trying to eat something, which they simply acknowledged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> as a duty, -but did not know how to get through. Their meals were the most dreadful -moments of their day, the only things that marked its melancholy course. -The doctor came in, not hurriedly, as he usually did. He drew a chair to -the table and sat down beside them. “What are you having—tea? I never -told you to take tea,” he said.</p> - -<p>“It is so easy to take,” Milly pleaded, “far easier than anything else.”</p> - -<p>“In the meantime you must have some wine,” he said, ringing the bell; -“yes, yes, you must take it whether you like it or not. Now tell me a -little about yourselves, as I have some time to myself to-night. My wife -was talking of coming to see you. I have never heard anything about your -friends in London. It is time to think of looking them up——”</p> - -<p>“That means papa is better,” said Milly. “I knew it from the first -moment, as soon as I saw the doctor’s kind face.”</p> - -<p>He turned his kind face away from them with a forced smile. He could not -bear to meet their anxious eyes.</p> - -<p>“But we have no friends—not to call friends,” said Grace, who was not -quite so sure as Milly, and yet was so glad to take Milly’s opinion for -this once. “We have letters to quantities of people, and some of them we -have seen at home. There is Lord Conway,” she said with a little -hesitation—“he once stayed at our house. It is a long time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> ago, but we -thought—oh, we did not want him to ask us, especially since papa has -been ill. It would be dreadful to have a long illness in a stranger’s -house.”</p> - -<p>“Lord Conway!” Dr Brewer said, bewildered.</p> - -<p>“But we don’t know him, not as you know your friends,” Grace made haste -to add; “we don’t know any one in that way. They are all people who have -been in Canada, or the friends of people who have been in Canada.”</p> - -<p>The doctor shook his head. “Do you mean that you know nobody, my poor -dear children? You have no <i>friends</i>—people who really are acquainted -with you, who would take a little trouble for you, whom you could have -recourse to——” Here he stopped, confused, feeling Grace’s eye upon -him. “I thought you might have—relations even, on this side of the -water,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Whom we could have recourse to!” said Grace—“oh, doctor, tell us, tell -us what you mean! Why should we want to have recourse to any one? That -means more than ordinary words——”</p> - -<p>“He means—to show us some civility—to show us England—now that papa -is going to get better,” said Milly, throwing back her head with a -pretty movement of pleasure. But Dr Brewer did not raise his eyes. He -could not face them, the one so anxious to divine his meaning, the other -happy in her mistake. Milly was talkative and effusive in her joy. “Now -we ought to telegraph to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> mamma,” she cried. “She will have got the -first letter saying how ill papa was. It will be delightful to relieve -her mind all in a moment—to tell her he is getting well, almost as soon -as she knew that he was ill. We must telegraph to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer still did not meet Grace’s anxious gaze, which would have read -his face in a moment. “You are very young,” he said, “to have had such -a—responsibility upon you. You have been very brave hitherto, and you -will not break down now. I am afraid, indeed, that I shall have to -telegraph to your mother—very soon now.”</p> - -<p>It was his tone more than what he said which disturbed Milly in her -happy confidence. She turned round suddenly and looked with an awful -inquiry, not at him but at Grace. Grace for her part, trembling, had -grasped Dr Brewer by the arm. “Doctor!” she said in a strange, stifled -voice. She could not say any more.</p> - -<p>He covered her soft little thin hand with his and patted it gently. “My -poor dear children,” he said, “my poor children! how can I tell you——” -His voice was broken. It told all he had to say without the aid of any -words. How could he put it into words? For a moment it seemed to the -doctor as if the man’s death must be his fault, and that they would have -a right to upbraid him for letting their father die. He sat there with -his head drooped and with his heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> full of sympathetic anguish, not -knowing what might happen next.</p> - -<p>Milly gave a great cry. She had not feared all this time, and just now -she had been happy and triumphant in the thought that danger was over. -She cried out and threw herself suddenly on the ground at the doctor’s -feet. “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “Oh, don’t let it be. Don’t let it be! -Doctor, think of us poor girls; think of mamma and all the children; -doctor, doctor!” said Milly, her voice rising louder and louder in her -despair.</p> - -<p>Grace had not said anything. She stood, her face all quivering with -anguish, her eyes fixed upon him. She seemed to take up the last -quivering note of Milly’s cry—“Is there no hope?” she said.</p> - -<p>The doctor shook his head. He laid his hand tenderly upon poor Milly’s -hair—every line of his face was working. “Listen to me,” he said, his -voice trembling. “You have been very courageous, very good hitherto—and -now there is one last effort before you. You at least will stand by him -to the end. You will not make it worse, but better for him, Grace.”</p> - -<p>The girl tried to speak two or three times before the words would come. -When she found utterance at last what she said was scarcely -intelligible. It was, “And Milly too.”</p> - -<p>“It would be better, far better, that she should lie down and try to -rest. I will give her something;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> but you—you must come with me, -Grace.”</p> - -<p>“And Milly too,” the girl said again, as if these were the only words -she was capable of. She gathered up her sister from where she lay at the -doctor’s feet, and whispered to her, smoothing away her disordered hair. -Milly was not able to stand. She leaned her weight upon her sister; her -pretty hair fell about her face, all wild and distorted with crying. She -wanted to get down again to the floor to kneel at the doctor’s feet. “He -could do something still if he were to try. Oh, Gracie, Gracie! think of -us two miserable girls, and mamma, and all the children. He could do -something if he were to try.”</p> - -<p>“Milly! we have got to stand by him—to keep up his heart——”</p> - -<p>“I cannot stand—I cannot stand, I think I will die. Oh, doctor, doctor! -do something, find out something! Couldn’t you do something if you were -to try?”</p> - -<p>“Milly, am I to go alone—the last time—to papa?”</p> - -<p>“Put our blood into him,” cried Milly, holding up her small white -wrists. “They do that sometimes. Take mine—oh, every drop!—and Grace’s -too. Doctor, doctor! you could do something if you were to try.”</p> - -<p>For weeks after, this cry rang in the good doctor’s ears. They both -caught at the idea; even Grace, who had command of herself. How easy it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> -seemed!—to take the young blood out of their veins and pour it, like -new life, into his. Sometimes it is done in stories—why not, why not, -in actual life? Their voices ran into a kind of clamour, imploring him. -It was long before the impression made by this scene left the doctor’s -mind and recollection. Nevertheless, that night both the girls stood by -their father’s bedside quietly enough, making no scene, watching eagerly -for any last word he might have to say to them. But how few of the dying -have any last words to say! He opened his eyes, and smiled vaguely twice -or thrice, as though all had been quite happy and simple around him—he -had gone out of the region in which anxieties dwell. Perhaps he did not -remember that he was leaving them helpless among strangers—or if he -knew, the ebb of the wave had caught him and he could feel nothing but -the last floating out to sea, the sound of the waters, the tide of the -new life.</p> - -<p>Left to themselves in such circumstances, the poor girls had no -alternative but to be crushed altogether, or to rise into heroic -fortitude; and happily Grace had strength enough for that better part. -She dressed herself, when the dreadful morning came, in the only black -frock her wardrobe contained, with the composure of a creature braced by -the worst that could happen, and knowing now that whatever might come, -nothing so terrible could fall on her again. The shock, instead<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> of -prostrating her as it did her sister, seemed to rally all her forces, -and clear and strengthen every faculty. She had scarcely slept, -notwithstanding the calming dose which the doctor in his pity had -insisted upon administering to both. It procured for poor little Milly -some hours of feverish unconsciousness, but with Grace it acted on the -mind, not the body, numbing the pain but giving an unnatural and vivid -force to all her faculties. Her brain seemed to be beset by thoughts; -and first among them was a yearning sympathy and pity for her mother. -The sudden shock of a curtly worded telegram would be so novel, so -terrible, to that happy woman, who never all her life had known what -great sorrow was, that her young daughter shuddered at the thought.</p> - -<p>As soon as she got up she began to write to her, while Milly still -tossed and moaned in her unquiet sleep. Grace’s letter was such as no -poet, save one of the highest genius, could have written. It was love -and not she that composed it. It was a history of all the last days, -tender and distinct as a picture. Every word that she said led up to the -terrible news at the end, imperceptibly, gradually, as it is the art of -tragedy to do, so that the reader should perceive the inevitable and -feel it coming without the horror of a sudden shock. When her sister -woke she read this letter to her, and they wept over it together. It was -almost as new to Milly as it would be to her mother, for she had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> -realised the slow constant progress of the days to this event, nor had -Grace herself done so, till she had begun to put it down upon paper. -When the doctor came in the morning the letter was all ready, put up and -addressed; and then it was that Grace insisted no telegram should be -sent.</p> - -<p>“Mamma has never had any trouble all her life. He always did everything. -Nothing dreadful has ever happened to us. The children have been ill, -but they always got better. We never were afraid of anything. If this -were flung at mamma like a shot—like a blow—it might kill her too.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it might kill her too,” Milly murmured, turning to the doctor her -large strained eyes.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear children, somebody must come to you at once; you can’t be -left here alone. Your mother will be strengthened to bear it as you are, -and for your sake. Somebody must come to you at once.”</p> - -<p>“O Gracie!” murmured Milly, looking at her sister with beseeching eyes.</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Grace steadily. “That is just what I cannot see. Nobody -could wish mamma to come now. What good would it do? It would be -dreadful for her;—and to him—to him!—--”</p> - -<p>Here, brave as she was, she had to stop, and could not say any more.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said the doctor softly, “your father is beyond all need. He -is safe now, whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> happens; but you—what can you do? Somebody must -come at once to take care of you, to take you home.”</p> - -<p>Once more Milly’s eyes travelled from Grace to the doctor, and back -again. To have some one to take care of them sounded to Milly the only -thing that was left on earth to desire.</p> - -<p>“No one,” said Grace, wondering at her own calm, “could be here for a -fortnight; and the first days will be the worst. After that things will -be easier. Don’t you see, everything that can happen will have happened -then; and why should some one—for it could not be mamma now, Milly; it -would not be mamma: why should some one be disturbed and made -uncomfortable, and forced to start at a moment’s notice, only to take -care of us? I can take care of Milly, and we can go home.” Another pause -till the tears were swallowed somehow. “It will be less hard, on the -whole, to go home by ourselves, than with any one else.”</p> - -<p>The doctor was struck by this argument. He looked at them anxiously, -fragile as they were, looking like shadows of girls after the long -anxiety and strain of these ten days.</p> - -<p>“Do you think,” he said, doubtful, “that you are able for it?”</p> - -<p>“Able!” said Grace with the petulance of grief. “What is there to be -able for now? We have borne the worst. If it had been a week ago, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> I -had known what was coming, I should have said, No, we were not able. But -now!” the girl cried with a kind of disdain, “now we have suffered all -that can be suffered, doctor. We can never lose our father again.”</p> - -<p>Here Milly broke out into hysterical cries.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, papa! Oh, Grace! What shall we do? What shall we do?”</p> - -<p>Grace took her sister into her arms standing by the bedside, while the -other sat up, her hair hanging about her, her face distraught with a -passion of grief over which she had no control. The tears rained from -Grace’s eyes, but she stood firm as a rock.</p> - -<p>“We must bear it,” she said; “we must bear it, Milly. We cannot have -that to bear again. We will not make it harder for mamma.”</p> - -<p>This scene upset the kind doctor for the day; he could not give his -attention to the other cases which awaited him for thinking of this -heartrending picture. And as for the nurse, whose services were -imperatively demanded for another “case”—she could not bear to take -leave of them at all, but stole away as if she had done them a wrong.</p> - -<p>“How could any woman with a heart in her bosom leave them in their -trouble?” she said, sobbing, to the doctor; “but I am not a woman, I am -only a nurse——”</p> - -<p>“And there is a life to be preserved,” the doctor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> said. The woman, -after all, was only a woman, petulant and unreasonable.</p> - -<p>“We are all fools and know nothing. We could not save this life,” she -said, “though there were no complications.”</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer, too, felt a little ashamed. What was the good of him? He had -done everything that his science was capable of, but that had been -nothing. Old Death, the oldest of practitioners and the most -experienced, had laughed at him, and out of his very hands had taken the -prey.</p> - -<p>The girls never knew what happened till the funeral was over; and yet it -troubled them in the midst of their distress that there was nobody to -ask to it, no train of mourners to do honour to their father. They went -themselves, following the lonely coffin, and the doctor, half ashamed, -half astonished at his own emotion, went with them, to see the stranger -buried. He had sent the introductory letter to the Colonial office, -accompanied by a statement of the circumstances; but the Minister was up -to his eyes in parliamentary work, and his aides knew nothing about Mr -Robert Yorke of Quebec. The landlord, out of respect for what had -happened in his own house—though at first he had been very angry that -any one should have taken such a liberty as to die in his house at the -beginning of the season—followed at a little distance. He came by -himself in the second mourning coach which the undertakers felt to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> -necessary, and in which it was well there should be some one for the -sake of respectability. Notwithstanding all that had been said and done, -it did not seem to the girls that they had ever realised what had -happened till they came back that dreary afternoon, and sat down hand in -hand in their sitting-room, the door closed upon all things, the murk -evening closing in, and nothing to look forward to now—nothing to think -of but their own desolation. They “broke down;” what could they do else? -But when there are two to break down, it is inevitable that one of the -two must see the vanity of tears and make an effort to check them.</p> - -<p>“We cannot go on like this,” Grace said. “We will only kill ourselves -too; that will not be any comfort for mamma. In the first place, we must -find out whether there was anything that—papa wanted done while he was -in England. Yes! I mean to talk of him,” she said, “just as if he were -in Canada, as if he were next door; he must not be banished from his own -because he is dead. Mamma will never let him be forgotten and put aside. -We must accustom ourselves to talk about him. Perhaps there was -something he wanted done. Do you recollect, Milly? he went away by -himself that night?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace,” cried her sister, “whoever they are, I hate those people. -They were the cause of it. He would never have caught cold but for—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Hush,” said Grace, “we must not hate anybody. I should like to go and -ask about them; they must have been old—friends.”</p> - -<p>It was at this moment that the waiter came in—the waiter who had always -been so kind to them. He came in with a countenance regulated to the -occasion.</p> - -<p>“Young ladies,” he said, “here’s a gentleman below inquiring for a party -as has come from Canada. It’s not a name as ever I heard before. Mr -Crosthwaite, he’s asking for. I said as I did not like to disturb you -such a day; but if so be as you might have heard speak of the name—from -Canada.”</p> - -<p>Grief is irritable, and Grace turned upon the questioner with quick -resentment. “Oh, how can you come and ask <i>us</i>?” she cried. “Is there -nobody in your house to be disturbed but my sister and me?”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Miss,” said the waiter, “I hope I’m not unfeeling. -Nobody could have felt more—if it ain’t disrespectful to say -so—according to their station in life. If it hadn’t a been that the -manageress is that cantankerous about a death in the house I’d have -followed the poor gentleman willingly to his last ’ome, and never -grudged no trouble; but when a gentleman comes to me and asks for a -party as arrived from Canada a fortnight ago——”</p> - -<p>The two girls looked at each other. Was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> this, perhaps, the clue for -which they were looking? They felt that it was wrong and a breach of the -decorum of their sorrow that they should see any one on this day: but -if, perhaps, this might be the clue they sought. “Arrived from Canada—a -fortnight ago?” it seemed years—but they gulped down that thought. “We -did so, you know,” said Grace, “but that is not our name. I know no one -of that name. Did you say——?”</p> - -<p>“I told him all as had happened, miss,” said the sympathetic waiter who -brought the message, “and the gentleman was very sorry. He’s a feeling -gentleman, whoever he is. He said, ‘Poor young ladies!’ as feeling as I -could have done it myself; but he’s very anxious about this name -Crosthwaite, or whatever it is. I said you was very considerate, and -that if you could help him I made sure I might ask you. He would have -liked to speak to any one as was from Canada,” the waiter said.</p> - -<p>Again the girls looked at each other. Any one from Canada! Perhaps, -though they did not know any Crosthwaites, they might know the gentleman -who was inquiring for them; and even the sight of some one from home -would be a kind of consolation. Grace, with a look, consulted Milly, who -had no counsel to give, but only appealed back again to Grace with her -beautiful eyes. Then the elder sister said, tremblingly, “We are not fit -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> see any one; but if he thinks it will help him you may let him come -up-stairs.” She said this with a sigh of what she felt to be extreme -reluctance; but yet even the vaguest hope of an unknown friend and of -some succour in their trouble gave a new turn to their thoughts.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes the door opened again and the visitor came in. The -girls were sitting together at one side of the table, two faint candles -throwing a white light upon each white face. They looked small and -young, almost childish, in their black dresses, and there was an anxious -look upon the two little wan girlish countenances. The stranger came in -with some diffidence. They could scarcely make out his face, but they -saw at once that it was somebody unknown; and the look of expectation -faded at once out of their eyes. They looked at each other with a -piteous mutual disappointment.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I fear this is an intrusion for which -there is no excuse. I am looking for a gentleman who has been long in -Canada—Robert Leonard Crosthwaite was his name: but I have some reason -to suppose——”</p> - -<p>“We never heard the name,” said Grace. “We are very sorry. We came from -Quebec. Canada is a large place. It might be in another part.”</p> - -<p>“He had been a very long time out of England. He came back only a few -weeks ago. We were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> sure—we thought we were sure—that he came to this -hotel.”</p> - -<p>The girls both shook their heads. “If there had been any other Canadian -person here we must have heard. They would have come to us,” said Grace, -with a sob only half concealed.</p> - -<p>“It is very important,” said the young man. “There is property -concerned, and the comfort of several people. Everybody thought he was -dead. It will upset the arrangements of a family—and make those poor -who were well off,” he said in an undertone, to himself, rather than to -them.</p> - -<p>The girls looked at him with interest. There seemed a story involved, -and that gave them a sensation that, if not pleasure, was, at least, -relief from the pressure of their own continuously painful thoughts. -Milly even ventured a little “Oh!” of wistful interest. Then he went on -hastily—</p> - -<p>“Pardon me: I ought not to disturb you. You can give me no clue? This -gentleman must have arrived about the same time as I hear you did. I -know—I know how painfully your time has been occupied. I am ashamed to -trouble you: but do you not think you could give me a clue——”</p> - -<p>“We never heard the name,” said Grace. “We could write home and ask, but -that would not be of much use. We are going back,” she added with an -explanatoriness which perhaps was not necessary, “as soon as——” But -here her little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> strength broke down, and she could not say any more.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, I beg a thousand pardons,” the young man cried. -“Forgive me for intruding upon you.” And he turned with a respectful -bow; and opened the door; but when he had done this he turned again and -looked at them once more. “You will excuse me,” he said in a voice which -was full of emotion, “but I have a mother. If she could be of any use to -you——”</p> - -<p>Here the girls, being so weeping-ripe, again lost their self-control -altogether. Milly began to sob audibly, throwing herself upon her -sister’s shoulder, and the tears dropped heavily one by one from Grace’s -eyes. She put one arm round poor Milly, and turned, with a tremulous -smile through her tears, to the stranger.</p> - -<p>“Thank you for being so kind,” she said. “You are very kind; but we are -not quite so miserable as perhaps you think. We have got our mother too. -We are waiting till she tells us what to do.”</p> - -<p>He said nothing but “Oh!” and stood for a moment uncertain, not knowing -what to say. But what could a stranger say? He was obliged to turn again -and go away, after a great many fumblings with the door.</p> - -<p>Next morning they began, sadly, the necessary work of putting away their -father’s papers and his little personal possessions. In his -writing-book<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> there was a letter half written to their mother, which -they put aside carefully as a sacred thing, not looking, for love, at -his last words. But on one of the pages of the blotting-book they found -once more the address which had excited their curiosity before, “3 Grove -Road, Hampstead,” written obliquely across the page. It was repeated on -a scrap of paper which marked his place in the book which they -remembered he had been reading, and on which, besides, there were some -jottings of dates and names which they did not understand. These -were—“Left July ’45—— U. A. died ’55—— due with interest for 20 -years——.” The word “interest” discouraged the girls; it must be -something about business, they thought. This perpetually recurring -address, however, bewildered them. They went on with their sad -occupation without saying much to each other, but when they sat down to -rest and to take the food which their youthful appetites began to -demand, notwithstanding their trouble, Grace suddenly broke the silence.</p> - -<p>“It must be some old friend, who lives there,” she said.</p> - -<p>Milly made no reply in words, but she looked up with instant response -and comprehension.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Grace, “we ought to go and see who it is. It might be a -relation. It might be some one who would stand by us: we are so very -lonely here. It might be some—lady. I think we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> should go—directly—as -soon as you are ready, Milly.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am ready,” Milly said, starting up. The new idea gave them a -little spring and energy. They almost ran to put on their little crape -bonnets and their out-door jackets—which had been made for them at the -pleasure of the dressmaker, hastily summoned and allowed to work her -will—and which were heavy and laden with crape. They were like -monuments of woe, from head to foot, in these garments; their two little -pale faces, so white and so small, looking out with increased pallor -from their heavy black. Milly had a good deal of gold and a good deal of -curl in her light brown hair, which shone out with double force from -these gloomy surroundings, like a protest of nature. Grace’s locks were -darker and smoother. She was the least pretty of the two, but her eyes -were larger and more expressive than those fawn eyes of Milly’s, which -at present wore but one look, that of startled wistfulness and -pleading—an entreaty to all the world to be pitiful. They went off upon -their new mission, however, with a little consolation in the relief of -the novelty, stealing quietly downstairs that nobody might come out upon -them to ask questions or offer help.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="VI-gr" id="VI-gr">CHAPTER VI</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T did not occur to the girls in their inexperience to make any attempt -to find out who lived at No. 3, Grove Road. They got out of their cab at -the door of the house with a flutter of anxious and excited feeling, but -still without any thought that the stranger or strangers they were about -to see were anonymous, and that their only warrant in thus invading an -unknown house was the scrap of paper which they had brought with them as -their credentials. The house was a kind of villa, such as abound in the -suburbs, with shrubberies around it, and high hedges, and a green door, -between two smooth green lines of privet. They stood for a moment and -looked round them at the bare tree-tops rising all round against the -chilly blue sky; and the unfrequented road all overgrown with grass; and -the houses nearly hidden by these jealous hedges. The girls did not -understand this jealous privacy of suburban life, and they shivered a -little as they looked round, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. In the -morning Grove Road was alive with tradesmen’s carts, with nursery-maids -and children setting out for their walk on the heath, but in the -afternoon a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> dead silence fell upon it. The rooms in which the inmates -lived were on the other side, and here nothing was visible except a -blank range of windows over those green lines of hedge, broken only by -the still more absolute enclosure of the shut door. They looked at each -other, and thought of their father coming out here into the dark, into -the rain on that fatal night. They understood now how impossible it -would be for him to get either shelter or a carriage to bring him back.</p> - -<p>“You would think there was spite in those dreadful doors,” said Grace, -“wouldn’t you, Milly? As if it would give them pleasure to shut -themselves tight and refuse all shelter; not a porch that any one could -stand under. Oh, when we used to hear of the English liking to be -private, we never thought of this!”</p> - -<p>Milly looked at them mournfully too, and they both thought of the -different scenes they had been used to, with that comparison which it is -almost impossible for strangers not to make. Then Grace turned round -with a sudden impulse and pulled the bell, which they could hear make a -long but subdued tinkle just over the green door. But they had to wait -still for some minutes before there was any response. The moment the -deed was done, the bell rung and entrance demanded, Milly turned to her -sister with her usual “Oh!” of appeal.</p> - -<p>“Who will you ask for?” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span></p> - -<p>It was a difficulty that never had occurred to them before; and in their -sense of this extraordinary deficiency they had almost fled, shyness -taking possession of them, and a sense of being altogether wrong and out -of all respectable use and wont. But, on the other hand, it was shabby -to run away, a trick not worthy of girls—a schoolboy crime. So they -stood trembling, half with cold, half with terror, and by-and-by heard -the opening of an inner door and steps approaching. If it had been a -solemn butler who had opened to them, even at that moment they would -have run away; but it was a pretty, smiling maid, with a white cap and -white apron, over whose countenance there passed an indefinable -sympathetic change as she saw first the two young faces, and then the -deep crape of their dresses. They were cheered and encouraged by this -mute sign, the freemasonry of youth and kindness.</p> - -<p>“Is —— at home?” said Grace falteringly.</p> - -<p>The maid was too intent upon the aspect of the young creatures before -her to note that no name was uttered, but only a tremulous counterfeit -of sound.</p> - -<p>“Missis is not at home, miss,” said the girl, with an air of sympathetic -regret. Then she added, “But Miss Anna is, and Mr Geoffrey, if one of -them would do.”</p> - -<p>The girls looked at each other again with a swift mutual consultation. -“We should like to see Miss Anna, if you please,” said Grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>And next moment they were within the house. They went along the shadowy -green passage into the hall, and through another corridor to the -drawing-room at the other side of the house, feeling as if they were in -a dream. This, then, was an English home—the first they had ever -penetrated into. It was an old house, not fresh and bright like those to -which they were accustomed; a house full of old furniture, old hangings, -old books. One or two doors were open, and they could not help glancing -in as they passed, with a spring of youthful curiosity not yet quenched. -When they got to the drawing-room they could scarcely restrain a cry of -surprise. It had three long windows opening to a garden at the other -side of the house. In front of them lay—all the world, as Grace -thought—a great blue distance, in the centre of which rose a smoke, and -a vision of distant towers and roofs—great London lying far below; and -close at hand a slope of green lawn, with further slopes beyond of -heath, and gorse, and dotted trees forming the foreground. This -wonderful panorama quite unreasonably lightened their hearts. They had a -long time to wait, but it was so full of curiosity and interest that it -did not seem long. At length they became aware of the sound of a step -coming slowly along the passages, a step accompanied by a little tap as -of a stick on the door. It kept them in tantalising expectation for a -minute—then turned aside, and there was again a pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> Finally the -little maid came again to the door and led the way into another room.</p> - -<p>It was a smaller room, with the same extended landscape before the -window—a room very daintily furnished, lighted up with pretty china, -pictures, everything full of delicate colour and glimmers of reflection; -little mirrors hidden away in corners, shelves upon the dim walls with -dainty vases and cups, everything delicate, everything bright. They took -this in with one startled glance before their attention concentrated -upon the occupant of the room—a lady who rose slowly, supporting -herself with a stick, from a large easy-chair beside the fire. She rose -with difficulty, yet there was a sort of slow stately grace in the very -stiffness with which she moved. Was this Miss Anna? The hearts of Grace -and Milly leaped into their throats: they were awed, and dared scarcely -draw their breath. Ah, certainly this was England, the old country where -queens and princesses were possible. They almost forgot themselves, and -their trouble, and their sorrow, and all the strangeness of their -circumstances, as they gazed upon this unexpected sight.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna was a woman about sixty, with perfectly white hair, and keen, -large, dark eyes. She was pale, but with a little evanescent colour, the -colour of weakness, as if the slight movement she had made had set the -blood in motion, and brought a faint rose tint to her cheeks; otherwise -she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> like ivory finely cut, her nose a little aquiline, her forehead -softly shaded with the white, silvery lines of her hair. She was dressed -in soft satin, clinging to her in long folds, which was not the fashion -at the time, and, therefore, all the more impressive, and had on her -head a sort of lace veil, half shrouding her hair and falling over her -shoulders. Her dress had all the air of being studied and thought of, -though the faint, yellowish tinge of the lace, and the dark sheen of the -satin, wine-colour or plum-colour, were all the elements out of which -this effect was produced. But the simple girls who stood before her had -never seen anything like her, and the wonderful apparition took away -their breath. She, on her part, looked at them keenly with her -penetrating eyes—then she waved her hand towards two chairs set out in -front of her throne.</p> - -<p>“You asked for me,” she said. “Sit down; I fear I have kept you -waiting.”</p> - -<p>Grace and Milly were far too much excited to notice it—but, as a matter -of fact, this stately lady was excited too, and the look with which she -perused them, their faces, their mourning dresses, their whole -appearance, was unquestionably anxious—though this would have seemed to -them incredible, impossible. It was only when they sat down that they -perceived some one behind at the other end of the room—a man leaning -over a writing-table with his head turned away from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> them. Miss Anna sat -full in the light between the window and the fire. She repeated, with a -faint tremour of impatience, “You asked for me?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Grace—she would have liked to say madame, or my lady, or -something that would have shown her reverence; but was too shy, with all -her self-possession, to venture out of the beaten way. She sat down -timidly and folded her hands, and looked at her questioner with that -wistful, propitiating look, a faint smile quivering about her lips, her -eyes cast upwards with a shy but earnest appeal, which sits so prettily -upon extreme youth. “No,” she said, “indeed we did not even know your -name. We are very unfortunate girls in great trouble, and we found your -address among papa’s papers.”</p> - -<p>“Who is your papa?”</p> - -<p>Grace saw nothing but the old lady who gazed at her fixedly and riveted -her eyes; but Milly, who had no responsibility of speech, saw more than -her sister. She saw the man at the writing-table turn hastily round at -the sound of Grace’s voice, then rise and approach nearer. When he came -into the light she recollected that it was he who had come to them at -the hotel the day before.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Grace, her mouth all quivering; “papa is——. We came over -from Canada——” Here, even she, absorbed in her story and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> the emotion -it occasioned, made an involuntary pause, seeing the lady start and look -over her head as if at some one behind with a curious look of alarm and -trouble. Was it only sympathy? Grace paused while you might count ten, -and then went on again—“only a fortnight since; and on Monday he died, -and left us all alone, all alone in this strange place. We thought—we -imagined that it was you he went to see the first night he was in -England——”</p> - -<p>Here she stopped again; the lady’s mouth seemed to quiver too. “Many -people come to see me,” she said. “What was his name?”</p> - -<p>“His name was Robert Yorke. We are his daughters; I am Grace, and this -is Milly—we are the two eldest,” said the girl, still with the same -pathetic smile about her mouth, and a look which appealed unconsciously -for help and pity.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna eyed them all the time with eyes that seemed to pierce them -through and through. “This is a very sad story,” she said. There was a -quiver in her voice which meant real suffering, not mere pity; but her -words were not so tender as this emotion might have indicated; there was -no effusiveness of kindness in them. “You are left, then, without -friends, without resources? I feel for you very much; but I have a great -many applicants——”</p> - -<p>Grace started to her feet, pressing her hands together almost with -violence. “Oh!” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> said, “If you think we are coming to you for -charity——”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Anna,” said the young man, coming forward, “these are the young -ladies whom I saw yesterday; if they are so kind, in their own trouble, -as to bring us some information, some clue——”</p> - -<p>Miss Anna made him an almost imperceptible sign, in which an anxious -desire to keep him silent was mingled with the utmost intolerance of -impatience. The young man stopped short suddenly; and Milly, who was the -spectator of all, taking no other part, saw vaguely this transaction -carried on over their heads, and wondered, though she did not know what -it could mean.</p> - -<p>But Grace perceived nothing at all: for once her perceptions were -dulled; the tears in her eyes blinded her, scalding as they were with -indignation, and the quick passionate shame with which so young a -creature is apt to feel and resent a humiliating judgment. She continued -vehemently, “We are not asking anything—we have money enough; we are -rich enough: if that is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean to be unkind,” said the stately lady. “Sit down, do not -be impatient. Geoffrey, I think we can dispense with your presence. -These young ladies will be more at their ease with me alone.”</p> - -<p>He had pressed forward, in spite of her prohibition. He was a little -like her, though not so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> handsome; but there was no mistaking the honest -sympathy and feeling in his eyes. Both the girls turned to him with a -conviction that here at least was a friend. A sort of faint half-smile -of recognition passed between them. “Oh, is it you?” said Grace -unawares. They seemed in this enchanted house, in this strange -audience-chamber, to have encountered at last some one of their own -species, some one who would stand by them. They looked at him with an -anxious, unspoken entreaty not to go away; and he reassured them by the -faintest movement of his head.</p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “it will be better if I stay.”</p> - -<p>“I think otherwise,” said Miss Anna; but she said no more to him, and -made no further objection. “Sit down,” she said, touching the chair from -which Grace had risen, with her stick. “You must not be offended; I -meant no harm. I should not have thought any worse of you had you come -to me for help, and I don’t think any better of you for being well off. -I am sorry for you all the same. But tell me why you came to me. No, -wait a little, you can tell me presently. In the meantime, Geoffrey, you -can ring for tea.”</p> - -<p>He did it without a word, standing before the fire contemplating the -group. The girls did not know what it all meant; but gradually it dawned -upon them with a strange sensation that they were not the principals -here, but that a veiled and hidden conflict was going on between the -two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> strangers, who appeared to share this luxurious home, and who were -somehow, they could not tell how, connected with themselves and their -concerns. The innocent commonplace request to ring for the tea had, they -felt, if they could but understand it, a much more serious meaning than -appeared. Geoffrey obeyed, but they felt very grateful to him that he -showed no intention of going away.</p> - -<p>And then there was a curious pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="VII-gr" id="VII-gr">CHAPTER VII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span>F all innocent domestic entertainments there is none more innocent, not -to say tame, than the recent institution which is now so universally -popular, of afternoon tea. The virtuous dulness, the gentle talk, is -seldom enlivened by any dramatic interest going on under the surface. -Now and then, indeed, a mild love affair will give a little excitement -to the circle round the tea-table: but this is the utmost stretch to -which the imagination can reach as connected with that mild -entertainment. And among all the pretty suburban houses, surrounding -London with endless circles of comfort and brightness, there could not -have been found a more attractive group than that which occupied Miss -Anna’s pretty sitting-room in Grove Road. But underneath this innocent -seeming how many elements of tragedy were working! Miss Anna’s motive -was known to none of them; but, whatever it was, it was strong enough to -make her exert herself in a way which startled her nephew and gave him -the watchful, suspicious, gloomy air which entirely changed the -character of his face. Grace and Milly for their part soon began to feel -the strange fascination exercised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> over them to be intolerable, yet what -with their shyness, and strangeness, and bewilderment, suddenly plunged -into a scene so new to them, did not know how to break the spell—though -Grace became every moment more sensible of the false position, and even -felt it a reproach to her in her sorrow to be turned aside out of her -serious course by the light and graceful current of Miss Anna’s -recollections and anecdotes. Geoffrey, who kept a sort of neutral place -between them, was not really aware, save by the instinct which made him -divine something wrong underneath the surface, of half the seriousness -of the situation. It had not yet occurred to him to identify the dead -father of the girls with the visitor who had caused so much commotion in -the house some time before. He thought nothing more now than that they -had generously come, though in grievous trouble, to convey some -information respecting that stranger; and he saw clearly enough that the -same motive which had induced his aunt to disown and dismiss the visitor -then, was impelling her now to refuse to listen to anything about him.</p> - -<p>“I have a great deal of fine Sèvres,” Miss Anna said. “Many people tell -me I should exhibit it. There are continual exhibitions nowadays to -which people send their treasures. There is South Kensington, you know; -there is always something of the kind going on there. What! you have not -been at South Kensington? Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> that is very great negligence on the part -of your friends. You must really make them take you before you go away. -Yes, I was very much urged to send my china there.”</p> - -<p>It was Milly who murmured the little response which civility demanded; -for Grace’s impatience was getting the better of her. She felt that she -must speak, though the words were taken out of her mouth. But still the -old lady went smoothly on.</p> - -<p>“Now that I cannot walk I take a great deal of pleasure in having all my -pretty things about me. If you ever should be in such a position—which -I trust may never be the case—you will understand what a pleasure it is -to have bright surroundings. What, going? It is really quite dark. You -must let Geoffrey get a cab for you. Geoffrey, go, dear, and look for a -cab.”</p> - -<p>Grace had got up with an irrestrainable impulse. She came forward a step -with her hands tightly clasped. “It is not that we are going,” she said. -“It is that I must talk to you about the thing that brought us here. -I—I—do not know your name—except Miss Anna, as the maid said. Oh, -will you please for a moment listen to me? The last night my father was -well, before he took his illness, he was, so far as we can tell, here. -We found your address among his papers; and he went out and left us for -a long time that afternoon saying he was going to see old friends. We -cannot think of any other interpretation; we feel sure that he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> -have been here. If you are our dearest father’s friend—anything to -him—we should like—to know you,” said Grace, once more unconsciously -clasping her hands. “We do not want anything from—we only want to know -you, if you were dear papa’s friend.”</p> - -<p>There was another pause, for the fervour of strong emotion with which -the girl spoke, her clasped hands and wet eyes, impressed even the -vigilant woman who was prepared for everything. It required a moment’s -resolution even on her part before she could crush the hopes of the -young forlorn creature who thus appealed to her. She made a pause, and -drew a long breath. Then she said, “Who was your father? You forget that -I know nothing about him——”</p> - -<p>“Robert Leonard Yorke,” said Grace. The familiar dear name almost -overcame her courage, but she held herself up by main force with her -hands clasped. “There is nobody better known where we come from—Robert -Leonard Yorke, of Quebec——”</p> - -<p>“My dear young lady,” said Miss Anna—and she sank back in her chair -with a certain relief—a relaxation of the strain with which she had -kept herself up to be ready for any emergency, which was not lost upon -her nephew at least—“you have made some mistake. I never heard the name -in my life. I never knew any one, or, to my knowledge, saw any one of -that name.”</p> - -<p>“A fortnight ago, on Tuesday: and it rained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> very much in the evening,” -Grace said eagerly. “He told us he could not get a cab, it was so far -out of town; and he got very wet.”</p> - -<p>“He caught cold—and it was that—it was that——” Milly added her -contribution to what her sister said: but her voice broke, and she could -not conclude her sentence.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna sat and looked on politely attentive, but at the same time -ostentatiously indifferent. “It is very sad,” she said. “It is -impossible to tell you how sorry I am; but I never heard of Mr Yorke in -my life. Geoffrey, that is true, it is very difficult to get a cab; go -and look for one. I cannot permit these young ladies to wander away -alone in a strange place. Go, Geoff, go!”</p> - -<p>She was very anxious to be rid of him; her voice took the imperious -tone, which he had obeyed so often, but he did not seem disposed to obey -now.</p> - -<p>“A fortnight ago,” he said, “on a dark afternoon, turning to rain?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes! you remember—oh, do you remember?—and afterwards we saw you -at the hotel.” The two girls spoke both together, one saying the former -part, the other the latter of the sentence, both turning upon him with -the most anxious eyes, gazing, trying to penetrate into his inmost soul.</p> - -<p>“Geoff, why do you stand there?” cried Miss Anna. She, too, became -energetic, and more and more imperious. “Go, I tell you, and get a cab -for them. Two strangers, and far from where they are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> living. You know -what your mother will think of such visitors. Go, directly, as I tell -you.” She stamped as she spoke, first her stick and then her foot, -impatiently on the floor.</p> - -<p>“This cannot be settled so summarily,” said Geoffrey; “there is more in -it. It is not necessary that we should stay in your room, Aunt Anna, if -you dislike it; but I wish these ladies to remain till my mother sees -them——”</p> - -<p>“Your mother, who always believes everything that is said to her! Let -there be an end to this folly at once, Geoff; go and get a cab.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Anna, there had better be no struggle between us—yet. What I ask -is very simple—that they should see my mother.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want to see his mother?” she said, suddenly turning upon the -astonished girls. “You have made acquaintance with him, I can see; but -mothers have sharp eyes, and his mother thinks every girl she sees is in -love with her fascinating son. Can’t he see you at some other place? I -warn you my sister will give you no pleasant reception if she finds you -here.”</p> - -<p>“Grace, Grace, let us go away,” cried Milly, rising to her feet, scarlet -with shame; but Grace had other things to think of, and paid no -attention to this assault.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to be harsh,” continued Miss Anna; “but if you are good -girls it will be much better for you to go away at once. I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> say -you are not good girls, far from it. I don’t pretend to judge; but girls -of your age should not be going about to strange houses without -invitation, especially where there is a young man. It has a strange -look—your people would not like it. I advise you as your friend to go -away.”</p> - -<p>Here Milly clasped Grace by the arm, and drew her back a little; perhaps -some passing communication from Geoffrey’s eyes had made the younger -sister the more keen-sighted of the two for once. Grace turned round a -little, moved by her earnestness, and there was the usual consultation -by looks between them; the result of which was that Grace’s pale -countenance became also suffused with colour; but she held her ground, -though her sister drew her back.</p> - -<p>“I do not think, if you were kind,” she said, “that you would speak so -to two girls like us. You would protect us rather from every evil -thought. We came here because we have no friends, thinking that they -must have been friends to whom papa went on his first day in England: -thinking, perhaps, you were relations—somebody who would take a little -interest in us. If it is not so, there can be no reason why we should -stay.”</p> - -<p>Geoffrey put out his hand with an eager gesture. “Till my mother comes,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“Young ladies,” cried Miss Anna, “I will tell you what that boy means; -he wants to make you out to be the children of a sort of madman who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> was -here some time ago—an impostor: a fellow who gave himself out as—who -represented himself to be—a man who has been dead for years. Would you -like to have a slur put upon your father, who appears to have been a -respectable person?” she added more calmly. She had yielded to an -impulse of anger, and had flushed passionately. But at the last words -she calmed down, and spoke with distinct and slow utterance, with a -slight curl of contempt about her mouth.</p> - -<p>“Grace, Grace,” cried Milly, “let us go away!”</p> - -<p>Grace’s face varied every moment as one emotion after another swept over -it. “I don’t know what to do,” she said piteously, “Milly”: “But I think -there is something to find out,” she added—“I think there is something -more!”</p> - -<p>“If you wish to have your father’s character taken away, and the cheat -he attempted found out——” cried Miss Anna, with sudden fury. Then she -stopped, seeing the mistake she had made. “I beg your pardon, I am -sure,” she went on, with fictitious amiability. “You are making me -identify this respectable person from Canada, poor man, for whom I am -very sorry—with a wretched impostor, a fellow that never came back, or -made the slightest effort to support his ridiculous claim. Of course, if -you like to stay till my sister comes back,” she added, “I can have no -objection. She is a silly, credulous woman; she will believe any story -you like to tell her, so you may give the rein<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> to your invention. But -one caution I will give you: say nothing about her son. Make believe, at -all events, that you know nothing about her son.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace, why should we be insulted? What can it matter to us? Let us -go away,” Milly cried.</p> - -<p>But if there was one thing better known among the young Yorkes than -another, it was that Grace was obstinate. Nothing, the boys said, would -make her give in, even when she was beaten. She turned round to -Geoffrey, even while her sister was speaking.</p> - -<p>“Sir,” she said, “we don’t know you, not even your name; but if you -think your mother will understand better—if you think she will know -anything about us, I would rather wait till she comes. We do not want -money, or help, if that is what Miss Anna supposes; we want nothing -except to know——”</p> - -<p>“Then why in heaven’s name do you insist on staying? against my will, -who am the mistress of the house? I say I will not have you here. I will -have no adventurers here. I do not believe there is a word of truth in -your story. That man is not dead. Impostors never die. It is all a -got-up affair from beginning to end. Look here!” cried Miss Anna, -striking her stick on the floor, “as I don’t want to have the whole -story raked up in a court of justice, where you would not have a chance, -not a leg to stand upon, you or your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> precious father—I’d rather come -to terms with you, and let it go no further. How much will you take to -give up your claims altogether? They are false, utterly false; but I -don’t want to be made a talk of. I would rather settle it and be done -with it, if you will say how much you will take, and start by the next -steamboat. There is a steamboat every week, every day perhaps, for -anything I know.”</p> - -<p>The girls stood close together listening aghast, Milly thinking nothing -less than that Miss Anna must be a mad woman, and that now her insanity -was becoming visible. But to Grace’s more active mind, this strange -proposal conveyed an impression quite different. She looked at Geoffrey, -whose turn it now seemed to be to blush. He had made an effort to -interfere, and stop Miss Anna, but, failing in that, had drawn a step -back, and stood with a painful flush on his face listening to her. As -she ended, he stepped forward again.</p> - -<p>“With this proposal,” he said, “please to remark, neither I nor my -mother have anything to do.”</p> - -<p>“There is something, then, upon which we have a claim,” Grace cried; -“and we are not mistaken after all!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace,” cried Milly, “come away—come away! What does it matter to -us? We don’t understand this country, or its ways. Oh, how we used to -think of England, how delightful it was to be! but now it is dreadful. -If you went to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> poorest house in Canada,” cried the girl, “and said, -We are in trouble, we are all alone, our father is dead, they would take -you in, they would be kind to you; but here they say we are impostors, -and offer us money. Oh, Grace, Grace, come away!”</p> - -<p>With her eyes sparkling through her tears, her soft cheeks flushed with -resentment and shame, her hands clasping her sister’s arm, whom she -endeavoured to draw away, Milly turned towards the door. It was not -often she took the initiative, or even gave utterance to so many words; -but Milly was not quick enough to divine any secret meaning, or to see -anything but offence and insult in what had been said. Her only thought -was to escape—all the more as she had felt a secret confidence that -they had fallen among friends on seeing Geoffrey; and the disappointment -made her revulsion of feeling more complete.</p> - -<p>The door opened behind as she spoke, and another lady came in. The -newcomer had her bonnet on, and brought with her a waft of fresh air -from out of doors. She was not beautiful, like Miss Anna, but she had -the same white hair and dark eyes—eyes not so penetrating, but kinder. -She came in with an untroubled air, as a woman comes into her own house, -expecting nothing but the ordinary domestic calm. She stopped short, -however, when she saw the visitors, and uttered a little exclamation, -“Oh!” somewhat tremulous, like Milly’s own. She was a shy woman for one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> -thing, and for another, having been so lately excited by an unusual -visitor, she felt slightly nervous of every new figure. “I did not know -you had visitors, Anna,” she said.</p> - -<p>“These are not my visitors,” said Miss Anna; “if they are anybody’s -visitors, they are your son’s.”</p> - -<p>Then the friendly face before them clouded over. She cast one -reproachful look at Geoffrey, and turned her back upon the two dark -figures in their depth of crape. This was her weakness, but it was a -weakness which was full of compunctions. Her son was all she had in the -world; and though she would say now and then that to see him married was -the height of her ambition, yet this good mother feared and almost hated -every feminine creature under thirty, and turned her back upon the whole -race lest Geoffrey’s future wife might be found among them. When she had -done this, however, her heart always melted, as now. She was, in -reality, one of the most womanly of women, and liked nothing so well as -feminine companions when she could put confidence in them that they -would not take her son from her. The two faces, however, upon which she -cast a remorseful glance now, after she had turned her back upon them, -were of the most dangerous type. They were the faces of two predatory -creatures against whom she felt she had no means of defence. Either of -them was capable under her very eyes of sweeping<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> Geoff away from her -for ever and ever. Never did hen look upon fox with more dismay; but Mrs -Underwood was not a consistent or firm woman. She looked and trembled; -but then looked again, and was touched in spite of herself. They were -very young; they were in deep mourning; and <i>they were not paying the -slightest attention to Geoffrey</i>. Perhaps that last was the most moving -circumstance of all.</p> - -<p>“Visitors of my son’s? That means, I suppose,” said Mrs Underwood, with -a little gasp, yet a heroic effort, “Visitors to me?”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think so, Mary. It is no concern of mine,” said Miss -Anna, turning pointedly away.</p> - -<p>And then politeness compelled Mrs Underwood to offer civilities she had -very little mind to. “Won’t you sit down?” she said. “Geoff, you will -perhaps introduce me to your friends.”</p> - -<p>She sighed; there was something half-ludicrous in the pathos of her -tone.</p> - -<p>“I hope we may be friends hereafter,” said Geoffrey; “but at present -there is something to be settled which is more than friendship. Mother, -you remember your cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite, and his sudden visit here -a fortnight ago?”</p> - -<p>“Leonard Crosthwaite?” she said the name trembling, and turned -involuntarily with a frightened look to where her sister sat.</p> - -<p>“He means,” said Miss Anna, without turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> her head, “the impostor, or -madman, who assumed the name of—our relation who died twenty years -ago.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, listen,” said Geoffrey. “It is a terrible story, so far as I -can make it out. He went from you, to die: and these are his daughters.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood turned from one to another as her son spoke, now reading -his face, now Miss Anna’s, now throwing an anxious glance at the sisters -who stood together in the centre of the room, not knowing what new turn -their affairs might be about to take.</p> - -<p>At this an exclamation burst from all three at once. The girls said, -“No, no!” while Mrs Underwood cried out, “Leonard’s daughters!” “No, no, -no, no!” the others said.</p> - -<p>“So far as I can see,” repeated the young man, “he is dead, and cannot -tell us how it stands. These are the young ladies whom I found at the -hotel to which I went in search of him—his hotel, the address he gave -you. And their father came out on a wintry afternoon a fortnight ago, a -Tuesday, to visit friends—old friends of whom he told them nothing. He -went home drenched—you remember how it rained, mother?—and took to his -bed. Now that he is dead, they found our address among his papers. This -is the story, and what can you want more? It seems to me that it is -clear enough!”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Grace, “there is one great mistake<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> you make. Our name, it -is not Crosthwaite—oh, nothing like it; we never heard that name -before. Papa was not a man to go by a false name. Oh, no, no; he was -true in everything. There must still be some mistake.”</p> - -<p>Miss Anna, who had turned her chair away, turned round again at this. “I -told you,” she said; “this young fellow wants to prove you to be the -daughters of an impostor or a madman. Of course, your father was not a -man to go by a false name. Nobody would do that who was, as you say, a -respectable person, a man thought well of in his own place. You know -better than to think so. Of course: that is exactly what I said.”</p> - -<p>But this support sent Grace instantly into opposition. She paused to -consider, when she found herself suddenly embarrassed by this unexpected -backing up. Miss Anna’s eyes fixed upon her seemed to have a baneful -influence, and oppressed her soul.</p> - -<p>“Does it make any difference to you,” she said, with the trenchant -simplicity of ignorance, “what was my father’s name?”</p> - -<p>The question was so entirely unexpected that each of the three showed -its effect in a different, yet characteristic way. Miss Anna, listening -with the complacency and satisfaction with which Grace’s denial of the -name had filled her, received this stray shot full in her breast, and -without any preparation. She wavered, drew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> back, contracted her -features involuntarily in the effort to preserve her perfect calm. Mrs -Underwood gasped as if some one had seized her by the throat. As for -Geoffrey, he was the only one who replied.</p> - -<p>“If,” he said, “you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s daughters, as I believe, -it will make a great deal of difference to us all.”</p> - -<p>“The question was addressed to me,” said Miss Anna, with a slight -trembling that ran over all her person; “and it is for me to answer it. -Young lady, whoever you are, if you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s daughter, -which I don’t believe for a moment—I have no doubt your father was a -much more respectable man: but if you are, and can prove it, you will be -able to give rise to a great lawsuit, which will be fought out on both -sides for years; which will cost you every penny you have, if you have -anything, and ruin everybody belonging to you: besides bringing out a -great many things about the family you claim to belong to, which we -would all much rather keep to ourselves; and in all likelihood it would -be a failure at the end. That is the true state of the case, whatever -that boy may tell you—or anyone else,” she added after a moment, with a -glance at her sister, “or any one else. This world is full of fools.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Grace, come—come away!” cried Milly in her sister’s ear.</p> - -<p>But Grace was less easily moved. She was bewildered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> and confused, and -alarmed. It seemed to her that the rights of her family were in her -hand, and her mind leaped to great things—far greater than this simple -house and its riches. Perhaps Lenny—yes, certainly, she remembered now, -though it had not occurred to her before, her father had Leonard in his -name, and her boy-brother was also Leonard—might be the heir of some -great property, and only she to defend his rights. Grace stood and -looked at them all with a swelling of her breast, yet a dazzled dimness -in her eyes, as if she were about to faint. She never had done such a -thing in her life; but then she never had been in such an extraordinary -strait, and with nobody to advise her. No wonder the light which she -wanted so much within to clear up the way before her, should seem to -fail without.</p> - -<p>“I can’t see my way,” she said faintly. “I cannot tell what to do. Yes, -Milly, we will go away; but for all that, it is not finished,” she said, -turning to Miss Anna with a gleam of dim defiance in her eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="VIII-gr" id="VIII-gr">CHAPTER VIII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE girls were now as eager to go away as they had been to come; they -would scarcely wait for the cab which was sent for, and they paid very -little attention to the anxious civilities of Mrs Underwood and -Geoffrey, who conducted them to the door and put them into the carriage, -making every kind of wistful endeavour to obliterate the impression made -upon their minds by the other member of the family. Grace and Milly were -in too great haste to consult each other, to compare notes, and to -realise this strange new complication in their lives, to have their ears -open to Mrs Underwood’s apologies.</p> - -<p>“You must not mind Anna,” she said in an undertone, as she led them into -the hall, with its dark oaken furniture and scanty light, out of the -warm and softened brightness of Miss Anna’s room. “She has always been -used to having her own way; she cannot bear to be contradicted. When she -takes anything into her head it is so difficult to convince her; oh, she -is a great deal cleverer than I am, that is true; but she will not be -convinced when she has taken a thing into her head.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<p>This little explanatory stream of talk seemed to flow round them as they -went to the door, but they paid very little attention to it. They -scarcely heard Mrs Underwood’s promise to go and see them at their hotel -next day; and they submitted with a little surprise rather than accepted -with any pleasure her offer of kindness, when she took each in -succession by the hand and kissed her, with a mixture of nervous -timidity and affection. “If it is so, we are relations,” she said almost -under her breath; “and if it is not so, my poor dears, my poor children, -my heart bleeds for you all the same.” The water trembling in her eyes -and the quaver of her voice showed the good woman’s sincerity; but the -girls were scarcely moved by it, so full were their minds of this -discovery, which they did not understand. As for Geoffrey, he said -nothing at all; he shut the door of the cab and lingered for a moment -looking at them wistfully, but that was all. There was in his face a -pained consciousness of the difference between his own position and -theirs. He, with his home behind him, and all the long-established -household gods which had protected him all his life; while the other -two, so much younger, feebler, and less able to shift for themselves, -had nothing but the cold foreign shelter of a hotel to go back upon. He -stood bareheaded in the rain, which, to complete the resemblance with -their father’s visit to this place, began to drizzle down continuously -out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> the dim persistent skies; and his face was the last thing they -saw, gazing compassionately after them as they disappeared into the -darkness. They were too much preoccupied even to notice this—at least -Grace was too much preoccupied. Milly for her part saw him very well, -but said nothing. Her mind too was full of other thoughts—yet not so -full but that she could remark this quietly to herself.</p> - -<p>But though they thus left Grove Road in great excitement they were not -disappointed. If they had found themselves simply mistaken, and that -nothing was known there of their father or his visit, they would have -fallen from an eminence of hope, which in present circumstances they had -by no means lost. Had they been received with kind indulgence as -strangers, rousing no hostile or any other kind of feeling, but simply a -little surprise, they would have been cruelly disappointed; but the -excitement of seeing themselves regarded with alarm as dangerous -intruders, so important as to be perilous to family peace, flattered -them in the most subtle way. As they went slowly down the hill, jolting -over the stones, their hearts were fluttered by a sense of dignity which -they had never felt before. They laid their girlish heads together as -they had been longing to do since ever they set foot in that strange -enchanted place. What could it be? what solemn inheritance, what great -fortune, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> justify the panic which they had seen by movements beneath -all the glitter and bravado of Miss Anna’s words? Between that exciting -and wonderful idea and the associations with their father of which the -darkling road seemed full, their minds were transported altogether out -of their own trouble and raised into an atmosphere of high interest and -responsibility. It would depend, they thought, upon how they now behaved -whether their whole position might be changed. They were well off -enough; there was no want in their house, nor had they any reason to -suppose that their father’s death would leave them destitute. But there -was a great difference between that state of ordinary and commonplace -comfort, and this dazzling probability. It might have been a vacant -principality, almost a throne, from the way in which Grace and Milly -contemplated it. They felt as if their former life had been stopped, and -that something new, altogether unrealised and unrealisable, awaited them -in the future. “If we only knew what to do; if we could only decide on -what is best,” Grace said. That was the difficulty now. This morning -there had seemed nothing before them but a patient, melancholy waiting -for their mother’s sad letter, and the news of her arrangements for -their return to her; now they thought no longer of the voyage home or of -anything connected with it, but of what to do and say as representatives -of their father, and heads, so to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> speak, of the family, working on -their behalf. “It will change everything,” Grace said again -thoughtfully. “Instead of all of us being alike, Lenny—Lenny will be -the heir. That is one thing that gives a likelihood to it,” she added, -sinking her voice as if the cab-driver might perhaps hear and report the -matter. “His name, Milly! I never thought of it till a few minutes ago. -Lenny; of course he is Leonard; and when you think of it, papa had -Leonard in his name too.”</p> - -<p>“I thought of it directly,” said Milly, with a little satisfaction.</p> - -<p>Grace, in her excitement, threw her arms round her sister. “It is you -who ought to be the first of us two,” said Grace admiringly. “It is true -that I am the eldest—but so many things occur to you that never come -into my head.”</p> - -<p>“It is because I have the time to think while you are talking,” Milly -said with modesty; but she was not displeased with this testimony to her -superior insight. She added, with a little awe: “Gracie, I wonder if -<i>that</i>—is our real name?”</p> - -<p>This was a question that took away the breath of both. They looked at -each other almost with an inclination to laugh, then stopped short and -mutually contemplated the impulse with horror. “It is dreadful,” said -Milly, “isn’t it, to have a false name?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Grace, who had been so indignant an hour ago at the -suggestion; “it cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> be so very dreadful if papa did it. He must have -had his reasons for taking another name. There are reasons that account -for everything.” Her momentary humility had disappeared by this time, -and she felt equal to explaining all mysteries to her sister in her -usual way. “He must have been wronged somehow when he left home. I -suspect that Miss Anna, Milly; I am sure she is at the bottom of -everything. She must have told lies of him, or invented stories; and -then perhaps he was disinherited, and the money given to her. It would -not be money; it would be lands or an estate—perhaps a fine old house.” -Then they paused and looked at each other for a moment. “If that was how -it was, and we got it back, mamma would certainly have to come home -<i>then</i>.”</p> - -<p>“But it could not be for all of us; it would only be for Lenny,” said -Milly doubtfully.</p> - -<p>“Lenny is only fifteen; he would not be of age for ever so long. And -then it is always stipulated,” said Grace, “that when people have -estates, what is called a great stake in the country, they should be -educated in the country and made to understand it.” Insensibly she drew -herself up, holding her head higher at the thought—“Mamma would not -like it; but she would do what was best for Lenny——”</p> - -<p>“Then I suppose—” Milly said, and now in spite of herself the smallest -little laugh, instantly repented of, burst from her. She looked at her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> -sister in great alarm, with a portentously serious countenance. “I -suppose,” she repeated, as if, instead of something ridiculous, this had -been the most solemn suggestion in the world, “that Lenny—will be the -one of us that will be important now.”</p> - -<p>So full was Grace of the seriousness of this thought, that she replied, -without taking any notice of that guilty laugh, only by an inclination -of her head: “We will have to learn all about the English laws, and how -things are managed, for Lenny’s sake,” she said seriously. “He will be a -magistrate, you know, and most likely in Parliament; and he will be -rather behind by losing so much time in Canada. We will have to coach -him up.”</p> - -<p>“Oh but, Gracie, I don’t know things myself; I never was able to do -that.”</p> - -<p>“I must begin directly,” said Grace with a little sigh—the sigh of the -self-devoted. “It was such a business—don’t you remember, Milly?—to -coach him for school; and England—England is a great deal more -difficult. I think I must begin Greek directly, and law—or he will -never know his lessons. I hope mamma will see that it is her duty, -Milly, to come at once,” she added still more seriously. Milly for one -second was inclined to laugh again at the portentous and preposterous -importance of her young brother, but then she recollected herself, and -the tears filled her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, poor mamma!” she cried, “poor mamma! to come now!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span></p> - -<p>This turned once more the current of their thoughts. But when they got -back to their hotel the argument was resumed: for it soon became an -argument maintained with great heat on one side, with an unimaginable -gentle obstinacy on the other. Milly, who never went against her -sister’s will, was for once in opposition, and though she was not strong -enough to subdue Grace, she did not yield to her.</p> - -<p>They had begun languidly and mournfully to arrange their father’s papers -in the morning. Now Grace betook herself to this pursuit with passion. -She found nothing: some fragments of torn letters, torn up into very -small pieces, on one of which the name of “Anna” occurred, lay in the -bottom of his dressing bag; but Grace was not sufficiently skilled in -the art of detection to join them together as a more experienced -investigator might have done. And it revolted her to pry into what the -dead man had thus wished to conceal. In all his other stores there was -not a word which even suggested any information. He had scrawled, “3 -Grove Road,” on a page of his blotting-paper, and twice over in other -places, as if afraid of forgetting it. When she came to a little diary -he had kept she paused with a sensation of awe. She had seen it a -hundred times—had seen it lying open, and knew that no special sanctity -was attributed to it. It was nothing but a little record of events and -engagements; but when the hand is still that has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> scribbled these -careless memoranda, how strangely their character changes! She took it -to where Milly sat, and placed herself on the sofa beside her. “I cannot -read this by myself,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, why should we read it at all, Grace? If papa had wanted us to know -he would have told us.”</p> - -<p>“Hush! even papa shall not make me suffer injustice!” cried the excited -girl. But when the little book was opened it gave but the scantiest -information. There was one entry since the landing in England, and no -more; and this was all it contained:—</p> - -<p>“Same name in directory, at old address; to go first thing and inquire.”</p> - -<p>Grace gave a little cry when she read this; it seemed to her to tell all -she wanted—and yet it told nothing. “It is quite clear,” she cried in -her mistaken little triumph. Milly looked at it too with all the feeling -that it was an important revelation. Then they cried a little over the -foolish little events of the voyage, all set down there, with that -strange unconsciousness of what was coming, which makes death so doubly -terrible to the survivors. If he had but known, surely he would have put -something in that little record to console, to elevate, to calm the -survivors, to whom his every word was so soon to be sacred! But he did -not know, and put down nothing except “Wind so-and-so; a little fog in -the morning. Captain’s birthday; champagne at dinner,” and such other -trifles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> They folded it carefully away in paper and sealed it, with an -ache at their hearts. Oh, if he had but known! and so told them -something, left them some information, if it had only been a task to do! -“But there is something to do!” Grace cried; “this that he began; and I -will never, never give it up till Lenny has his rights! He is papa’s -heir.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="IX-gr" id="IX-gr">CHAPTER IX</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HESE vague gropings after an unknown fact were very different from the -discussions which took place in Grove Road when the girls were gone. Mrs -Underwood and her son lingered together for a moment in the hall. She -took hold of Geoffrey’s arm with both her hands, and leaned for a moment -upon his shoulder and shed a few tears of agitation and distress.</p> - -<p>“You must not be frightened, mother. We can get on together, whatever -happens,” he said in her ear.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff, how can I help being frightened? I would not wrong -anybody—not by the value of a straw.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you would not, mother. I know you would not.”</p> - -<p>“But what a difference it will make—oh, what a difference!” cried poor -Mrs Underwood.</p> - -<p>She cried for a moment on her son’s shoulder. Was it to be expected that -she could give up the greater part of her living without a sigh?</p> - -<p>“And then Anna,” she said, “Anna!” in a tone of mingled fright and pain.</p> - -<p>It would seem almost as if her sister had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> divined, for she could not -hear, this reference to herself; for she called sharply in a keen voice -which penetrated through the closed door. Mrs Underwood started -immediately, dropping her son’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Must you always fly the moment she calls, as if you were her maid?” -said Geoff indignantly.</p> - -<p>His mother put up her hand to his mouth.</p> - -<p>“I have always done it: and could I stop it now when perhaps she is -going to lose everything? Oh, hush! hush! I am coming, I am coming, -Anna,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“She will never lose you, mother,” he said, detaining her. “I can see -already what will happen. You will make yourself her slave, and give up -every comfort in your life.”</p> - -<p>“What can I do? What can I do? I have you, but she has nobody. I am -coming, Anna, I am coming,” she said.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna still sat in her easy chair, with the tea-table before her. -Her forehead was slightly contracted, her lips parted with a quickened -breath; but these faint indications were all that showed any agitation -in her. She addressed her sister when she appeared in a sharper tone -than usual. “You two have been having a little consultation,” she said. -“Oh, quite right; quite right. Two heads are better than one. It might -be considered a little ungenerous, perhaps, to the other who has no one -to consult with—but I am used to it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> I know what a single woman has to -expect in life.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna!” her sister said, with a faint remonstrance, “when you know -that you are always our first thought.”</p> - -<p>“Your first thought! I did not know I was of so much importance,” said -Miss Anna with a laugh. “One would scarcely think it to see how little -attention you pay to me—either you or Geoff. But I must not complain: -for it is your money as well as mine that he is so anxious to make a -present of to the new claimants. And I can see very well what his motive -is—very well. Oh, I know men and their motives, though I have never -married. I can see through them well enough.”</p> - -<p>“My motive! what motive can I have but justice?” the young man said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoffrey! hush, my dear. When you know it is your aunt’s way. Why -should there be any quarrelling, to make everything worse?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is his aunt’s way. I am not the sort of fool that accepts -everything,” said Miss Anna. “I can read him like a book. He has had to -have his living doled out to him through you and me, and now he sees a -way of getting the better of us—of turning the tables upon us. Oh, it -is clear enough. Two girls—two silly creatures that will believe every -word he says; but take my advice, Geoffrey, and choose the little one. -She is the one that you can turn round your little finger; the other has -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> will of her own. Though it is against my own interest, you see, I can -still give you good advice.”</p> - -<p>Geoffrey made no reply to this speech. His mother fluttered between him -and Miss Anna with her hands spread out like the wings of a protecting -bird, ready to burst in and forestall him had he attempted to reply; but -he did not speak for some minutes. Then he said coldly, “We must not -quarrel, as my mother says. We are all threatened with a great danger. -For anything we can tell, the girls you are talking of so lightly can -take the greater part of our living from us. The question not only is, -have they a real claim? but can they establish it? and how far are we -ready to go in the way of resistance? Rather, how far are <i>you</i> ready to -go? Will moral certainty be enough for you, or do you demand legal -proof?”</p> - -<p>“Moral fiddlestick!” said Miss Anna. “Morals have nothing to do with it. -We were always as near in blood as Leonard was; we had as good a right -as he had; indeed, we had a better right, being girls, to be provided -for. Uncle Abraham thought of the name when he chose his nephew instead -of his nieces. And that showed his folly—for the nephew seems to have -thrown off the name the moment he left the country: and of all the -claimants there is only one Crosthwaite, and that is me. I do not care a -brass farthing for your moral certainty. All it means is, that you have -made up your mind to stand by your opinion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> through thick and thin. It -is your opinion that the man who came here the other night was Leonard. -Well! you think so, and he said so—but that is no proof.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, “speak of him kindly. Poor Leonard! when -you have just heard that he is dead——”</p> - -<p>“What is his dying to me?” she cried, with a glance of fury. “That’s the -man that was held up to us all as the image of faithfulness. Not one of -you but has told me if I had not treated him so badly, this and that -would not have happened; and the hound had changed his name, and -married, and been happy all the time!” Then she stopped and looked at -Geoffrey with a contemptuous laugh. “Mind you, I don’t acknowledge that -he was Leonard Crosthwaite. It suits my purpose a great deal better to -believe that he was the pink of fidelity, and died of a broken heart.”</p> - -<p>“Very few people, they say,” said Mrs Underwood, in a reluctant voice, -“die of broken hearts.”</p> - -<p>Miss Anna’s bright eyes seemed to give out gleams of malice and scorn -and indignant ridicule. “But I believe in them,” she said. “I am -romantic, not prosaic like you. When you know it’s for your sake, then, -naturally, you believe in it.” She stopped to laugh, her bosom panting -with a mixture of contempt and fury. “If Leonard did not die for me as -he promised he would, he was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> poor creature. Heirs! what had he to do -with heirs? If he did not die he was a traitor and a liar. Geoff, there -is no poetry in you; you are a commonplace being; that is why you are -capable of believing that Leonard Crosthwaite lived, and throve, and -married, and had heirs. I do not believe a word of it,” she said. And -again she laughed. After all, there was something behind the -self-interest that determined her resistance—something which the more -honourable people who gazed at her with so much wonder and alarm did not -understand. Her laugh was not of merriment but of that last scorn of -humanity which is despair. It made her furious, it transported her -beyond all limits of nature. She had believed in this one man as true -and faithful beyond all question; and he had been the greatest deceiver -of all. This put such fierce scorn into her breast that she could not -contain herself. The more selfish a nature is the more is it lacerated -by desertion. This was a woman who had put herself above others all her -life, and had been punished by the gradual failure of all whose worship -she had once believed in. It was the final blow to her self-esteem, and -she resented it with wild wrath and frantic ridicule of the traitor. But -nobody knew the tragic element in it, or that her belief in the -possibility of honour and truth went with this discovery. She appeared -to the others like an unscrupulous woman, firmly determined to hold by -her inheritance against all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> claimants—which she was: but also -something more.</p> - -<p>“All that is beyond the question,” said Geoffrey; “it is very possible -that legal proof may be hard to get. We might fight it out at law for -years; we might ruin them and ourselves too in the effort to make it -quite clear. The question is for you, mother, as well as Aunt Anna. If -you are sure these are the heirs, though they cannot prove it in law, -what will you do?”</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs Underwood was taken entirely without preparation. She turned to -her son with a gasp, clasping her hands together in dismay. She was a -woman who had always been told what to do by somebody—her husband, her -sister, her son, had managed her mind for her. When she knew what was -expected of her she did it faithfully, holding by her <i>consigne</i> -whatever happened. She had kept steadily to her orders under the most -trying circumstances already: struggling against the glimmerings of -right judgment in her own breast, even while silenced by Anna’s -casuistry. Since Geoffrey grew up her course had been easier, though -even with his support her sister’s older influence was sometimes too -much for her. But now to be asked instead of being told—to have a -decision demanded from her instead of made for her, took away her -breath.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff,” she said, “my dear! how can you expect me to understand -anything about the law? I should like to be kind to the girls, poor -things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> Of course I should like to be kind to them. I would not ruin -them, poor fatherless children, for all the world. How could you think -such a thing of me?”</p> - -<p>“That is not what I am asking you, mother. If you are sure they ought to -have the money, though they cannot prove it legally, what will you do?”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood turned a frightened look towards her sister, who laughed; -then her eyes returned to the face of her son, which was very serious, -and gave her no guidance. “Do?” she murmured faintly, “I will -do—whatever is thought right, Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“But what do <i>you</i> think right, mother?”</p> - -<p>Geoffrey felt that if he had not put a powerful control upon himself, he -might have turned round upon the laughing spectator behind him and taken -her by the throat.</p> - -<p>“Poor Geoff!” said Miss Anna; “between his mother, who cannot -understand, and I who understand better than a woman ought, he is in a -hard case. You had better have it out with me. What shall we do in case -there is no legal proof? You know very well there is but one thing to -do. Keep ourselves on our guard and refuse any concession. What else? -Fancy is one thing, but property is another. You can’t go chucking that -about like a ball. It must stay in the hands it is in, until others have -proved a right to it. You who were brought up for the bar, and you need -me to tell you that?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span></p> - -<p>“This is how the case stands, mother,” said Geoffrey. “The money which -is the greater part of our living was left to your cousin, Leonard -Crosthwaite, and only to you failing him and his heirs. You thought he -was dead, without heirs, and you have enjoyed it all this time with an -easy mind. But a fortnight ago Leonard Crosthwaite appeared. You did not -know him at first, but before he went away you were convinced it was he. -Is not this all true?”</p> - -<p>“She fancied it was he, being a silly woman who believes everybody’s -story, and never knew a lie from the truth all her days.”</p> - -<p>“And you, Aunt Anna,” said Geoffrey, turning upon her with quick -impatience, “did you always know the truth from a lie?”</p> - -<p>“I have had no practice to speak of,” she answered; “lies have been told -me ever since I can remember. The other is a great deal more uncommon. -Don’t puzzle your mother with sophistries. Tell her what you want, that -is the shortest way.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, dear,” said Mrs Underwood, with deprecating looks, “your Aunt -Anna is right; it would be better just to tell me what I am to do. I -would have done anything for poor Leonard. Poor fellow! to die among -strangers, far from his poor wife and everybody that knew him! My heart -bleeds for <i>her</i>, Geoff. If they had sent for me I would have gone in a -moment to nurse him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> and take care of him. You don’t suppose I would -have been so cruel as to let him die by himself if I had known? And now -these poor girls. Oh, what a change for them! to come here for pleasure, -and to have all their amusement, poor things, turned into misery and -sorrow!” Here the kind woman’s voice was choked with tears.</p> - -<p>“Mother! mother!” said Geoffrey, “you are the best woman in the world: -but I think you will drive me out of my senses all the same.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood dried her eyes after a moment and looked up in his face -with a tremulous little smile. “That is what your poor father used to -say,” she replied with great simplicity. “I am not one to see the rights -of everything at a glance like Anna; but if you will explain to me what -it is best to do, you will see I will always do it, Geoff. You may trust -me for that.”</p> - -<p>What was Geoffrey to do? He did his best to shut his ears to Miss Anna’s -laugh and her remark, “You perceive it is always a great deal better to -talk things over with me.” It was quite true, though he never would own -it: and to discuss this matter with her was impossible to him. He stood -for a little while by the fire, staring into the mirror, where his own -troubled countenance appeared in the centre of all the little carved -shelves covered with china, which were reflected on every side. He felt -himself, as he had done so many times before, altogether out of place in -the house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> where he was sometimes the master and sometimes of less -account than the dog. So far Geoffrey was always the master. His tastes, -his comforts, and even his convenience were the subjects of endless -study. But between his mother’s incapacity for any mental exertion, and -his aunt’s too keen and casuistical intelligence, it often happened that -Geoffrey was driven to the end of his patience, and felt himself no -better than a puppet between them, vainly struggling against Miss Anna’s -false logic and his mother’s shifty feebleness. At these moments a sort -of sickness of despair came over the young man. He thought with longing -of any wild scene of emigrant life, any diggings, or sheep-walks, into -which he could escape, to encounter the grosser elements of life, and be -free of this feminine atmosphere. To plant him here between these two -ladies seemed a freak of fate which was unaccountable. Their motives, -their ideas, were all different from his. Geoffrey stood for a few -minutes staring at himself, thinking what a gloomy ruffian he looked, -and how much out of keeping with all those dainty surroundings; then he -went hastily out, notwithstanding the appeal of both ladies to him. “You -are not going out in the rain, Geoff?” cried his mother; while Miss Anna -bade him recollect that it was past six o’clock. Geoffrey paid no -attention to either. It would be almost a satisfaction, he felt, to make -her wait for her dinner. Not his mother, who cared as little for her -dinner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> as any woman could do, but Miss Anna, who was <i>gourmande</i>, and -could not bear to wait. He was glad, too, of the sting of the rain, -blown in his face as he stepped out from all the comfort and warmth of -the too warm, luxurious house. The chill air and the darkness refreshed -him—they were such a contradiction to all the conditions of his life.</p> - -<p>He went out upon the borders of the heath, and looked down through the -rain upon the distant lights, the smoke of great London lying spread out -before him. Though he had been bred among women, and luxuriously cared -for all his life, he was not without some knowledge of what existence -was outside. And now, when he set himself to think of it, the prospect -gave him a shiver. It was almost as discouraging, as dismal as the wet -world upon which he looked. He had been called to the bar a few years -before, and he had got one or two briefs, which had been a matter of -much pride and amusement to the household. But this was a very different -thing from living by his work. He tried to realise what the consequences -would be of giving up the fortune of which he was aware he had thought -lightly enough. If it was all he could do to put up with that feminine -atmosphere now, in the midst of abundant space and the many pleasant -engagements which relieved him from its monotony, what would it be when -he was shut up with it in a few small rooms—when his only relaxation -would be home, and his home still, in its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> scantiness and -impoverishment, the domain of Aunt Anna? There flashed before him a -vision of one small sitting-room, with her chair in the chief place, her -work occupying the table, her nerves affected by every sound, her quick -ears catching every word that was said. Geoffrey felt himself able for -other kinds of privation, for hard work if need was, for the resignation -of most things that were pleasant in life—but when he thought of this -his heart failed him. And there was no help for it. Anna had been the -tyrant of her sister’s life as long as she remembered, and to withdraw -from her now when she was poor would be impossible. To suffer is always -possible; there is nothing in life so likely, so universally put up -with—but to abandon those who have shared our lives is not a thing that -can be done. It is a bond which the worst recognise, which it does not -even require heroic virtue to be faithful to. To do it may be heroic, -but not to do it is miserable. In prosperity Aunt Anna might by -possibility—though by so distant a possibility that Geoffrey hitherto -had always felt it hopeless—have been shaken off; but in trouble or -poverty she would be the absolute sovereign of his life, and his mother -would be her slave. As the young man stood with the rain beating in his -face, seeing by times, as the blast permitted, the glimmer of the -distant lights through the wet mist, he perceived and consented to this -with a sort of desperation. He must work for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> them both, he must hold by -them both. He could never emancipate himself till he or they should die.</p> - -<p>If, after this terrible realisation of what was before him, he looked -upon the loss of the money with less composure, could any one be -surprised? When he got home he went into his study, the room which was -sacred to him, where he was free from all intrusion, where, however -oppressive the domestic atmosphere might be, he could always escape from -it, and feed himself alone. No such refuge would be his were he poor. He -would have to sit and do his work at the same table where Aunt Anna -spread out her beads and her wools, and worked her impossible, useless -fancy work. Was it a duty, after all, to throw all his comfort, all that -made life tolerable, at the feet of these two strangers? Geoffrey’s -heart was rent in two. His way was no longer clear before him, but -covered with doubt and darkness and bewildering clouds.</p> - -<p>With all this there was a something unsaid which had glanced across his -mind many times in the course of the afternoon—a compromise, a way out -of the worst of the trouble, a new life—but he did not dare to think of -that. He pushed it away forcibly from the surface of his thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="X-gr" id="X-gr">CHAPTER X</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“I</span>T is pouring rain,” said Mrs Underwood, “and he will get his death of -cold. Oh, how can boys be so incautious; and just when he has heard what -comes of it! Poor Leonard! I have not had time to think of him yet, with -all you have been saying; but when one thinks how well one knew him -once, and that he was our own flesh and blood! And Geoff doing the same -thing, the very same thing, in spite of such a warning!”</p> - -<p>“You are insufferable,” cried Miss Anna; “hold your tongue, for Heaven’s -sake. Do you think the man died, whoever he was, only to give a warning -to your son?”</p> - -<p>“I think nothing of the kind, Anna. Poor Leonard, there never could be -anybody more sorry: and his poor wife, I am sure my heart bleeds for -her: but Geoff ought to take example by him, all the same.”</p> - -<p>“His wife?” Miss Anna said; and she laughed; “the wife of the man who -left England thirty years ago with a broken heart. It has been on my -mind ever since that I might have been kinder to him. I thought at first -I had killed him.” She laughed again. “I might have saved myself the -trouble.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> He is dead now of a wet night—a great deal more deadly a -thing than a love rejected; and here are you maundering about his poor -wife. His poor wife! I have no doubt she’ll marry again before the -year’s out. It’s the way of the world.”</p> - -<p>“It is not the way of all the world, Anna,” said Mrs Underwood. She -would not make a direct claim of superiority on account of her -faithfulness, but she drew up her head a little and sighed, with a look -of conscious merit; at which Miss Anna laughed the more.</p> - -<p>“That is true,” she said, “you’ve never married, Mary, nor wished to, I -believe. You are a superior creature. I ought to have made an exception -for you.”</p> - -<p>“Not so superior as you think, Anna,” said the simple woman; “there is -many and many another like me, that would not, could not—oh, no, no, -for nothing in the world! Yes; I thought too that he never would have -got over it, he was so devoted to you; but he was young; if you will -remember, he was two years younger than——”</p> - -<p>“Have done with these absurd recollections, Mary,” said her sister -angrily; “I want to hear no more of him. He’s safely out of the way now -at last; and there’s his—there’s these girls to deal with. If I had -only been by myself and had all my wits about me I should soon have -settled these girls; but I never have it in my power to act for myself. -There was Geoff standing by with those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> glaring eyes of his—not that I -am afraid of his eyes. They don’t know a single thing, these girls. If I -had taken my own way I should have asked them here, and made much of -them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna, dear! I always said you had such a good heart!”</p> - -<p>Miss Anna paused to look at her sister with contemptuous toleration. -“Was any one talking of my good heart?” she said. “But, never mind, I -should have taken them in—in every sense of the word. I would have been -Aunt Anna to them. I would have packed them off to their mother with my -love and a little present. To have to do with fools blunts the sharpest -intellect. That is what I ought to have done. And it was all they -wanted. To find their English relations, to get up a little sentiment; -that was all they wanted; they have money enough; and they did not know -a thing, not a thing! To think I should have missed my opportunity like -that! A bit of china that would have got smashed on the voyage out, and -our love; they would have written us gushing letters and talked of our -kindness all their lives.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood, good woman, was puzzled. She did not understand what this -meant. “If they had known you, Anna, I am sure they would have—loved -you,” she said, faltering a little. This was not always the result of -more intimate knowledge in Miss Anna’s case, but her sister had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> a -robust faith. Miss Anna cast a contemptuous glance upon her, but it was -not worth her while to argue.</p> - -<p>“If it had not been for your son I would have done it,” she said; “what -could have been more easy? If Geoff had been out in the world, as I -always said he ought to have been, in chambers of his own, not tied to -our apron-strings, out of my way——”</p> - -<p>“Anna! you never said such a thing before! You have always said you -liked to have him at home.”</p> - -<p>“I like a man in the house,” said Miss Anna; “I don’t deny it. There is -an advantage in having a man in the house, if he would hold his tongue -and do what he is told; but as you have never known how to hold your own -tongue about anything, Geoff understands all our affairs. What is the -use of talking? I could have done it, but the opportunity is over. Now -there is that little spitfire with her imagination all aflame. I should -not wonder if she thought there was a dukedom dormant in the family, and -a romantic vast estate that we are keeping from her; and Geoff with his -ridiculous ideas and all that false nonsense about honour——”</p> - -<p>“Geoff has no ridiculous ideas,” said his mother, flushed and tearful; -“there is nothing false about Geoff. He is honour itself, and sense and -judgment; and he is as true as the day—and——”</p> - -<p>“Everything that is perfect, we all know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span></p> - -<p>“I did not say that; he has his little faults, like all of us. He is a -little hasty; he is perhaps too generous; but as for interfering with -any kind thing you meant to do, Anna, you are mistaken, quite mistaken, -my dear. Let me go and see them to-morrow; poor things, poor things! of -course one wants to be kind to them. And to think that Geoff would have -had any objection! For that matter,” the mother said, faltering a -little, “he has always so many invitations; people are always asking -him; he might go away upon a visit while they are here.”</p> - -<p>“That is an idea,” said Miss Anna; “but no, things have gone too far -now; besides,” she said with conscious malice, “that would balk me in -one of my plans. If the worst comes to the worst we might marry him—to -the youngest of them.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood sat bolt upright in her chair; the colour went out of her -comely cheeks; her very voice failed her. “Ma—arry him!” she said with -a gasp.</p> - -<p>“They are both pretty,” said Miss Anna; “and especially the little -one—the younger one. I saw him cast many a glance at her. Oh, I notice -that sort of thing always. Though I never married like you, I was not -without my experiences. And I think I know. It would not have wanted -much on his side; and that would have saved your share of the money, -which would always be something if the worst came to the worst.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span></p> - -<p>Geoff’s mother had become incapable of speech as this dreadful prospect -was placed before her. She made a little movement with her hand, as if -to clear it away.</p> - -<p>“Geoff is thinking of nothing of the kind, Anna. Geoff—has his heart -entirely in his home. He is just as simple-minded and as—pure-hearted -as when he was a boy.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said Miss Anna, “I thought it was the height of purity and -simplicity to marry early; I have always been told so. Some French young -men, who you know are the types of everything that is improper, can’t be -got to marry. But Geoff, being the best of good boys, of course will -want to marry as soon as possible; and here is a capital chance for him. -That was my plan, Mary—if the worst comes to the worst. If you have a -better, of course I have nothing to say.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood sat all limp and downfallen, every line of her showing the -droop of dismay and depression which her sister’s words, spoken in mere -mischief—for the idea of Milly, though it had glanced across her mind, -had gone no farther—had produced. “I——” she faltered, “Anna—I have -got no plan. How should I have any plan? If they have a right to—the -money, we shall have to give it up to them. And we will have to give up -our pretty house, and live in—the poorest way. He says, Never mind, -dear boy. He will work for us, he will never forsake us, Anna! Now you -will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> see what my Geoff is made of. He has the best heart; but it will -be a dreadful change, a dreadful change for him—he that has been used -to have everything he wanted all his life.”</p> - -<p>“And you will rather let him fall into poverty, and be compelled to -work, and have us two old women hanging upon him and cramping him—than -save his share of the money for him and get him a nice young wife? -That’s what mothers are! I have always said, when they made such a fuss -about their children, it was themselves they were thinking of. Now, what -concerns me,” said Miss Anna with only the malicious gleam in her eyes -to contradict her dignified assumption of superior virtue, “what -concerns me is Geoff’s real advantage, not the selfish wish of keeping -him for ever at my side.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood’s countenance fell more and more. She looked haggard in -the sudden severity of the conflict set up within her. “I—thinking of -myself?” she said, almost weeping. But the accusation was too terrible -to be met with mere tears, which are fit only for lesser matters. She -gazed at her sister with large round eyes full of wretchedness. No crime -in the world was so dreadful to her as this of thinking of one’s self; -it is the thing of all others which cuts a virtuous Englishwoman to the -heart. “For Geoff’s good, you know, you know, Anna,” she cried, “I would -submit to anything. I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> go to the stake; I would give myself to be -cut in pieces.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody is the least likely to cut you in pieces, my dear,” said Miss -Anna coolly. “The stake is not an English institution. It is easy to -promise things that never will be asked from you. The question is, will -you let Geoff be happy, poor boy, in his own way?”</p> - -<p>“Happy!” the poor lady cried in a lamentable voice; but then her voice -failed her, though a dozen questions rose and fluttered through her -mind. Could Geoff be happy in abandoning his mother? Would he give her -up for a bit of a girl who never could love him half so well? Was it -possible that there was anything wanting to his happiness now, watched -over and cared for as he was? She sat gazing aghast into the vacant air -before her, suddenly brought face to face with a question which was far -more serious even than the loss of the money. If the money was to be -lost, Mrs Underwood felt in herself the power of enduring everything. To -be housemaid and valet to Geoff would be, in its way, a kind of -blessedness; it would knit the domestic ties closer. She would have more -of her boy if they lived in a smaller space, in a poorer way; and with -that happiness before her, what did she care for poverty? But her -sister’s suggestion brought in an entirely different circle of ideas. -She saw herself dropping apart from Geoff’s life altogether. He, happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> -with his young wife: she, set aside from his existence: and she looked -at that visionary picture aghast. To be cut in pieces was one thing, to -stand aside and let him go away from her was another. Was it all -selfishness, as Anna said?</p> - -<p>“I see I have startled you,” said Miss Anna; “but it is too late for -anything now; that eldest girl is not to be taken in. She will fight it -out; she will drag us through the mire. Never mind, it was Geoff’s -fault, and Geoff will have to bear the brunt. But you will be able to -keep him to yourself, and that will be a consolation,” she added with a -sneer. “Never mind what he has to put up with as long as you can keep -him to yourself: that is everything to you, I know. And there’s the -dressing bell, Mary. We must have our dinner, whatever happens,” Miss -Anna said.</p> - -<p>But Mrs Underwood, poor lady, did not have much dinner that day. She -came down to the meal in her pretty cap, but it was a haggard -countenance that showed beneath the lace. She could not talk nor eat, -but sat mute at the head of the table choked with natural tears. To -Geoffrey, who had come in hungry and full of thought from his wet walk, -there seemed nothing wonderful in his mother’s woebegone condition; it -chimed in with the tone of his own thoughts. To some certain extent she -would feel for him, she would sympathise with him, though even she could -never know the whole extent of the sacrifice he would be called<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> upon to -make. The dinner was a very silent one. Miss Anna tried a few sallies of -her malicious observation, but in vain. The others were too much -depressed to take any notice, even to resent them. The old butler made -his solemn rounds about the table with a gradual increase of curiosity -at every step. Whatever was the matter? the worthy servant asked -himself. He was a north-countryman, and knew a little about the family -history; but an unfortunate chance had taken him out at the moment when -the strange visitor arrived who had caused so much commotion in the -house a fortnight since. The twilight hour, when it was too late for -visitors (as he chose to think) was Simmons’ hour for taking a little -walk, sometimes to the post, sometimes to the fishmonger’s, who had a -way of forgetting. He had missed the young ladies too, of whom the -housemaid had told such stories downstairs. But he saw there was “summat -up,” and he bent the whole powers of his mind, as was to be expected, to -make out what it was. When Miss Anna’s speeches met with no response she -turned to Simmons, as she had a habit of doing when she was in want of -amusement. “Did you hear any news when you were out for your walk?” she -said. “If it were not for Simmons I should know nothing about my -fellow-creatures. You never bring in a word of gossip from year’s end to -year’s end, Geoff; and what is the use of a man with a club to go to -every day if he never brings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> one any news? Simmons, you are a person -with a better sense of your responsibilities. Tell me something that is -going on outside. What’s the last news in Grove Road?”</p> - -<p>“There is no news, Miss Anna, as I am aware of,” said Simmons, coughing -a little behind his hand by way of prelude. “There is nothink that is of -any consequence;” and then he began to tell of the gentleman at No. 5, -whose conduct troubled the entire neighbourhood. Miss Anna had an eager -interest in everything that was going on. She asked about the gentleman -at No. 5 as if she had no greater interest in life. Her beautiful eyes -sparkled and shone with eagerness. All the details about him were -acceptable to her. A spectator would have vowed that she never had known -a personal anxiety in her life.</p> - -<p>Geoff sat late that night thinking over all that had happened and was -going to happen. He had begun to ask himself what he could do to make a -little money, and the answer had not been a satisfactory one. It is very -common in novels, and even in society, to represent every young man who -is without occupation as doing literary work and finding it always ready -to his hand. And, naturally, Geoff thought of that among other things. -But he did not know what to write about, nor to whom to take his -productions if they were written. He knew what he had learned at school -and at Oxford, but he did not know very much else.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> Classics and -philosophy are very excellent things, but it is hard to make money of -them immediately, save by being a professor or a schoolmaster, which -were occupations Geoff did not incline to and was not fitted for. He did -not understand much about politics; he was not deeply read in general -literature; he had no imagination of the creative sort. In short, like a -great many others, though he had all the will in the world to embrace -the profession of literature, which seems such an easy one, he did not -know how to do it; and to hope to support his mother and her sister upon -the few briefs which he was likely to get was ridiculous. As well -attempt to support them by sweeping chimneys. He reflected with a -doleful smile that even that required, if not special aptitude, at least -special training, of which he had none. He was thinking of this drearily -enough long after the rest of the household had, as he supposed, gone to -bed, and all was still.</p> - -<p>Suddenly his door creaked a little, softly opened, and his mother stole -in. She was dressed in an old-fashioned dressing-gown, of what was then -called a shawl pattern, with a muslin cap on her head tied round with a -broad black ribbon. She had been going to bed, but had not been able to -go to bed without a little reconciliation and kind good-night to her -boy. “Did we quarrel, mother? I did not know it,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, quarrel, Geoff! we never quarrelled in our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> lives. You have always -been the best of sons, and I hope I have always appreciated you. I -couldn’t go to bed, my darling boy, if there was the least little thing -between me and you.”</p> - -<p>“But there is nothing, mother,” he said, caressing the hand she had laid -upon his.</p> - -<p>“Yes, there is something; I could not rest for thinking of it. Oh, is it -true, my darling, is it true that you want to be—married? If you had -that in your mind I would never stand in your way, you may be sure -never, whatever it might cost me. What is my happiness but in seeing -yours, my boy? I would never say a word. I would give up and go away; -oh, not far, to vex you, only far enough not to be spying upon you and -her; to leave you free, if you are sure it is really, really for your -happiness, my own boy.”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” cried Geoff, staring at her, “I think you must have taken -leave of your senses. I—marry? at such a moment as this?”</p> - -<p>“Anna thinks it would be the only thing to do. She thinks, Geoff, she -says, it is—the youngest of the two.”</p> - -<p>Here Geoff, unable to quench entirely the traitor in him, blushed like a -girl, growing red up to his hair under his mother’s jealous eyes. “This -is mere folly,” he said, trying to laugh. “Why, I have only seen her -twice.”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes that is enough,” Mrs Underwood said mournfully. “Things look -so different at my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> time of life and yours. I dare say you think it is -very fine to fall in love at first sight; but oh, when you think of -it—on one side those that have loved you and cherished you all your -life, on the other somebody you know nothing about—that you have only -seen twice!”</p> - -<p>“My dear mother,” the young man said. He made this beginning as if he -intended to follow it up with a warm disclaimer and protestation of his -own superiority to any such youthful delusion. But when he had said -these words he stopped short suddenly and said no more.</p> - -<p>His mother had her eyes fixed upon him, anxiously expecting to hear -something in his defence; but when he thus broke down, and it appeared -that he had no plea at all, no justification to offer, her heart sank -within her. She stood by him for a minute waiting, and then she put her -hand tremblingly upon his shoulder. “Have you nothing to say to me, -Geoff?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you would like me to say, mother,” he replied -somewhat impatiently. “What you are speaking of is preposterous. What -might have happened in happier circumstances I can’t tell—but that I -should think of marrying anybody just now, and above all one of the -people whose fortune we have taken from them——”</p> - -<p>“Geoff! we never meant to take anybody’s money. We never dreamt that it -was not our own; we don’t know even yet,” said his mother, faltering.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span></p> - -<p>“No; we don’t know even yet; and perhaps I am wrong in urging you to a -decision. Perhaps we ought to wait and see what evidence there is. It is -a hard thing to contemplate, anyhow, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear! very hard, very hard! and if it separates you from me!”</p> - -<p>“I do not see how it can do that in any case,” he said coldly. It -chilled him to think that her chief terror in the matter was lest there -should be any opening of happiness to him in it. It was preposterous, as -he had said; but still, was that the chief thing she feared—that he -should have a life of his own, that he should be happy? It made him -recoil a little from her. “Go to bed, mother; there is nothing that need -disturb your rest, at least for to-night.”</p> - -<p>She would have stayed and questioned and groped into every corner of his -heart, if she could, and protested that it was for him, not herself, -that she feared anything; but Geoff was not so tractable as usual -to-night. He opened the door for her, and kissed her and bade her -good-night with something like a dismissal. Then Mrs Underwood perceived -by a logic peculiar to herself that Anna was right, and that her worst -fears were true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="XI-gr" id="XI-gr">CHAPTER XI</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>R BREWER came in upon the girls that same evening somewhat abruptly. He -was a busy man, with little time to spare, and he thought his sudden -arrival like a gale of wind was a good thing for them in the languor of -their grief; but there was no languor about them as he found them. The -table was covered with papers, dispatch boxes, and writing materials. -Grace had turned out all the contents of her father’s boxes, and was -gathering together and examining every scrap of written paper, while -Milly, with a pen in her hand, obediently wrote down the description of -each. One little pile of business papers had been put by itself; letters -were lying open, innocent little account books, memoranda of all kinds. -It was like a man’s mind turned inside out, with all its careless -thoughts, and those futile recollections of no importance which stick -fast in corners when all that is worth remembering fades away. The -doctor was astonished by the sight, and alarmed as well. He knew that -the scrutiny of a couple of innocent girls innocently spying thus into -every recess of the thoughts, even of the most virtuous of men, might -not be desirable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span></p> - -<p>“Hallo!” he cried, “you are so very busy, I fear I am an intruder. Is -this necessary, do you think? Would it not be better to take all these -things home?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, you are our only friend—you can never be an intruder,” -cried Grace. “Yes, we intended to take everything home; but something -has happened since—something that makes every scrap important. We are -obliged to do it. It is for the sake of the children!”</p> - -<p>“You are giving yourselves a great deal of pain, and you have had enough -already,” he said, seating himself at the table between them. “My dear -young ladies, you are sure I don’t want to interfere in your family -affairs; but I feel responsible to your poor mother for you.”</p> - -<p>“What does it matter about us? Dr Brewer, we have made a great discovery -to-day!”</p> - -<p>“I heard you were out,” he said. “I was very glad to hear that you had -been out—a little change is what you want. A great discovery! Well, so -long as it is a pleasant one——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether it is a pleasant one or not.”</p> - -<p>“You shall have my opinion if you will trust me with this important -secret,” said the doctor, smiling. He was a man with daughters of his -own. He knew the exaggerations, the excitements of youth; and he was -very tender of these fatherless children. His friendly countenance, the -very breadth and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> size of the man was a support to them, as they sat -slim and slight on either side of him. But when he said this, they -looked at each other with that look of consultation which had amused him -so often. The doctor thought it was an unnecessary formula on the part -of Grace, who always had her own way; but he liked her the better for -thus consulting the silent member of their co-partnership before she -spoke. To his surprise, however, that silent member returned a glance of -meaning—a sort of unspoken veto upon the intended disclosure.</p> - -<p>“We have been to the place where papa was when he caught his cold—the -same place; and in the same way.”</p> - -<p>Here again little Milly, shy and acquiescent as she was, signalled her -disapproval. “Don’t,” she seemed to say, with those soft lips which -never before had expressed anything but concurrence. The spectator was -much more interested, perversely, than if the sisters had been as usual -in perfect accord.</p> - -<p>“Then you have found your relations?” he said.</p> - -<p>“We don’t know if they are relations. Yes, I think so; we had the -strangest reception. Doctor, I don’t know how to tell you. We are sure -there is something underneath—an inheritance, of which papa has been -cheated, which we, or rather our Lenny, is the right heir of. I suppose -such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> things are quite common in England?” cried Grace, full of -excitement. “You will be able to tell us what people do?”</p> - -<p>“An inheritance!” the doctor said, amazed. And then he laughed a little, -and shook his head. “No, my dear child, I don’t think such things are at -all common in England. They happen in novels, but not anywhere else, so -far as I know.”</p> - -<p>This disconcerted the girls for a moment. For to be told that your own -story is like a novel is always disagreeable, and throws an air of -contempt upon the sternest facts. “It does not matter,” said Grace -shortly, “however much it may be like a novel, it is nevertheless true. -We found the address in papa’s letter case—nothing but the address—and -we felt sure that was where he had gone, to see old friends, he said. We -went there this afternoon thinking we too, perhaps, might find friends, -or at least hear something about that last visit. We were received by -the strangest, beautiful old lady—oh, she was like a novel if you -please!—who would have nothing to say to us. But the others,” said -Grace, getting somewhat confused, “acknowledged that there was some one -who had gone to see them that day, Tuesday, and had left in the -rain—who was a relation—who was—or, at least, they said, pretended to -be. Only it was quite a different name.”</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer held up his hands to stop this broken flood of disclosure. -“Stop a little, and take me with you,” he said. “A beautiful old -lady—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> the others who said—but it was quite a different name. Now, -tell me what all this means.”</p> - -<p>Then they both began to talk together explaining to him. “There was one -lady, and her son, who were very kind,” Milly said.</p> - -<p>“She told us it was an impostor or a madman who had come, and said he -was—somebody,” cried Grace; “but that <i>that</i> person had died long ago; -and that our father was far more respectable; and that we could raise a -great law-suit if we liked; but the others said if we were <i>his</i> -daughters, it would make a great difference—oh, a very great difference -to them.”</p> - -<p>“But they were very kind, and kissed us, and promised to come and see -us,” cried Milly, breathless, coming in again at the end.</p> - -<p>“This is a very curious story,” said Dr Brewer. “I don’t pretend to -understand it very well, but so far as I can make out—— What was the -name? Of course there are family quarrels now and then, and sons who -bring a great deal of trouble upon everybody——”</p> - -<p>“That could never be the case with papa,” cried Grace proudly; “I am -sure he must have been wronged.”</p> - -<p>“Many an excellent man has been foolish in his youth,” said the doctor; -“we must not take things too solemnly. If you will tell me the name, -perhaps I may recollect if it has figured in the papers.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span></p> - -<p>Here both the girls were up in arms. They confronted him with flaming -eyes, and a blaze of anger.</p> - -<p>“Doctor, I think you don’t understand at all! If you think our dear -father, whom we have just lost,”—and here Grace’s voice wavered, and -Milly dried her eyes—“was likely to do anything that would be in the -papers——”</p> - -<p>“Why, my dear children,” cried the doctor, “how unreasonable you are! Of -course, he was in the papers a hundred times over. A man of note in his -community—a public man with letters to the Colonial Secretary, and who -entertained the Prince, as you told me yourselves——”</p> - -<p>Here they looked at each other again, and blushed at their mistake.</p> - -<p>“Yes, to be sure,” said Grace. “Dr Brewer is right, and we are silly. I -was thinking of something else.”</p> - -<p>“Probably, for instance,” said the doctor, “there were advertisements in -what people call the agony column, entreating him to go home. You don’t -know the agony column? Oh, it is very easy to laugh; but there are -sometimes appeals there that remind one of sad stories one has known. A -doctor, you know, hears a hundred stories. What was the name?”</p> - -<p>Once more that consulting look, and once more a blush of excitement -tinged with real diffidence, and a little embarrassment of shame. They -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> not bear to think of a name which was fictitious, of anything -that was untrue about their history. “You know,” said Grace, hesitating, -feeling for the moment as if no inheritance, not even an old castle or -even a title, which had vaguely glanced across her mind as a -possibility, could make up for this falsehood—“you know, we are not at -all sure that it was papa. He never mentioned anything of the kind, nor -did we ever hear it before. The name was Crosthwaite. It is not pretty; -it is an odd name.”</p> - -<p>“Crosthwaite—Crosthwaite: where have I heard it? It is not pretty, as -you say; it is a north-country name, Yorkshire perhaps, or—where did I -hear it? Ah, I remember, some one had been making inquiries -down-stairs.”</p> - -<p>“It was Geoffrey,” cried Milly unawares: and then blushed more deeply -than she had hitherto blushed either for shame or anger, and caught -herself up, and drew back a little, in embarrassment which did not seem -to have any adequate cause.</p> - -<p>“Then you know the people?” the doctor said in surprise.</p> - -<p>“We know only their Christian names,” Grace, somewhat startled too, -explained eagerly to cover her sister. “The son is Geoffrey, and the old -lady is Miss Anna.”</p> - -<p>“Bless me!” cried the doctor, “this is very peculiar. Oh! but you said -there was another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> lady—a lady and her son? Yes, yes, I see—a Mrs -Somebody—and this Miss Anna.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs Underwood,” Grace said.</p> - -<p>Dr Brewer’s surprise grew more and more. “I know a Geoffrey Underwood,” -he said, “a young barrister—a very nice young fellow. To be sure! he -belongs to two ladies who live up Hampstead way. This is very curious. -He is an excellent young fellow. He will tell me at once what the -mystery is—if there is any mystery; but, my dear young ladies, I am -afraid your romance will come to nothing if Geoffrey Underwood is in it; -for you may be sure he is not a young fellow to lend himself to any bad -business. Your beautiful old lady may be cracked, you know; she must be -off her head—a harmless lunatic perhaps. I very much disapprove of it,” -said the doctor, with professional warmth; “entirely, in every way—but -still there are people who, out of mistaken kindness, insist upon -keeping such cases at home—a thing that never ought to be done.”</p> - -<p>Grace had listened with some dismay, feeling her house of cards tumbling -about her ears. “She was not insane, if that is what you mean. They were -afraid of her. She was the one who talked the most. I am sure she was -not insane; and then Mrs Underwood, too—you remember, Milly?—she said, -‘If it is so we are relations;’ and then her son, he said, ‘It will make -the greatest difference to us all.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> ”</p> - -<p>“He said so? then perhaps after all there is something in it,” said Dr -Brewer. The doctor began to look serious. “One can never understand the -outs and ins of a family. So many people that have a good deal of money -to leave make foolish wills. It may be something of that kind. Bless me! -poor young Underwood, a fine young fellow. It will be hard upon him. You -must excuse me if I see both sides of the case,” he added gravely; -“young Underwood is——” and here he came to a dead pause.</p> - -<p>It would be impossible to imagine anything more uncomfortable than the -sensations of these two girls. They were silent for a little, and -nothing was said round the table except a faint sound from the doctor of -concern and sympathy, accompanied by the shaking of his head. Grace -burst forth at last, unable to restrain herself.</p> - -<p>“But, doctor, if it belongs to us rightfully, if it ought to come to my -brother Lenny—a family estate.—I don’t know what it is—perhaps -something that has belonged to us for hundreds and hundreds of years, -perhaps something that would change his position altogether, and make -him somebody of importance: is it not my duty to stand up for my -brother, to get him whatever he has a right to—although other people -may have to suffer?” the girl cried, with passion.</p> - -<p>Milly by this time began to cry quietly, with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> hands over her face; -and Grace stood alone, the champion of the family rights.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” the doctor said—“yes, yes; of course everybody should have -their rights; other people must always be a secondary consideration.” He -added, after a moment’s pause, “But don’t take up any false ideas about -family estates. Young Underwood is sufficiently well off, I have always -heard. He has had a good education. I don’t suppose he makes very much -money by his profession, so he must be able to live without that. But -his people are very quiet people. They live quite out of the way; they -are scarcely in society at all. Dismiss from your mind all idea of -hereditary estates or important position. All the same, money in the -funds is very nice—when there is enough of it.”</p> - -<p>“Money in the funds!” said Grace, her countenance falling; while Milly -took one of her hands from her face, and looked over the other like a -sort of woebegone and misty Aurora from behind the clouds.</p> - -<p>“Nothing more romantic than that, I fear,” said Dr Brewer; “but that’s a -very good thing, a very nice thing. No, life in England is not romantic -to speak of; it’s a very businesslike affair. If people have enough to -live on, it doesn’t trouble them very much how it comes. Land is dear. -It’s very nice if you have enough of it, but it’s an expensive luxury. -You get better percentage for your money even in the funds—and no -risks.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span></p> - -<p>“But, perhaps,” said Grace, “as—Geoffrey—is not the right heir—it -might be something different. Perhaps if it came back to the old family -there might be something more. Sometimes—things pass away, don’t they, -when it is not the direct line?”</p> - -<p>“Peerages?” said Dr Brewer with a laugh. “Oh, yes; but I never heard of -property going astray. Money must find its level, you know; it must go -somewhere; it cannot just be spilt upon the earth like water and made an -end of. It must turn up somewhere. When a man dies intestate, I believe -his money goes to the Queen; which is hard, I have always thought. If it -were divided among the poorest of his neighbours it would be more -sensible. Sometimes a title drops by reason of a failure in the direct -line. But I don’t suppose you thought——” Here he stopped short, and -gave vent to a sudden laugh. “I do believe, my poor dear girl, that this -is what was in your mind——”</p> - -<p>“I never said there was any such thing in my mind,” said Grace, growing -crimson. She felt as if she could have sunk into the earth. She had -nothing to say to defend herself, except this simple denial, and to hear -the doctor laugh was terrible. He laughed so frankly, as at the most -apparent nonsense. The girl did not know what to do. Was she such a fool -as he thought?</p> - -<p>“It is very romantic,” he said; “but I fear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> Miss Grace, in modern days -such things happen very rarely. Life was a great deal more picturesque -in the past. Now people are very thankful for such small mercies as -money in the funds.”</p> - -<p>Grace made no reply. She too felt very much disposed to cry; it seemed -cruel that anybody should laugh at them in their circumstances, in their -deep crape. The sound of laughter even was out of place in the room from -which so lately the chief inhabitant had gone. She felt herself hurt, as -well as ashamed, by being made the cause of merriment; and even little -Milly, though she had not agreed with her, uncovered her little tearful -face, and was indignant in Grace’s cause.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there is so much to laugh at, Dr Brewer,” Milly ventured -to say. “You were not there to see what happened. You would have thought -it very, very important if you had seen how they looked, and heard what -they said.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, “was I unmannerly? I didn’t mean -to be. Why we should laugh at simplicity I cannot tell, but everybody -does. I have not the least doubt it was a most natural mistake.”</p> - -<p>Simplicity! when everybody had always thought her so sensible, so -superior to all delusions. Grace shrank back into herself. She would -scarcely reply to any further questions.</p> - -<p>“But, you know,” Dr Brewer said, with great gravity, “it is no laughing -matter. Where there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> is a question of taking their living from another -family, you must be very sure of your facts. It is such a hard case that -a jury would give every advantage of a doubt to the people assailed. It -would prefer to see what they did in the very best light. There would be -a prejudice against the claimants, however much <i>dans leur droit</i> they -might be. The evidence would have to be very exact, as clear as -daylight. Any lawyer would tell you this. He would tell you, if your -evidence was not beyond question, to accept, or even offer, a -compromise. Such things are of every-day occurrence. You may have a -strong case, but if you can’t support it, and make it all as distinct as -clockwork, they will suggest a compromise. Have you found anything among -these papers to support the claim you are intending to make?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“You say your father never spoke about it, never referred to his former -name; gave you not the slightest hint of any rights of his in England?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“In short, you have no proof at all?” the doctor said.</p> - -<p>“Not any, that we know of,” said Grace.</p> - -<p>She sat, dogged and obstinate, answering only in monosyllables, or with -as few words as possible, sitting bolt upright against the high back of -her chair. Her heart had sunk, and her confidence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> was failing her; but -she would not yield, or at least seem to yield.</p> - -<p>“That is not very hopeful,” said Dr Brewer, “any lawyer would tell you. -But you are determined, notwithstanding, to make out your case?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Grace.</p> - -<p>She no longer felt amiably disposed towards the doctor. He had cast down -her dream-castle; he had represented her to herself as a vulgar -money-seeker; he had overthrown all her romantic hopes of gaining -advancement for her family, and making of Lenny a pattern English -gentleman, perhaps nobleman. She saw now what a slender foundation she -had built it all upon; but as nothing in the world would ever make Grace -give in, she hardened herself over her inward confusion, and stood like -a rock though her heart was quaking. The doctor made two or three sharp -little speeches; but he was half-angry, too, that the girls upon whom he -had been spending so much feeling should be so impervious to his -influence. He got up hurriedly at last, and said something about still -having some patients to see, though it was getting late.</p> - -<p>“Good-night,” he said. “I should say I would be glad to do anything I -could to help you, if I did not think you were embarking upon a most -perilous undertaking. I think, permit me to say so, you should take your -mother’s advice first.”</p> - -<p>“I shall do nothing mamma will disapprove of,” said Grace; and she -parted with stateliness from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> this friend who had been the only one to -succour them in their trouble.</p> - -<p>As for Milly, she was very deprecating and tearful as she held out her -two hands to him. “Do not be angry!” she said with her beseeching eyes. -It was all the doctor could do not to stoop down and kiss this -peace-maker as he went away. He had thought her a little nobody at -first, but he did not do so now. “I declare she is as like Laura as one -flower is to another,” he said to himself as he went down-stairs. Now -Laura was the doctor’s favourite child—and what more could be said?</p> - -<p>When he was gone, Grace returned to her previous occupation with her -father’s papers; but her heart was gone out of her search. “We might -have asked him at least to recommend some lawyer to us,” she said, which -was the only observation she made to Milly on the subject. Milly, -indeed, was dismissed altogether from the employment she had been -trusted with before Dr Brewer came in. Grace continued to look over the -papers, to put one on this heap, and the other on that; but she no -longer required Milly’s pen to write down and describe what each was. -For at least an hour they sat silent, the younger sister looking -wistfully on, the elder rustling the papers, bending over them with -puckers of careful consideration over her eyes, affecting to pause now -and then to deliberate over one or another. At length Grace gathered -them all together, with a sudden impatient movement,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> and, putting them -back into the despatch-box, concluded suddenly without any warning by an -outburst of tears.</p> - -<p>“To think,” she cried, when Milly, greatly alarmed, yet almost glad thus -to recover her sister, hurried to her—“to think that we should be going -over all these things that were his private things just the other -day—not for love, or because it was necessary, but for business, and -about money! Oh, how hard we are, how heartless, what poor wretched -creatures! I could not have believed it of myself.”</p> - -<p>“Dear,” said Milly, soothing her, “it is because everything is so -strange; and to do anything is a little comfort; and for the children’s -sake.”</p> - -<p>“I wish now,” said Grace, with her head upon her sister’s shoulder, -“that we had telegraphed at once to mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Milly; “but you thought it -would be so dreadful for her, without any warning.”</p> - -<p>Grace wept less bitterly when this instance of her own self-denial was -suggested to her. “It is so long to wait—so long to wait,” she cried. -And then a sense of their desolation came over them, and the two forlorn -young creatures clung to each other. Their nerves were overwrought, and -they were able for no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="XII-gr" id="XII-gr">CHAPTER XII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE was not very much more happiness under the roof of the house in -Grove Road. Geoffrey, as has been said, sat half the night through in -his study, with his head in his hands, pondering vainly what he ought to -do. Though he said to himself that it was only just that they should -produce their proofs, that they should establish their claim before -anything was done, he jumped at the conclusion all the same, and took it -for granted that the claim would be established, and that his own fate -was certain. And after that what was he to do? He was as confused, as -down-cast as ever, when, in the middle of the night, he made his way -through the darkness of the sleeping house and went to bed, but scarcely -to rest. His mother, whose thoughts also had kept her awake, and who had -cried, and pondered, and dozed, and started up to cry and doze again, -heard him come up-stairs, and with difficulty restrained herself from -going to him, to see that he was warm in bed, and had taken no harm from -his vigil. She did not do it, fortunately remembering that Geoff was not -always grateful for her solicitude; but her fears lest he should have -cold feet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> mingled with and aggravated her fears lest he should fall in -love, and marry and go from her—and altogether overshadowed her concern -about their fortune and the chances that their money might be taken from -them. Miss Anna, on her side, was wakeful too. That is, she lay among -her pillows in profoundest comfort, with the firelight making the room -bright, and candles burning in dainty Dresden candlesticks at her -bedside, and one or two favourite books within reach, and turned -everything over in her active mind, until she had decided what course to -pursue. Not one detail of all the luxury round her would Miss Anna part -with without a struggle. She was determined to fight for her fortune to -the very last; but if there was any better way than mere brutal -fighting, her mind was ready to grasp it and weigh all its -possibilities. She, too, heard Geoff, so late, a great deal too late, -come up-stairs to bed, but only smiled at it somewhat maliciously, not -without an enjoyment of the uneasy thoughts which no doubt had kept him -from his rest, and no concern whatever about his cold feet. She lay -thus, with her eyes as wakeful as the stars, till she had concluded upon -her plan of action. As soon as she had done this she carefully -extinguished the candles in an elaborate way of her own, so that there -might be no smell, turned round to the fire, which had ceased to flame, -and now shot only a ruddy suppressed glow into the curtained -darkness—and shutting her eyes fell asleep like a baby.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> But even she, -the most comfortable in the house, was far outdone, it need not be said, -by the two poor young agitators in the hotel who had filled Grove Road -with so many anxieties and cares. Hours before, Grace and Milly, crying -and saying their prayers in one breath, had fallen asleep in each -other’s arms, and knew no more about their troubles nor about the -possibilities before them, nor anything else in the world, till the -morning sunshine awoke them after eight long hours of perfect repose.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna never appeared down-stairs till mid-day. She had enjoyed a -great deal of bad health since she had ceased to be a young woman and -queen of hearts. Latterly it had settled into rheumatism, which had made -her a little lame, and justified a great deal of indulgence. Her -attendants said that even this she could throw off when occasion -required. But there could be little pleasure, one would imagine, in -making-believe to be lame. Her general delicacy, however, gave rise to a -hundred necessities which people in health manage to dispense with. Mrs -Underwood and her son had eaten a troubled breakfast long before her -dainty meal was carried into her daintier chamber, and she returned to -wakeful life under the influence of fragrant coffee and delicate roll, -and some elegant trifle of cooked eggs or other light and graceful food. -We say cooked eggs with intention,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> for boiled eggs, or even poached -eggs, were vulgarities which Miss Anna would not have tolerated. She ate -her pretty breakfast while her sister went through her household duties -with a heavy heart, and Geoffrey took his way to town, striding along -through the muddy streets, for it had rained all night. A little before -noon she sent for Mrs Underwood, who came up with a somewhat haggard -countenance, ready to cry at a moment’s notice, and with a cap which, in -sympathy with her condition of mind, had got awry, and had greatly tried -the nerves of the cook, who had a strong sense of humour, and felt her -inclination to laugh almost too much for her. This was the first thing -Miss Anna remarked when her sister came into the room. She uttered a -suppressed shriek of horror.</p> - -<p>“Did you give poor Geoff his breakfast with a cap like that upon your -head? Good gracious! and then you think it wonderful the poor boy should -want to marry and have a trim, neat little wife of his own.”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter with my cap?” cried Mrs Underwood in alarm, putting -up her hands and naturally making bad worse. She almost wept with -vexation when she saw herself in one of the many mirrors. “Why didn’t -somebody tell me?” she said piteously, with dreadful thoughts of Geoff’s -disgust, and of the comparison he must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> be making between that trim, -neat little wife and a mother with her cap awry.</p> - -<p>“Set it right now, and come and sit down here,” said Miss Anna.</p> - -<p>There could not have been a greater contrast than between these two -sisters. One of them seating herself, timid and anxious, by the bed, -with no confidence either in her own judgment or in her powers of -understanding, or capability of satisfying her imperious critic and -companion—her anxious little mind on tip-toe of troubled solicitude to -catch what Anna should mean, which was always somewhat difficult to her; -while the other, with all her wits about her, seeing everything, -noticing everything, lay amid her luxurious pillows and laughed at her -sister’s agitation.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could take things as easily as you do, Anna—oh, I wish I -could take them as easy!” Mrs Underwood said.</p> - -<p>“You were always a goose,” was Miss Anna’s remark; but she took the -trouble to push aside her curtain and to draw close to the chair at her -bedside on which the other sat, before she unfolded to her the plan she -had formed—which Mrs Underwood received with great surprise and many -holdings up of her hands and wondering exclamations.</p> - -<p>“Why, it was just what I thought I ought to do,” she said. “It was all -in my head, every word. I made it up in my mind to say to them, ‘Anna<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> -may be against you, but you will never find me against you; and as the -house is mine, and I have a right to ask whom I like——’ ”</p> - -<p>“Stick to that,” said Miss Anna with a laugh. “It was very impertinent -and treacherous of you to think of saying it out of your own head; but -now that we have settled it together, stick to that—it is the very -thing to say.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how you can call it impertinent, Anna: and -treacherous!—me—to you! I have always been true to you. I can’t think -how you can say so. But it is true: the house is mine, however you -please to put it. It was left to me expressly by dear papa. Of course, -he made sure you would marry; and me a widow with one dear child, it was -so natural that he should leave it to me. It will be all we shall have,” -she added with a sigh, “if this dreadful thing comes true.”</p> - -<p>“It will never come true if you play your cards well, Mary. You have got -it all in your hands,” Miss Anna said, “and it will be a fine thought -for you that you have saved your family: though you never thought a -great deal of your own powers—I will do you that justice.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood shook her head. “My own family—that is, my boy,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said Miss Anna. “Of course I don’t count; but you will have -the satisfaction, my dear, if you should live to be a hundred, of -feeling that you have saved your boy.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<p>At this Mrs Underwood shook her head once more, and two tears came into -her eyes. “He will be lost to me,” she said. “Oh, I remember well enough -how I felt myself when I married Henry. ‘What does he want with his -mother? he has got me,’ I used to say. I never liked him to go too often -to the old lady. And now I am the old lady, and his wife will think the -same of me.”</p> - -<p>“Let us hope she will be a better Christian than you were,” said Miss -Anna, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“A better Christian! I hope I have always been a Christian at heart, -whatever else I may have failed in. I hope I have always remembered my -duty to my Maker,” said Mrs Underwood, offended. This assault dried the -tears in her eyes. “And, Anna, though I’m sure I am not one to find -fault, I don’t think that you—never going to church, and reading French -novels and things, and making schemes to keep your neighbours out of -their rights——”</p> - -<p>Miss Anna laughed with genuine enjoyment. “I acknowledge all my sins, my -dear,” she said. “I am not the person to talk, am I? But, never mind, -perhaps there will be no need to hope that Mrs Geoff should be a better -Christian than her mother-in-law. Perhaps there will be no Mrs Geoff. It -may come to nothing after all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna, how cruel you are!” cried Mrs Underwood. “If it comes to -nothing, what is to become of my boy?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span></p> - -<p>“Anyhow, let us be thankful that you will get a good deal of misery out -of it, which will be a satisfaction. Go and put on your bonnet—your -best bonnet—and make yourself look nice; we all like you to look nice; -and go off, my dear, upon your charitable mission,” Miss Anna cried.</p> - -<p>Was it a charitable mission? The good woman quite thought so as she -drove down the Hampstead slopes and made her way into the heart of -London. She was fluttered and anxious about what she was going to do. -The possible consequences to Geoff were like a tragedy in front of her; -but as for anything else, she was too much confused to realise that this -was not the kindest thing that could be done. Two lonely, fatherless -children—orphans they might be called, for they had nobody to care for -them. It was not right even that two girls of their age should live in a -hotel, without so much as a maid to be with them. To offer them a home, -to stretch her own protecting wing over them, was the natural thing for -a woman to do. Certainly it was the right thing to do. The other -question about the property was very vague in her mind. She could see -that her sister was scheming to keep it in her own hands, but her mind -was so confused about it that she could not feel any guiltiness on the -subject. And then the question about Geoff would come uppermost. She -wept a good many quiet tears over this as she drove along the streets. -She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> always felt herself a good Christian, but she had not been -pleased when her husband had paid too many visits to the old lady. The -old lady! Looking back, Mrs Underwood, with an effort of memory, -recollected that the old lady had not been so very aged a person. She -was but sixty when she died, and she had lived ten years at least after -her son’s marriage. “About my age!” This conviction surprised Geoff’s -mother more than can be described. She was the old lady now; and this -girl would grudge her her son’s visits, would not let Geoff come to her, -would persuade him that his mother was silly, that she was -old-fashioned, that she wanted a great deal too much attention. She had -done all that in her day, and had not thought it any harm.</p> - -<p>These were her thoughts as she went to Piccadilly, crossing through all -those endless streets. When she came near the hotel some one passed her -quickly, holding up an umbrella, so that she could not see his face. But -her heart gave a thump at the sight of him. If it was not Geoff she had -never seen any one so like him. Down to the very coat he wore, the spats -which she had herself buttoned for him, his walk—all was Geoff. Had he -been here forestalling her? Had he come and made his own advances -already, without losing a moment? Her heart sank, but a wild curiosity -took possession of her. She would see for herself how he had been -received, what had happened. What could happen but that this girl,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> any -girl, would throw herself at the first word into the arms of Geoff? It -was not often a girl had such a chance. “Look at Anna,” she said to -herself, “so pretty, so clever, and never married at all.” Besides, -since Anna’s time there were, everybody said, twice as many women as -there used to be, and a man like Geoff, if such a thing was to be found, -was more and more precious than ever before. Ah, there could be no doubt -how he would be received. Perhaps by this time it was all settled, and -the girls were talking of her as the old lady, and planning how she was -to be kept at arm’s length. She wept once more, then dried her eyes, and -armed herself for what might be awaiting her. What if that little thing -should rush into her arms and tell her—giving her kisses that would not -be genuine, that would mean no affection to her? But even that she would -have to put up with. She remembered—with how many compunctions, though -thirty years too late—how the old lady—poor old lady!—had made little -attempts to propitiate her, and tell her pretty things that Henry had -said of her, and give her to believe that nothing but praise and -sweetness was ever spoken of her between the mother and the son. It -would be her turn now to show herself in the best light to her -daughter-in-law, to conciliate her, and appeal to her tolerance. Alas! -how time goes on, turning triumph into humiliation, and the first into -the last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="XIII-gr" id="XIII-gr">CHAPTER XIII</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">G</span>EOFF had not thought it necessary to say anything about his intention, -but he had made up his mind during the vigil of the night to act for -himself. He did not go to the chambers, which he shared with a friend, -or to his club for his letters, or to any of his usual haunts; but went -direct to Piccadilly, which is a long way from Grove Road. A long walk -is sometimes an advantage when you are going to have a decisive -interview; but Geoffrey, it is to be feared, did not do himself much -good by thinking of the hostile party whom he was about to meet. They -were not only not disagreeable to him, but the very sight of them -stilled every warlike inclination in his breast. Not only he did not -want to fight with them, but his desire was to take up their cause and -fight it for them, against himself and all belonging to him—which it -will readily be perceived was not a way to do any good. He saw them only -too clearly in his mind’s eye: the one sister standing a little in -advance of the other; the eyes of Grace shining with courage and high -spirit, while those softer lights under Milly’s soft brows rose upon him -from time to time, always with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> new eloquence of appeal. “If she were -to ask me for my head, I think I would give it her,” Geoff said to -himself; but there was no chance that she would ask for his head. He -thought of them as he had seen them first, seated close by each other, -turning two wistful, pale faces and eyes wet with tears upon him as he -stood at the door, alarmed by his own intrusion. Their black dresses and -their piteous looks had made an impression upon him which would never be -effaced; and he had heard their story with a knot in his throat, ready -to weep for very sympathy. When the same wonderful pair had arrived at -Grove Road, he had been too much startled to know what to do or say. But -now he was going to them with all his wits about him, no surprise -possible, to open up all the question, and discuss it amicably, and help -them, if it was possible to help those whose cause was so entirely in -opposition to his own.</p> - -<p>Grace and Milly were together as usual in the sitting-room, which had -become by this time so intolerable to them. They were both very much -surprised when he came in. They rose to their feet in wonder and partial -dismay. They had been talking over all their affairs, and had come to a -kind of conclusion between themselves; but this was a circumstance upon -which they had not calculated. They had thought it very unlikely that -they should hear anything more of Grove Road unless they themselves took -the initiative. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> gazed at each other with their usual mutual -consultation, bewildered; but as soon as they came to themselves they -too were very anxious to be polite to the enemy.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will not think me intrusive,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; we do not know any one—” This was intended to mean that a -visitor was welcome; but the speech was broken off in consequence of the -embarrassment of the speaker.</p> - -<p>“If what we think is true, we—my mother and I—should be more to you -than anybody else in England,” Geoff said.</p> - -<p>“But if what we think is true,” cried Grace, “or rather what you -think—for we know nothing—we are enemies, are we not?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why we should be. I have come to tell you all I know. You -ought to have at least what information we can give you in order to find -out who you really are, Miss——”</p> - -<p>“Yorke,” cried Grace, “Yorke! that is our name; and as for finding out -who we are, that is quite unnecessary. We may be strangers here,” the -girl cried, holding her head high. “We have been very unhappy and very -unfortunate, oh, miserable here! But when we are at home everybody knows -who we are. We are as well known as you or any one. The Yorkes of -Quebec—you have only to ask any Canadian. If you think it is necessary -to find out a family for us, you are very, very much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> mistaken! England -is not all the world. We are unknown only here.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes flashed, her cheeks coloured as she spoke; all her pride was -roused; and Milly held up her head proudly too. They had not been used -to be nobodies, and they did not understand nor feel disposed to submit -to it. This was a totally different thing from claiming their rights.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You know I don’t mean anything -disrespectful; but you know also that there is another question. It is -not as Miss Yorke that there can be any question between you and me. It -is as the daughter of my mother’s cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. Will you -let me explain to you how the matter stands between us, if you are his -children? This is how it is. Abraham Crosthwaite, an old unmarried -uncle, died twenty years ago, leaving his money to Leonard, who had -disappeared some time before. It was an old will, and it was supposed by -everybody that Uncle Abraham had altered it in behalf of his nieces, -Anna, and Mary, who is my mother. But he did not alter it; and when he -died this was the state of affairs. Leonard Crosthwaite had not been -heard of for ten years: everybody thought him dead; he had been -advertised for, and had not replied. My mother and Aunt Anna were the -next of kin. They succeeded without a question. Everybody had expected -them to succeed. Uncle Abraham had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> announced over and over again his -intention to give them everything he had. My mother had taken care of -him for some years; of Aunt Anna he had always been proud. I never in my -life heard any question of their rights, until all at once, a fortnight -since, some one appeared at our house calling himself Leonard -Crosthwaite——”</p> - -<p>“Mr Geoffrey, papa would never have said he was any one, unless it had -been true.”</p> - -<p>“I cast no doubt upon that. I tell you only of our wonder, our alarm. My -mother thought she recognised something in him like her cousin. Aunt -Anna from the first said no; but you will take these statements for what -they are worth. Aunt Anna would naturally resist anything that -threatened to interfere with her comfort. My mother, on the other hand, -is easily persuaded. I, of course, could say nothing on one side or the -other. The gentleman I saw had every appearance of being a gentleman, -and a man of truth and honour——”</p> - -<p>Milly gave him a grateful glance behind her sister—a glance of tender -thanks which made his heart beat. As for Grace, she bowed her head with -a sort of stately assent.</p> - -<p>“He was to come back; but we heard no more of him, until I came here to -this hotel, and was entirely puzzled, as you know. I saw you, and -thought you were very kind to interest yourselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> about a person whom -you had never heard of. When I saw you yesterday at Hampstead, I thought -again it was kindness merely—that you had heard of the man of whom I -was in search——”</p> - -<p>“You must have thought us very extraordinary to interfere.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you,” he said somewhat incoherently;—“but it does not matter -what I thought you. Circumstances make us, as you say, almost enemies, -who might have been—who ought to have been, dear friends.”</p> - -<p>They both looked at him with melting eyes. “Yes,” said Grace, with a -beautiful flush of sympathy, “cousins, almost like brothers and sisters. -And perhaps, that may be still!” she cried. “Listen, this is what we had -made up our minds to——”</p> - -<p>“Let me say out my say first,” he said with a not very cheerful smile. -“You are strangers, and you are too young to know how to manage such a -complicated case. If you are Crosthwaites, and my cousin Leonard’s -daughters, it will be best for us in the long run, as well as for you, -that it should be proved—that the question should be settled. And you -cannot know of yourselves what is necessary. I have brought you the -names of two good lawyers—respectable, honourable men, either of whom -will advise you wisely.” He took out a piece of paper as he spoke and -handed it to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> Grace. “With either of these you will be safe,” he said.</p> - -<p>The girls looked at each other for a moment; then Grace rose up and held -out her hand to her adversary, seeing him through wet eyes. “Cousin -Geoffrey,” she said, “I am sure you must be of the same blood with our -father, for this is exactly what he would have done. Let us call you -cousin: it is all we want, Milly and I. We had made up our minds this -morning to forget it altogether, never to say another word or think of -it any more.”</p> - -<p>Milly’s hand was held out too, though more timidly. She did not say -anything, but she looked a great deal more than Grace had said, he -thought. He had risen too in a tremulous state of excitement and -generous enthusiasm. It was only his left hand that he had to give to -the younger sister, but even in that fact there seemed to both of them -something special—a closer approach.</p> - -<p>“I do not know what to say,” he said, “dear, brave, generous girls! To -have you will be worth a great deal more than the money. We are friends -for ever, whatever may come of it.” Then he kissed first one hand and -then the other with quivering lips, the girls, blushing both, drawing -close to each other, abashed, yet touched beyond description with a kind -of sacred joy and awe. The emotion was exquisite, novel beyond anything -in their experience; and the young man, thus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> suddenly bound to them, -was as much affected as they.</p> - -<p>“But we cannot accept this, all the same,” he said at last. “I should -say all the less:—it must be investigated, and everything found out -that can be found out.”</p> - -<p>“We do not wish it; we will not have it,” the girls cried both together. -But Geoffrey shook his head.</p> - -<p>“You have nobody else to look after your interests. I am your next -friend,” he said. “Don’t you know that is how we do in English law? -Those who are too young or too helpless to plead for themselves plead by -their next friend. And that is the most fit office for me.”</p> - -<p>“Then that makes England a little like what we thought it: not like the -cruel, cruel place,” cried Grace, “that it has been to Milly and me.”</p> - -<p>“It has been cruel,” he said tenderly, with a voice which had tears in -it, like their eyes. And there was not much more said, for they were all -touched to that point at which words become vulgar and unmeaning. He -went away shortly after, his heart swelling with tender brotherliness, -friendship, and all the enthusiasm of generosity. The mere suggestion of -their sacrifice had made him capable of that which had seemed so -terrible to him an hour ago. He went out with his heart beating, full of -high purpose and inspiration, quite happy, though that which had made -him so miserable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> yesterday appeared now assured and certain. Such is -the unreasonableness of youth.</p> - -<p>When he had gone the girls turned to each other half laughing, half -crying. They were happy too in this little encounter of generosity and -impulsive feeling. “That is what we thought Englishmen were like,” said -Grace.</p> - -<p>“And he is the first Englishman we have known,” said Milly.</p> - -<p>“Very different from Dr Brewer,” cried the elder sister.</p> - -<p>Milly looked up, wondering, with a little “Oh!” of startled, almost -wounded feeling. To compare Geoffrey to Dr Brewer!—or to any one, she -whispered deep down in her being, out of hearing even of herself.</p> - -<p>They had scarcely recovered from the commotion of this crisis when some -one again knocked at the door. “It will be <i>that</i> doctor,” Grace said -under her breath; and she was in no hurry to reply. It was only upon a -second summons that she went forward slowly, reluctantly to open the -door. And there outside stood Geoffrey’s mother, somewhat fluttered, -somewhat red, not knowing very well how to meet the two enemies of her -peace. She came in with a little eagerness and kissed them both; and -then she delivered herself breathlessly of her mission.</p> - -<p>“I said I would come and see you to-day. Oh, my dears! I am afraid you -thought Anna was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> very kind yesterday. She is an invalid, you know; -she has tempers now and then. Oh, I don’t mean you to think she has a -bad temper or is unkind. Nothing at all like that; but only—you can -imagine if she had a bad night or a little extra ache. We ought all to -be very forbearing, you know, and put up with people who are often in -pain. Dear children! when I see you here in an inn, and think how many -empty rooms we have got at home—there are more rooms, a great many more -rooms than you would think in the Grove Road houses. And though Anna -lives with me, the house, you know—the house is mine.”</p> - -<p>They did not know very well what answer to make, but they put her in the -best chair the room contained, and sat round her listening, which was, -of course, the best thing to do.</p> - -<p>“Yes, the house is mine. I am the real mistress of it, though Anna often -takes a great deal upon her; but I don’t mind, I really don’t mind. And -when I have set my heart upon anything she never interferes. Do you know -what I have come for now? I have come to take you both back with me -home.”</p> - -<p>“Home!” the girls drew a long breath after the word. They seemed -scarcely able to realise to themselves what it meant.</p> - -<p>“Yes, home. I have set my heart upon it. If you are Leonard -Crosthwaite’s daughters—I declare,” cried Mrs Underwood, her real -feelings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> breaking in through all the flutter of words that had been put -into her mouth—“I declare I don’t know whether I wish you to be -Crosthwaites or not! Two nice girls—two dear girls; I am sure you have -been nicely brought up, and that your mother is a nice woman. Poor -dear!” said the kind soul, wiping her eyes and forgetting her rôle -altogether. “My heart bleeds for her, poor dear!”</p> - -<p>This brought the girls, who could doubt, clinging round her, hanging -about her. Their soft touch, their tender faces went to her heart. No -woman who is good for anything, not even the jealous mother of an only -son, defending him from all feminine wolves, can resist the contact of -innocent girls—creatures of her own kind. It was a novel pleasure to -Mrs Underwood, who never had a daughter, and had always been an -exclusively devoted parent, absorbed in her son. She put one arm round -each and kissed them again, this time in all truth and tenderness, and -with her heart full of natural feeling. “Will she have heard of it yet?” -she said in a tone of tender awe.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not for nearly a week yet,” the girls cried. And Mrs Underwood wept -in sympathy.</p> - -<p>“Poor dear! Oh, God help her, poor dear! I know what it is myself; but I -was with him till the last moment. She will think if she had been here -it would never have happened. Oh, God help her, poor dear! Then,” she -added a minute after, as if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> this had been a reason, “you must get your -boxes ready and come with me at once, my poor children; I cannot leave -you here. I tell you I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry, if -it is settled that you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s children. Sorry, I -suppose, because I shall lose my money; but now that I know you I should -be almost as sorry to lose you.”</p> - -<p>This, though it was sudden, was real and true; for the kind woman felt -that she had done them injustice. They were not dangerous adventuresses, -hunting Geoff, but good girls, breaking their hearts for their mother, -and counting the days till she should hear that terrible news. Mrs -Underwood jumped into enthusiasm for them because she had been so much -afraid of them before.</p> - -<p>“You shall not lose either us or the money,” said Grace. “We had -resolved before Mr Geoffrey was here, that we should do nothing more and -think nothing more about it. If papa had meant us to do anything he -would have said so. We made up our minds to this—this morning, before -Mr Geoffrey was here.”</p> - -<p>“My dears!” said Mrs Underwood, bewildered. She had no head for -business, and she could not understand more than one thing at a time. -She withdrew her arm a little and said doubtfully, “Then Geoffrey has -been here?”</p> - -<p>“He came—in the most generous, noble way. I am so glad, I am so -thankful,” cried Grace, “and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> so is Milly—that we had quite made up our -minds before.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood breathed forth a sigh of resignation. “I must hear all -about this after,” she said, faltering; “but, my dears, the fly is -standing at the door, and it is no use keeping it waiting. Put up your -things as quickly as you can. Anna thinks—I mean I feel quite sure that -you ought not to be staying at an inn in your circumstances. If your -luggage is too heavy for the fly the heavy boxes can be sent afterwards. -Of course you have all your coloured things, poor dears; and to go into -such deep mourning with nobody to advise you! The best thing will be to -bring just what is necessary. Run and put your things together and I -will wait here.”</p> - -<p>Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several -volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with -you—to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace -with quivering lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna—well, we need -never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever -people, and you are clever; at least <i>you</i> are clever, my dear,” Mrs -Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little -silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through -Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what -to make of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs -Underwood’s ears—her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always -be going to see the old lady—when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s -face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find -fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my -dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am -quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a -surprise for Geoff.”</p> - -<p>Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when -she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the -young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that -Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the -only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="XIV-gr" id="XIV-gr">CHAPTER XIV</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was, as his mother foresaw, a great surprise for Geoff, to see Grace -and Milly established under her wing when he reached home. They seemed -to have each got her corner of the drawing-room, as if they had been -there all their lives. The windows with that great distance stretching -blue and far underneath, and the smoke, which was London, at their feet, -attracted them both—a standing wonder and miracle; but Milly had -brought down her little work-basket, and placed it on a corner of Mrs -Underwood’s special table, and there she had settled herself as if she -belonged to it; while Grace had got to the books which stood in low -bookcases on either side of the fireplace. For the first hour Geoffrey -really believed, with a wonder which he could hardly restrain, that his -mother had broken loose from her life-long bondage to her sister, and -that this bold step had really been taken by herself on her own -responsibility. It was herself who undeceived him on this point. When -the dressing-bell rang, and the girls went up-stairs to prepare for -dinner, he put his arm round her and thanked and praised her. “It was -like yourself to do it, mother,” he said warmly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> “When you follow your -own kind heart, you always do what is best.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs Underwood, faltering; “indeed, indeed, I hope -it is for the best. At least, that has been my meaning, dear. And Anna -said——”</p> - -<p>“Anna?” cried Geoff, with a cloud coming over his face.</p> - -<p>“She thought it was the only wise thing. But she is not to be supposed -to know anything about it,” his mother said, lowering her voice and -holding up a finger at him. “You must be very careful. If she looks as -if she did not like it, you are not to take any notice. I was not to -tell anybody she had a hand in it; but of course I never meant to -conceal it from you.”</p> - -<p>Geoff was so angry and disconcerted, and so sick of the domestic fraud -into which his mother had been beguiled, that he went off to his room -without a word, leaving her sadly put out, but quite unable to divine -what could have offended him. However, by the time he had changed his -dress, Geoff, all alone in his room, burst out into a sudden laugh. “She -is an old witch,” he said to himself; “she is as clever as—the old -gentleman himself.” He was ashamed of the artifice, but could not help -being diverted by the skill of that unseen helms-woman who managed -everything her own way.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna came to dinner as usual, leaning on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> her stick, and she -received the girls with stately surprise, as if their presence was quite -unlooked for but gradually unbent, and by degrees grew brilliant in her -talk, and amused and delighted them. Geoffrey looked on with a mixture -of shame, amusement, and contempt, at this pretended thawing and -acceptance of what she could not prevent. She acted her part admirably, -though now and then he surprised a glance of satisfaction and secret -triumph which made him furious. But she kept up her show of reluctance -so far that no one was invited into her boudoir that evening. They went -back to the drawing-room again after dinner, where Geoffrey found both -the girls standing within the half-drawn curtains of the window, looking -down upon the London lights. They stood close together, talking low, -talking of the great city all muffled and mysterious in mist, and smoke, -and darkness, at their feet. When Geoffrey joined them, they stopped -their conversation. “I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no! We can’t help talking of one thing. It is wearisome to other -people; but after all it is only a few days. We were wondering where it -was that <i>he</i> is lying,” said Milly.</p> - -<p>Geoff pointed out to them as well as he could where the spot was.</p> - -<p>“We have so often talked of seeing London, and thought what it would be -like and what we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> should like most in it,” said Grace. “We little -thought——”</p> - -<p>He seemed to be taken into their confidence as they broke off and stood -gazing with brimming eyes towards the place where their father lay.</p> - -<p>“And now you will have no association with London but that of pain,” he -said.</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and then it was Milly who replied, “People have been -very kind to us. We can never forget the kindness wherever we may be.”</p> - -<p>To this Grace assented with a little reservation. “Yes, we shall never -forget Grove Road—your mother and you, Mr Geoffrey.”</p> - -<p>“What!” said Geoff, “are you drawing back already? I was Cousin Geoffrey -this morning; and I do not think I have done anything to forfeit the -name.”</p> - -<p>There was a little murmur of apology from both; and there is no telling -how long they might have lingered there, with the light and warmth -behind them, and the wide world of sky and air, and distant mighty -multitudinous life before, had not Mrs Underwood come forward anxiously -to see what was going on. She had begun to feel herself deserted, and to -remember again what she had once felt and said about the old lady. She -had not so much as thought of the old lady since she brought them into -the house; but now the murmur of voices behind the curtain; the -natural,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> inevitable manner in which Geoff found his way there, the -solitude into which she was herself thrown, brought back all her alarm. -“Geoff,” she said, “you must not keep them in the cold: there is a great -draught from that window: we always have the curtains drawn. Come in, my -dears, come in to the light; there has been so much rain that it is -quite cold to-night.”</p> - -<p>They came directly, obedient to the call; there was no undutifulness, no -resistance. They must have felt they were doing wrong, they obeyed so -quickly, she thought. But then Mrs Underwood had a very happy hour. -Geoffrey took up the evening paper which had been brought in for -him—Miss Anna having previously finished it and sent it with a message -that there was nothing in it—while Grace returned to her examination of -the books, and Milly settled herself by Mrs Underwood’s side. She was -glad to see that he could still think of politics, although they were -here. Miss Anna, in order that she might come down gradually from her -eminence, had left the door of communication open between her room and -this one, and sometimes launched a word at them, stimulating their -somewhat languid talk. For neither Mrs Underwood nor Milly were great -talkers; they sat together, finding great fellowship in this mere -vicinity, now and then exchanging a word as they lent each other the -scissors or the thread. And Geoff read his newspaper calmly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> in this -calm interior, where there was still no appearance of any power or -passion which might either break old ties or form new.</p> - -<p>Thus the soft evening sped along. It gave Mrs Underwood a little tremor -to see that when Geoff laid aside his paper he went to the table at -which Grace was seated with a number of books round her, and began an -earnest conversation. But she reflected within herself that it was not -Grace but the little one, and took comfort. Perhaps she would not have -been so much consoled had she known what the subject of the conversation -was. Grace was so buried in the books which she had collected from the -shelves, that she scarcely noticed, till he spoke, the shadow which was -hovering between her and the light.</p> - -<p>“I want to tell you,” he said—and she started, looking up at him with a -little impatience, yet—as remembering the calls of politeness, and that -she was his mother’s guest—with a smile—“I have laid the whole matter -before the lawyer whose name I gave you to-day,” Geoffrey said.</p> - -<p>“The whole matter!—there is no whole matter; nothing but guesses and -perhapses. We do not want anything more said about it, Cousin Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“But we must have something more said about it, Cousin Grace. Who can -tell? It might be dragged to light in the third or fourth generation,” -he said with a smile. “Your grandson might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> question the right of mine, -to any small remnant that may be left by that time.”</p> - -<p>“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace.</p> - -<p>“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong, -hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know -what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that -throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about -the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.”</p> - -<p>“But I told you we had no information whatever—none. I never heard the -name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and -there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.”</p> - -<p>“These will be of the utmost value.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his -little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it -into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only -the little things that—that are more hard to look at than great ones,” -said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day—that we never -shall do any more.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not -think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be -handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> she said; but -finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in -Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First, -the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go -first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes -written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45. -U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years—but forgiven;” and -the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated -on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and -sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light. -He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It -seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against -a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no -legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was -not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see -his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for -what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty -still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly -shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own -home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened, -nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings -like it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span></p> - -<p>A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how -rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most -delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long -delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief -which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion. -This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could -have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was -she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from -them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards -amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they -enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings, -and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which -Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his -voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father, -about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in -London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff -listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful -freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks -were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit -fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of -the old lady left alone, and scarcely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> able to restrain her trembling -anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss -Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming -with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her -sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see -everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are -getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but -Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again. -“My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is -happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister, -sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood -dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned -within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her -son from her. She liked the little one well enough—nay, very much, as -she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was -always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers, -and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by -instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all -very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna -thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never -been so happy—though she had devoted herself to him all her life—this -was indeed too much to bear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="XV-gr" id="XV-gr">CHAPTER XV</a></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> WEEK after their settlement at Grove Road, while the girls were -expecting every day to receive at least by telegraph some news from -their mother, Geoffrey made his appearance in the middle of the day, and -with a face of much serious meaning. He asked his mother and her guests -to come with him to Miss Anna’s room; and then having gathered them all -around him, he took out some papers and made a little speech to them -with great seriousness. “I thought it was of the utmost importance that -we should all know exactly how we stood,” he said, “and I put the whole -case into Mr Furnival’s hands. We all trust him who know him, and Grace -and Milly were willing to take him on my word. He has had all the facts -before him for some days; with such scraps of evidence as you could -furnish us with,” he added, turning to Grace: “and he took counsel’s -opinion. I informed him that it would be in any case an amicable suit to -settle our respective rights. I have brought you their opinions now.”</p> - -<p>“I thought there was something going on,” said Miss Anna, “something -underhand, a conspiracy, concealed from me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span></p> - -<p>“Conspiracies are not in my way,” Geoffrey said. “Perhaps you would like -me to read what they say. It confirms my own opinion—though perhaps my -advice would have been different.”</p> - -<p>He spread out his papers on the table, and the women round him turned -their eyes to him with expressions as different as their characters: his -mother proud of the position her boy was assuming, yet a little nervous -as to how Anna would take it, and suspicious of the look which she -thought she detected him directing towards Milly; Grace a little -reserved, holding her head erect, looking at him with an interest which -had not much curiosity in it, but a rising impulse of -resistance—although she could not tell as yet what it was she was to -resist; Milly with milder interest and a gentle admiration of Geoff -which was like a shy shadow of his mother’s. But Miss Anna, all alert, -turned eagerly towards him as if she would have snatched the papers out -of his hands, her dark eyes blazing, her whole figure full of energy and -latent wrath, which she was ready to pour out upon him should the -lawyers’ opinion go against her own.</p> - -<p>“I need not read it word for word,” said Geoff; “I will give it -afterwards to my cousin Grace. The lawyers think, after close -consideration, that there is—no case——.” (Here there was a movement -on the part of Miss Anna and a quick “I told you so.”) “Wait a little,” -said Geoffrey, “They say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> there is scarcely any case to go to a jury; -but they say also that if it did go to a jury the strong moral -probability and the touching character of all the circumstances might -lead to a verdict for the claimants notwithstanding the weakness of the -evidence. Law would be against it; but the jury might be for it.”</p> - -<p>“I understand that reasoning,” said Miss Anna: “most men are fools, and -jurymen are men—therefore it is likely that fools being the judges, the -verdict would be preposterous. Is that all your wiseacres have got to -say?”</p> - -<p>“Not quite,” said Geoff; “the lawyers advise a compromise.”</p> - -<p>“A compromise? I object—I object at once. I will not hear of it. Let it -go into court. If I am compelled to yield to the sentiment of a dozen -British idiots, I must do so; but consent to rob myself, for no reason? -oh no, no! I will never do that.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Anna, you are not the only person concerned.”</p> - -<p>“I am,” she said; “I have the largest share. I am the eldest. Your -mother has never gone against me in her life, and she will not now.”</p> - -<p>“Anna,” said Mrs Underwood tremulously, “I always have followed your -advice—oh, always, it is quite true; but Geoff, you know—Geoff is a -man now; and he has been bred up to the law,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> and he ought to know -better, far better than we do.”</p> - -<p>“Should he? but he doesn’t; he’s a poor weak sentimental creature not -strong enough to be either one thing or another, a swindler or an honest -man. He naturally takes refuge in compromises. I haven’t known him so -long without knowing that. I believe the lawyer’s opinion is his own, it -is so like him. A compromise? no! I will have no compromise,” cried Miss -Anna, striking her stick upon the floor.</p> - -<p>“And we reject it too,” cried Grace—“we will have nothing, nothing! we -settled upon all that before we came here. If we had not decided so, we -should never have come.”</p> - -<p>“Let it go to a jury if you like,” said Miss Anna, paying no attention -to this. “I am not afraid. I take the risk of sentiment. Yes, of course, -they are a pack of sentimental fools: two pretty girls in deep mourning -will get anything out of a British jury. Still I’ll risk it. But -nothing, nothing in the world will make me consent to a compromise.”</p> - -<p>Grace had risen to her feet, with her usual eagerness of impulse, “Do -you not hear me—do you not understand me, Miss Anna? We will take -nothing; we will have no compromises, no more talk even, not a word -said. We will have nothing, nothing to do with it! We have a right to be -heard as well as you——”</p> - -<p>“And I think I also have a right to be heard,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> cried Geoff—he was calm -between the excitement of the others; “I am not without a voice. -Whatever you say, justice must be done, and justice suggests this -course. Yes, Aunt Anna, whatever you say, I have a right to be heard. It -is for our own comfort, without thought of them.”</p> - -<p>“I want no such comfort,” she cried. “I gave in to your mother’s -nonsense, and allowed them to be asked here. I allowed them to be asked -because they were——”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Anna! do you wish me to tell them in so many words why you wanted -them——?”</p> - -<p>“Geoff, Geoff!” cried his mother, in alarm.</p> - -<p>The girls paid but little attention to this quarrel as it raged. They -did not comprehend even what it was about. “We had better go away as -this is not our affair,” Grace said, with a stately little bow. And -Milly, too, rose to go with her sister—when the conflict around -suddenly ceased, and the two girls, who seemed to have been pushed aside -by the other more energetic emotions, suddenly became again the centre -of the scene, and the chief persons in it. What was it? only the -entrance of old Simmons with a yellow envelope in his hand.</p> - -<p>The others stopped short in their conflict. They acknowledged with a -little awe the presence of something greater which had come into their -midst. They looked on in silence while the girls, clinging together, -read their telegram. Then there was a little pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span></p> - -<p>“We must go home at once,” said Grace, as well as she could speak for -tears. “We do not require to wait. There are steamers every day, I -suppose. Would you answer this for us, Cousin Geoffrey? and say we want -no one. We will come.”</p> - -<p>It required some power of divination to make out the last words, which -were almost choked with the weeping to which Milly had entirely given -way.</p> - -<p>“Go at once?” said Miss Anna, “without an escort—without seeing -anything?”</p> - -<p>The girls gave her, both together, an indignant look; and then they -turned and went out of the room, moving in one step, like one creature, -with a soft sweep as of wings. So at least Geoffrey thought, looking -after them with the tenderest pity in his eyes. They did not walk but -disappeared, flying to be alone and get some comfort from their tears.</p> - -<p>“What does the telegram say—who sends it—is it long or short—is it -from the mother herself, is it—?” Miss Anna put out her hand and tried -to take it from Geoff. Both the ladies were full of curiosity. Mrs -Underwood, indeed, in sympathy with the trouble of the girls, dried her -eyes as she looked up eagerly for news—but Miss Anna owned no trace of -tears. She was full of interest and keen curiosity. “Give it me. The -very wording of it will tell us something more about them,” she cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span></p> - -<p>Geoff’s first movement was to hurry away, carrying this communication -with him; but he paused as a new idea took possession of him. He was too -good a man to be altogether a free agent. He paused, and looked at the -mother upon whom he knew he was about to inflict a great blow. She was -not a wise woman, and the instinct of curiosity which had possession of -her at the moment was not one to please that critical faculty which is -so exaggerated in youth. He did not like to see in her eyes even a -shadow of the hungry appetite for news which burned in her sister’s. -Nevertheless, he read the telegram slowly.</p> - -<p>“Your terrible news just received. Mother utterly prostrated. Wire if -wish me to come for you—otherwise return first ship.”</p> - -<p>The name of the sender was a strange one—it was evidently an uncle or -some relation who could speak with authority. Geoff paid no attention to -what the ladies said, but went on. “Mother, I am going to say something -which will vex you. You must try to remember that I am old enough to -take care of myself. I am going with them, to take them to their -mother.”</p> - -<p>“Geoff—Geoff—by sea!—to America!” Mrs Underwood gasped; she could not -get her breath.</p> - -<p>“Of course it must be by sea if he goes to America,” said Miss Anna. -“There is no land passage invented yet.”</p> - -<p>“It is my plain duty,” said Geoff, colouring a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> little, “if, as I -believe, they are our near relations; and in any case there is a -question between us which they are too young in their generosity to -settle. We cannot take advantage of the generosity of two children, -mother——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Geoff! but for you to go—to go to America—a long voyage, and at -this time of the year——”</p> - -<p>“The equinoctials coming on,” put in Miss Anna quickly.</p> - -<p>“The equin——, yes; nothing but storms and shipwrecks, and every kind -of danger. If you mean me never to have a night’s rest more—to go -distracted every wind that blows—to have neither peace nor comfort of -my life! Oh, Geoff! all that, for them that you never had seen a -fortnight ago! and me, your mother, that have never had another thought -but you for eight-and-twenty years——”</p> - -<p>“Surely, mother,” cried poor Geoff, “there is no need to put it so -tragically. I am not going to abandon you. I am only going to do what -half the men of my age do for pleasure—and I shall have a real motive -in it. In the first place, a duty to Grace and Milly: if they were your -children, how should you like them to go over the sea all alone, when a -great idle fellow calling himself their cousin was here doing nothing? -And then this business, which otherwise may worry us for years, which we -never can be sure about—for if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> these dear girls, in the generosity of -their hearts, refuse to have anything to do with it, who can tell that -their mother, their brothers will be of the same mind?”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood had fallen into tears and broken exclamations. She was -incapable of any connected words. “Oh Geoff—my boy—all I have—all I -have in the world!” and “a sea voyage—a sea voyage to America,” was all -she said.</p> - -<p>Miss Anna got up to her feet, and struck her stick emphatically upon the -floor. “Listen, Mary! I have said your son was soft, and a dawdle like -yourself. I retract. He’s a clever fellow, and sees the rights of a -matter when it’s put before him. There, Geoff! go, and you have my -blessing. I’ll give you a hundred pounds, too, if you want it, that you -may have a pleasant trip. Your mother’s talking nonsense. I never knew -her lose a night’s rest, except when you were teething; and then that -was your doing, not hers, for you squalled all night. Go, my boy, and -success to you. It’s the wisest thing you ever thought of in your life.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, “how can you be so cruel?” She had dried -her eyes at these accusations, and sat up with a flushed countenance. -“If you knew, if you only knew half what a mother goes through! Do you -think I have always told you when I lay awake thinking of him—or any -one? Geoff, I have never denied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> you anything; but I think this will -break my heart!”</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Geoff, half pleading, half angry, “I run no more risk -than half the women’s sons in England—no risk at all; you make me feel -a fool to talk like this.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said Miss Anna, while Mrs Underwood relapsed into weeping; -“I’ll bring her round. Go off at once, there is plenty of time, and see -about your berths. You’ll find her quite reconciled to it when you come -back.”</p> - -<p>“But, Aunt Anna, I don’t understand the change on your part. You who -rejected all idea of a compromise——”</p> - -<p>Aunt Anna laughed. “I have no objection to one kind of compromise. Bring -us back that little dove-eyed thing as Mrs Geoff. I’d rather have had -the other; but you could never have managed her. Settle my money upon -Milly in her marriage settlements; and don’t mind about our absence from -the ceremony. Go and see Niagara, and all that, and bring us back your -wife—that’s the kind of compromise I want; that’s all I stipulate for, -Geoff.”</p> - -<p>“If I can, Aunt Anna.”</p> - -<p>“Pooh—can! With a week under the same roof, and a fortnight in the same -ship. Rubbish! If you can’t, you are a poorer creature than I thought. -Go, go, off with you, Geoff—before your mother comes to herself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span></p> - -<p>“Where is Geoff going? Oh, Anna, help me, help me! don’t let him go. -Geoff!” cried Mrs Underwood.</p> - -<p>Upon which Miss Anna confronted her sister with her most imposing looks. -“Mary! don’t be a fool. The boy is doing precisely what he ought to do. -I never had such a good opinion of him before; let him alone. He is -fifty times better able to take care of himself than you are to take -care of him. Here’s the telegram; let us see what it says.”</p> - -<p>“It says, I suppose, just what he read to us, Anna,” said the other, -frightened into some degree of self-denial, and with a little curiosity -re-awakening in her blurred overflowing eyes.</p> - -<p>“A thing never says anything to you when it’s read aloud. Here it is. -‘Stephen Salisbury, Quebec, to Grace Yorke, Montague Hotel, London.’ -(Then it was sent on from the hotel.) ‘Terrible news received; mother -prostrated; wire if wish me to come.’ Of course it must be the mother’s -brother. The people must be well off, Mary. There cannot be any doubt -about that. You see he says he will come if they want him; and even the -message shows it. The man would never have sent such a long message if -he had not been well off.”</p> - -<p>“I always knew that,” said Mrs Underwood feebly, “from what Grace and -Milly said. Why shouldn’t their uncle (if it is their uncle) come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> for -them? I don’t know why they should be in such a hurry to get away?”</p> - -<p>“It is a great deal better that Geoff should go with them,” Miss Anna -said. “Pluck up a heart; or if you can’t do that, get a little -common-sense, Mary; common-sense will do just as well. Why should -anything happen to a Cunard steamer because your boy happens to be in it -more than another? Do you think God has a special spite against <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Anna!” cried her sister, horrified; “me? I know God is merciful and -good: but——”</p> - -<p>“But you would rather not trust Geoff in His hands, lest He should take -a cruel advantage? That is the way of people like you.”</p> - -<p>“I never said so; I never thought so. I—I hope I have always put my -trust in God.”</p> - -<p>“But you think, all the same, if He had a chance like this, that He -would like to do you an ill turn? Oh, I understand what you mean. I have -heard a great many people—pious, devout people—speak just like you.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Underwood relapsed into speechless misery. Against such an -accusation as this, what could she say? She who never missed church, nor -ceased to profess her belief in Providence. She was silenced altogether. -She wept and sighed the name of Geoff now and then; but there was -nothing more to say.</p> - -<p>Geoff went down to the City without loss of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> moment. He secured berths -in a steamer which was to sail in three days; and with a bound of -pleasure and conscious pride in his heart found himself engaged for his -passage across the Atlantic. He went home very soberly, but with the -blood coursing in his veins. He had taken such an initiative now as he -had never been able to take in all his life before. He had emancipated -himself at last. It was, however, with a little apprehension that he -turned homeward. Whether his mother would impede his way with weeping, -whether the sisters would reject his escort, he could not tell; but his -fears in both cases were unnecessary. Mrs Underwood had been reduced to -subjection some time before he got home. And as for Grace and Milly, -they were neither excited about his proposal nor disposed to refuse it. -They took it as the most natural thing in the world. There was a gleam -of brightness, he thought, in Milly’s face, but Grace paid very little -attention. Geoffrey was a little cast down when he perceived that they -saw nothing at all heroic in his mission, nothing that anybody would -think twice about. But he had to console himself with Miss Anna’s -declaration that a fortnight on board ship would settle all questions. -He himself felt a great confidence that everything would come right in -the end.</p> - -<p>Thus the difficulty was brought to a conclusion, in a way little -contemplated by the Canadian who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> once had been Leonard Crosthwaite, and -had broken his heart for his cousin Anna. When the young people were -gone, the two ladies from Grove Road made a little pilgrimage to the -great, grey, dismal London cemetery in which all that remained of him -lay—where Mrs Underwood laid some flowers, and Anna gazed with eyes -that looked as if they could penetrate the very secrets of the grave, -upon the mound under which the lover of her youth slept in peace. What -were the thoughts that had lain concealed within his breast for thirty -years, yet which had brought him, carrying fear and confusion which he -little anticipated, to her dwelling, the first day he spent in England, -no one could tell. He had carried all that mystery with him to the other -world.</p> - -<p>And after a while Geoffrey Underwood came safely back from the terrible -voyage which had so much alarmed his mother, bringing with him, exactly -as Miss Anna had foreseen and commanded, his young wife. She was far too -young a wife, her mother thought, to venture so far; but Milly did not -think so. How to do without Grace, and to think for herself, was more -difficult to Milly than the distance and the voyage. But she did what -was a great deal easier than thinking for herself—she transferred all -the responsibility to her husband. Nothing could be handsomer than the -marriage settlement which Miss Anna made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> She made the little bride her -own representative, with the larger share of the fortune. And the -Canadian family were well pleased, and asked no more. Indeed, all that -Mrs Yorke desired was that nothing should be said about this strange -illumination thrown at the last upon the husband who had been hers for -twenty years, and who now seemed to be stolen from her and changed into -another man. She would not listen to any explanations on the subject; -the sound of the other name was odious to her. She took even from her -boy, Leonard, that name of his which came from his father’s old life, -and jealously called him Robert, which was his second name.</p> - -<p>Almost a year elapsed before the young pair came home. They arrived on a -bright April afternoon, when the sun was shining over the great smoke. -The windows were open: the lawn all green with spring, and set in a -frame of English primroses, looked as fresh as the bride herself, who -recognised it, and the difference in it, with a little cry of pleasure. -Mrs Underwood threw herself, as was natural, upon the wonderful son who -had been delivered from the seas, who had not been drowned, or swallowed -by a whale, who had come safely through marriage, and all the other -terrific dangers to which he had been exposed; but Miss Anna walked -across the room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> with a little stately limp, casting aside her stick, -and took little Milly in her arms. “Welcome!” she said, “little girl -with the dove’s eyes. I always said I would accept one, but only one, -compromise!”</p> - -<p class="c"><small>TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Two Marys, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO MARYS *** - -***** This file should be named 52615-h.htm or 52615-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/6/1/52615/ - -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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