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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..7251202 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53182 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53182) diff --git a/old/53182-0.txt b/old/53182-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5ca9bfa..0000000 --- a/old/53182-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5299 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sorceress, v. 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress, v. 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: October 1, 2016 [EBook #53182] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS, V. 3 of 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - THE SORCERESS. - - - - - THE SORCERESS. - A Novel. - - BY - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” - “THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,” - ETC., ETC. - - _IN THREE VOLUMES._ - - VOL. III. - - LONDON: - F. V. WHITE & Co., - 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. - 1893. - - [_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_] - - - PRINTED BY - TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON, - LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN. - - - - - THE SORCERESS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -When Charlie Kingsward fled from Oxford, half mad with disappointment -and misery, he had no idea or intention about the future left in his -mind. He had come to one of those strange passes in life beyond which -the imagination does not go. He had been rejected with that deepest -contumely which takes the aspect of the sweetest kindness, when a woman -affects the most innocent suspicion at the climax to which, consciously -or unconsciously, she has been working up. - -“Oh, my poor boy, was that what you were thinking of?” There is no way -in which a blow can be administered with such sharp and keen effect. It -made the young man’s brain, which was only an ordinary brain, and for -some time had exercised but small restraining power upon him in the -hurry and sweep of his feelings, reel. When he pulled the door upon him -of those gardens of Aminda, that fool’s paradise in which he had been -wasting his youth, and which were represented in his case by a very -ordinary suburban garden in that part of Oxford called the Parks, his -rejected and disappointed passion had every possible auxiliary emotion -to make it unbearable. Keen mortification, humiliation, the sharp sense -of being mocked and deceived; the sudden conviction of having given what -seemed to the half-maddened boy his whole life, for nothing whipped him -like the lashes of the Furies. In most of the crises of life the thought -what to do next occurs with almost the rapidity of lightning after a -great catastrophe, but Charlie felt as if there was nothing beyond. The -whole world had crumbled about him. There was no next step; his very -footing had failed him. He rushed back to his rooms by instinct, as a -wounded creature would rush to its lair, but on his way was met by eager -groups returning from the “Schools,” in which he ought to have been, -discussing among each other the stiffness of the papers, and how they -had been done. This would scarcely add to his pain, but it added to that -sickening effort of absolute failure of the demolition of everything -around and before him, which was what he felt the most. They made the -impossible more impossible still, and cut off every retreat. When he -stood in his room, amid all the useless books which he had not opened -for days or weeks, and heard the others mounting the staircase outside -his locked door, it seemed to the unhappy young man as though the floor -under his feet was the last spot on which standing ground was possible, -and that beyond and around there was nothing but chaos. For what reason -and on what impulse he rushed to London it would be difficult to tell. -He had little money, few friends--or rather none who were not also the -friends of his family--no idea or intention of doing anything. - -“Perhaps the world will end to-night.” - -He did not even think so much as that, though perhaps it was in some -sort the feeling in his mind. Yet no suggestions of suicide, or of -anything that constitutes a moral suicide, occurred to him. These would -have been something definite, they would have provided for a future, but -Charlie was stupefied and had none. He had not so much sense of any -resource as consisted in a pistol or a plunge into the river. He flung -himself into the train and went to London, because after a time the -sound of his comrades, or of those who ought to have been his comrades, -became intolerable to him. They kept pacing, rushing up and down the -staircase, calling to each other. One or two, indeed, talked at his own -closed door, driving him into a silent frenzy. As soon as they were gone -he seized a travelling bag, thrust something, he did not know what, into -it, and fled--to the desert--to London, where he would be lost and no -one would drive him frantic by calling to him, by making believe that -there was something left in life. - -It occurred to him somehow, by force of that secondary consciousness -which works for us when our minds are past all exertion, to fling -himself into the corner of a third-class carriage as the place where he -was least likely to meet anyone he knew, though indeed the precaution -was scarcely necessary, since he could not have recognised anyone, as he -sat huddled up in his corner, staring blankly at the landscape that flew -past the window and seeing nothing. When he arrived in the midst of the -din and bustle of the great railway station, he fled once more through -the crowd into the greater crowd outside, clutching instinctively at the -bag which lay beside him, but seeing no one, nor whither he went nor -where he was going. He walked fast, and in a fierce unconsciousness -pushing his way through everything, and though he had in reality no aim, -took instinctively the way to his father’s house--his home--though it -was at that time no home for him, being occupied by strangers. When he -got into the park a vague recollection of this penetrated through the -maze in which he was enveloped, and for a moment he paused, but then -went on walking at the same pace, making the circuit of the park which -lay before him in the mists of the afternoon, the frosty sun setting, -the hay taking a rosy tint. He went all round the silences of the -half-deserted walks, beginning to feel vaguely the strange desolate -sentiment of not knowing where to go, though only in the secondary phase -of his consciousness. Until all at once his strength seemed to fail him, -his limbs grew feeble, his steps slow, and he stopped short, -mechanically, as he had walked, not knowing why, and flung himself upon -a bench, where he sat long, motionless, as if that had now become the -only thing solid in the world and there was no step remaining to him -beyond. - -A young man, though he may have numberless friends, may yet make a -despairing transit like this from one place to another through the midst -of a crowd without being seen by anyone who knows him; if the encounters -of life are wonderful, the failures to encounter, the manner in which we -walk alone with friends on all hands, and in our desperate moments, when -help is most necessary, do not meet or come within sight of any, is -equally wonderful. The Kingswards had a large circle of acquaintance, -and Charlie himself had the numberless intimates of a public school boy, -a young university man, acquainted with half the youth of his -period--yet nobody saw him, except one to whom he would scarcely have -accorded a salutation in ordinary circumstances. Aubrey Leigh, who had -been so strangely and closely connected for a moment with the Kingsward -family, and then so swiftly and peremptorily cut off, arrived in London -from a short visit to a suburban house by the same train which brought -Charlie, and caught sight of him as he jumped out of his compartment -with his bag in his hand. A very cool, self-possessed, and trim young -man young Kingsward had always appeared to the other, with whose -brightest and at the same time most painful recollections his figure was -so connected. To see him now suddenly, with that air of desperation -which had triumphed over all his natural habits and laws, that -abstracted look, clutching his bag, half leaping, half stumbling out of -the carriage, going off at a swift, unconscious pace, pushing through -every crowd, filled Aubrey with surprise which soon turned into anxiety. -Charlie Kingsward, with a bag in his hand, rushing through the London -streets conveyed an entirely new idea to the minds of the spectators. -What such an arrival would have meant in ordinary circumstances would -have been the rattling up of a hansom, the careless calling out of an -address, the noisy progress over the stones, of the driver expectant of -something more than his fare, and keenly cognisant of the habits of the -young gentlemen from Oxford. - -Aubrey quickened his own pace to follow the other, whose arrival this -time was in such different guise. A sudden terror seized his mind, -naturally quite unjustified by the outward circumstances. Was anyone -ill?--which meant, was Bee ill? Had anything dreadful happened? A -moment’s reflection would have shown that in such a case the hansom -would be more needed than usual, as conveying her brother the more -quickly to his home. But Aubrey did not pause on probabilities. A moment -more would have made him sure of the unlikelihood that Charlie would be -sent for in case of Bee’s illness, unless, indeed, the question had been -one of life and death. - -But he had not even heard of his love for many months. His heart was -hungry for news of her, and in that case he would have done his best to -intercept Charlie, to extract from him, if possible, some news of his -sister. He followed, accordingly, with something of the same headlong -haste with which Charlie was pushing through the streets, and for a long -time, up to the gates of the park, indeed, kept him in sight. At the -rate at which the young man was going it was impossible to do more. - -Then Aubrey suddenly lost sight of the figure he was pursuing. There was -a group of people collected for some vulgar, unsupportable object or -other at that point, and it was there that Charlie deflected from the -straight road for home, which he had hitherto taken, and which his -pursuer took it for granted he would follow for the rest of the way. -When Aubrey had pushed his way through the little crowd Charlie was no -longer visible. He looked to left and to right in vain, scrutinised the -short cut over the park, and the broad road full of passing carriages -and wayfarers, but saw no trace of the figure he sought. Aubrey then -walked quickly to the point where Charlie, as he supposed, must be -going, and soon came to the gate on the other side and the street itself -in which the house of the Kingswards was. But he saw no sign of Charlie, -nor of anyone looking for him. He himself had no acquaintance with that -house, to which he had never been admitted, but he had passed it many -times in the vain hope of seeing Bee at a window, not knowing that it -was occupied by strangers. While he walked down the street, however, -anxiously gazing to see if there were any signs of illness, asking -himself whether he dared to inquire at the door, he saw a gentleman come -up and enter with a latch key, who certainly did not belong to the -Kingsward family. This changed the whole current of Aubrey’s thoughts. -It was not here then that Charlie was coming. His rapid and wild walk -could not mean any disaster to the family--any trouble to Bee. The -discovery was at once a disappointment and a relief; a relief from the -anxiety which had gradually been gaining upon him, a disappointment of -the hope of hearing something of her. For if Charlie was not going home, -who could trace out where such a young man might be going? To the dogs, -Aubrey thought, instinctively; to the devil, to judge by his looks. Yet -Charlie Kingsward, the most correct of modern young men, had surely in -him no natural proclivity towards that facile descent. What could it be -that had driven him along like a leaf before the wind? - -Aubrey was himself greatly disturbed and stirred up by this encounter. -He had schooled himself to quiet, and the pangs of his overthrow, though -not quenched, had been kept under with a strong hand. The life which he -desired for himself, which he had so fully planned, so warmly hoped for, -had been broken to pieces and made an end of, leaving the way he had -chosen blank to him, as he thought, for evermore. He had been very -unfortunate in that way, his early venture ending in bitter -disappointment; his other, more wise, more sweet, cut off before it had -ever been. But he was a reasonable being, and knew that life had to be -put to other uses, even when that sole fair path which the heart desired -was closed. He had given it up definitely, neither thinking nor hoping -again for the household life, the patriarchal existence among his own -fields, his own people, under his own roof, and was now doing his best -to conform his life to a more grey and monotonous standard. - -But the sight of Charlie, or rather the sight of Bee’s brother, -evidently under the influence of some strong feeling, and utterly -carried away by it so as to ignore all that regard for appearance and -decorum which had been his leading principle, came suddenly like a touch -upon a wound, reviving all the questions and impatiences of the past. -Aubrey felt that he could not endure the ignorance of her and all her -ways which had fallen over him like a pall, cutting off her being from -him as if they were not still living in the same world, still within -reach of each other. He might endure, he said to himself, to be parted -from her, to give up hope of her, since she willed it so--yet, at -least, he must know something of her, find out if she were ill or well, -what she was doing, where she was even; for that mere outside detail he -did not know. How was it possible he should bear this--not even to know -where she was? This thought took hold of him, and drove him into a fever -of sudden feeling. Oh! yes; he had resigned himself to live without her, -to endure his solitary existence far from her, since she willed it so; -but not even to know where she was, how she was, what she was doing! - -Suddenly, in a moment, the fiery stinging came back, the sword plunged -into the wound. He had not for a moment deluded himself with the idea -that he was cured of it, but yet it had been subdued by necessity, by -the very silence which now he felt to be intolerable. He went back into -the park, where the long lines of the misty paths were now almost -deserted, gleams of the lamps outside shining through the dark tracery -of the branches, and all quiet except in the broad road, still sounding -with a diminished stream of carriages. He dived into the intersections -of the deserted paths, something as Charlie had done, seeking -instinctively a silent place where he could be alone with the -newly-aroused torment of his thoughts. - -When he came suddenly upon the bench upon which Charlie had flung -himself, his first movement was to turn back. He had been walking over -the grass, and his steps were consequently noiseless, and he was in the -mood to which any human presence--the possible encounter of anyone who -might speak to him and disturb his own hurrying passions--was -intolerable. But as he turned, his eye fell on the bag--the dusty, -half-empty thing still clutched by a hand that seemed more or less -unconscious. This insignificant detail arrested Aubrey. He moved a -little way, keeping on the grass, to get a fuller view of the -half-reclining figure. And then he made out in the partial light that it -was the same figure which he had pursued so long. - -What was Charlie doing here in this secluded spot--he, the most unlike -any such retirement, the well-equipped, confident, prosperous young man -of the world, subject to so few delusions, knowing his way so well, both -in the outer and the inner world? - -Aubrey was more startled than tongue can tell. He thought no longer of -family disaster, of illness, or trouble. Whatever was amiss, it was -evidently Charlie who was the sufferer. He paused for a minute or more, -reflecting what he should do. Then he stepped forward upon the gravel, -and sitting down, put his hand suddenly upon that which held the -half-filled bag. - -“Kingsward!” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Meanwhile Colonel Kingsward had remained in Oxford. It was necessary -that he should regulate all Charlie’s affairs, find out and pay what -bills he had left, and formally sever his connection with the -University. It is a thing which many fathers have had to do, with pain -and sorrow, and a sense of premature failure, which is one of the -bitterest things in life; but Colonel Kingsward had not this painful -feeling to aggravate the annoyance and vexation which he actually felt. -The fact that his son had been idle in the way of books, and was leaving -Oxford without taking his degree, did not affect his mind much. Many -young fellows did that, especially in the portion of the world to which -Charlie belonged. The Colonel was irritated by having to interfere, by -the trouble he was having, and the deviation from salutary routine, but -he felt no humiliation either for himself or his son. And Charlie’s -liabilities were not large, so far as he could discover. The fellow, at -least, had no vices, he said to himself. Even the unsympathetic Don had -nothing to say against him but that charge of idleness, which the -Colonel rather liked than otherwise. Had he been able to say that it was -his son’s social or even athletic successes which were the causes of the -idleness he would have liked it altogether. He paid Charlie’s bills with -a compensating consciousness that these were the last that would have to -be paid at Oxford, and he was not even sorry that he could not get back -to town by the last train. Indeed, I think he could have managed that -very well had he tried. He remained for the second night with wonderful -equanimity, finding, as a matter of course, a man he knew in the hotel, -and dining not unpleasantly that day. Before he went back to town, he -thought it only civil to go out to the Parks to return, as politeness -demanded, the visit of the lady who had so kindly and courageously gone -to see him, and from whom he had received the only explanation of -Charlie’s strange behaviour. He went forth as soon as he had eaten an -early luncheon, in order to be sure to find Miss Lance before she went -out, and stopped only to throw a rapid glance in passing at a band of -young ruffians--mud up to their eyes, and quite undistinguishable for -the elegant undergraduates which some of them were--who were playing -football in the Parks. The Colonel had, like most men, a warm interest -in athletic sports, but his soldierly instincts disliked the mud. Miss -Lance’s house was beyond that much broken up and down-trampled green. It -was a house in a garden of the order brought into fashion by the late -Randolph Caldecott, red with white “fixings” and pointed roof, and it -bore triumphantly upon its little gate post the name of Wensleydale, -Oxford Dons, and the inhabitants of that district generally, being fond -of such extension titles. Colonel Kingsward unconsciously drew himself -together, settled his head into his collar, and twisted his moustache, -as he knocked at the door, and yet it was not an imposing door. It was -opened, not by a solemn butler, but by a neat maid, who showed Colonel -Kingsward into a trim drawing-room, very feminine and full of flowers -and knick-knacks. Here he waited full five minutes before anyone -appeared, looking about him with much curiosity, examining the little -stands of books, the work-tables, the writing-tables, the corners for -conversation. It was not a large room, and yet space had been found for -two little centres of social intercourse. There were, therefore, the -Colonel divined, two ladies who shared this abode. Colonel Kingsward had -never been what is called a ladies’ man. The feminine element in life -had been supplied to him in that subdued way naturally exhibited by a -yielding and gentle wife in a house where the husband is supreme. He was -quite unacquainted with it in its unalloyed state, and the spectacle -amused and pleasantly affected him with a sense at once of superiority -and of novelty. It was pleasant to see how these little known creatures -arranged themselves in their own private dominion, where they had -everything their own way, and the touch of the artificial which -appeared in all these dainty particulars seemed appropriate and -commended itself agreeably to the man who was accustomed to a broader -and larger style of household economy. A man likes to see the difference -well marked, at least a man who holds Colonel Kingsward’s ideas of life. -He had gone so far as to note the “Laura” with a large and flowing “L” -on the notepaper, which “L” was repeated on various pretty articles -about. When the door opened and Miss Lance appeared, she came up to him -holding out both her hands as to an old friend. - -“Will you forgive me for keeping you waiting, Colonel Kingsward? The -fact is we have just come in, and you know that a woman has always a -toilette to make, not like you lucky people who put on or put off a hat -and all is done.” - -“I did not think you were likely to be out so early,” the Colonel said. - -“My friend has a son at Oriel,” replied Miss Lance. “He is a great -football player as it happens, and we are bound to be present when he -is playing; besides, the Parks are so near.” - -“I did not think it was a game that would interest you.” - -“It does not, except in so far that I am interested in everything that -interests my surroundings. My friend goes into it with enthusiasm; she -even believes that she understands what it is all about.” - -“It seems chiefly mud that is about,” said the Colonel, with a slight -tone of disapproval, for it displeased him to think that a woman like -this should go to a football match, and also it displeased him after his -private amusement and reflections on the feminine character of the house -to find, after all, a man connected with it, even if that man were only -a boy. - -“Come,” said Miss Lance, indicating a certain chair, “sit down here by -me, Colonel Kingsward, and let us not talk commonplaces any longer. You -have been obliged to stay longer than you intended. I had been thinking -of you as in London to-day.” - -“It was very kind to think of me at all.” - -“Oh, don’t say so--that is one of the commonplaces too. Of course, I -have been thinking of you with a great deal of interest, and with some -rather rebellious, undutiful sort of thoughts.” - -“What thoughts?” cried the Colonel, in surprise. - -“Well,” she said, “it is a great blessing, no doubt, to have -children--to women, perhaps, an unalloyed blessing; and yet, you know, -an unattached person like myself cannot help a grudge occasionally. Here -are you, for instance, in the prime of life; your thoughts about -everything matured, your reason more important to the world than any of -the escapades of youth, and yet you are depleted from your own grave -path in life; your mind occupied, your thoughts distracted; really your -use to your country interrupted by--by what are called the cares of a -family,” she concluded, with a short laugh. - -She spoke with much use of her hands in graceful movement that could -scarcely be called gesticulation--clasping them together, spreading them -out, making them emphasise everything. And they were very white and -pretty hands, with a diamond on one, which sparkled at appropriate -moments, and added its special emphasis too. - -The Colonel was flattered with this description of himself and his -capacities. - -“There is great truth,” he said, “in what you say. I have felt it, but -for a father at the head of a family to put forth such sentiments would -shock many good people.” - -“Fortunately there are no good people here, and if there were I might -still express them freely. It is a thing that strikes me every day. In -feeble specimens it destroys the individuality; in strong characters -like yourself----” - -“You do me too much honour, Miss Lance. My position, you are aware, is -doubly unfortunate, for I have all upon my shoulders. Still, one must do -one’s duty at whatever cost.” - -“That would be your feeling, of course,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of -admiring and regretful expression. “For my part, I am the most dreadful -rebel. I kick against duty. I think a man has a duty to himself. To -stint a noble human being for the sake of nourishing some half-dozen -secondary ones, is to me---- Oh, don’t let us talk of it! Tell me, dear -Colonel Kingsward, have you got everything satisfactorily settled, and -heard of the arrival----? Oh,” she cried, clasping those white hands, -“how can I sit here calmly and ask, seeing that I have a share in -causing all this trouble--though, heaven knows, how unintentionally on -my part!” - -“Don’t say so,” said the Colonel, putting his hands for a second on -those clasped white hands. “I am sure that you can have done nothing but -good to my foolish boy. To be admitted here at all was too much honour.” - -“I shall never be able to take an interest in anyone again,” she said, -drooping her head. “It is so strange, so strange to have one’s motives -misunderstood, but you don’t do so. I am so thankful I had the courage -to go to you. My friend dissuaded me strongly from taking such a step. -She said that a parent would naturally blame anyone rather than his own -son----” - -“My dear Miss Lance, who could blame you? I don’t know,” said the -Colonel, “that I blame poor Charlie so much either. To be much in your -company might well be dangerous for any man.” - -“You must not speak so--indeed, indeed, you must not! I feel more and -more ashamed! When a woman comes to a certain age--and has no children -of her own. Surely, surely----” - -“Come!” he cried. “You said a parent’s cares destroyed one’s -individuality----” - -“Not with a woman. What individuality has a woman? The only use of her -is to sink that pride in a better--the pride of being of some use. What -I regretted was for you--and such as you--if there are enough of such to -make a class--. Yes, yes,” she added, looking up, “I acknowledge the -inconsistency. I have not sense enough to see the pity of it in all -cases--but my real principle, my deep belief is that to draw a man like -you away from your career, to trouble and distress you about others, who -are not of half your value--is a thing that ought to be prevented by Act -of Parliament,” she cried, breaking off with a laugh. “But you have not -told me yet how everything has finished,” she added, in a confidential -low tone, after a pause. - -Then he told her in some detail what he had done. It was delightful to -tell her, a woman so sympathising, so quick to understand, with that -approving, consoling, remonstrating action of her white hands which -seemed at the same moment to applaud and deprecate, with a constant -inference that he was too good, that really he ought not to be so good. -She laughed at his description of the Don, adding a graphic touch or two -to make the picture more perfect--till Colonel Kingsward was surprised -at himself to think how cleverly he had done it, and was delighted with -his own success. This gave a slightly comic character to his other -sketches of poor Charlie’s tradesmen, and scout, and an unutterable cad -of a young fellow who had met the Colonel leaving the college and had -told him of a small sum which Charlie owed him. - -“The little beast!” the Colonel said. - -“Worse!” cried Miss Lance, “I would not slander any gentlemanly dog by -calling him of the same species.” - -Altogether, her interest and sympathy changed this not particularly -lively occasion into one of the brightest moments of Colonel -Kingsward’s life. He had not been used to a woman so clever, who took -him up at half a word, and enhanced the interest of everything. Had he -been asked, indeed, he would have said that he did not like clever -women. But then Miss Lance had other qualities. She was very handsome, -and she had an evident and undisguised admiration for him. She was so -very frank and sure of her position as a woman of a certain age--a -qualification which she appropriated to herself constantly, though most -women thought it an insult--that she did not find it needful to conceal -that admiration. When he thanked her for her kindness for the patient -hearing of all his story, and the interest she had shown, to which he -had so little claim, Miss Lance smiled and held out those white hands. - -“I assure you,” she said, “the benefit is all on my side. Living here -among very young men, you must think what it is to talk to, to be -treated confidentially, by a man like yourself. It is like a glance into -another life.” She sighed, and added, “The young are delightful. I am -very fond of young people. Still, to meet now and then with someone of -one’s own age, of one’s own species, if I may say so--” - -“You do me too much honour,” said Colonel Kingsward, feeling with a -curious elation, how superior he was. She went with him to the garden -gate, not afraid of the wintry air, showing no sense of the chill, and -though she had given him her hand before, offered it again with the -sweetest friendliness. - -“And you promised,” she said, looking in his face while he held it, -“that you would send me one line when you got home, to tell me how you -find him--and that all is well--and forgiven.” - -“I shall be too happy to be permitted to write,” Colonel Kingsward said. - -“Forgiven,” she said, “and forgotten!” holding up a finger of the other -hand, the hand with the diamond. She stood for a moment watching while -he closed the low gate, and then, waving her hand to him, turned away. -Colonel Kingsward had never been a finer fellow, in his own estimation, -than when he walked slowly off from that closed door. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -I will not repeat the often described scene of anxiety which existed in -Kingswarden for some time after. Colonel Kingsward returned, as Bee had -done, to find that nothing had been seen or heard of Charlie, whom both -had expected to find defiant and wretched at home. It is astonishing how -quickly in such circumstances the tables are turned, and the young -culprit--whom parents and friends have been ready to crush the moment he -appears with well-deserved rebuke--becomes, when he does not appear, the -object of the most eager appeals; forgiveness, and advantages of every -kind all ready to greet him if only he will come back. The girls were -frightened beyond description by their brother’s disappearance, and -conjured up every dreadful image of disaster and misery. They thought of -Charlie in his despair going off to the ends of the earth and never -being seen more. They thought of him as in some wretched condition on -shipboard, sick and miserable, reduced to dreadful work and still more -dreadful privations, he who had lain in the lilies and fed on the roses -of life. They thought of him, Colonel Kingsward’s son, enlisted as a -private soldier, in a crowded barrack-room. They thought of him -wandering about the street, cold, perhaps hungry, without a shelter. The -most dreadful images came before their inexperienced eyes. The old aunt -who was their companion told them dreadful stories of family prodigals -who disappeared and were never heard of again, and terror took hold of -the girls’ minds. - -Their constant walk was to the station, with the idea that he might -perhaps come as far as the village, and that there his heart might fail -him. Except for that melancholy indulgence, they would not be out of the -house at any time together, lest at that moment Charlie might arrive, -and no one be there to welcome him. There was always one who ran to the -door at every sound, scandalising the servant, who could never get there -so fast but one of the young ladies was before him. They had endless -conversations and consultations on the subject, forming a hundred plans -as to how they should go forth into the world to seek for him, all -rendered abortive by the reflection that they knew not where to go. Bee -and Betty were very unhappy during these lingering, chilly days of early -spring. The tranquillity of the family life seemed to be destroyed in a -moment. Where was Charlie? Was there any news of Charlie? This was the -question that filled their minds day and night. - -Colonel Kingsward was not less affectionate, but he was more practical -and experienced. He knew that now and then it does happen that a young -man disappears, sinks under the stream, and goes, as people say, to the -dogs, and is heard of no more--or, at least, only in a shipwrecked -condition, the shame and trouble of his friends. It did not seem to him, -at first, that there could be any such danger for his son. He -anticipated nothing more than a few days’ sullenness, perhaps in some -friend’s house, who would make cautious overtures and intercede for the -rebellious but shame-stricken boy. When, however, the time passed on, -and a longer interval than any judicious friend would permit had -elapsed, a deep anxiety arose also in Colonel Kingsward’s mind. The -_esclandre_ of an Oxford failure did not trouble him much, but, in view -of Charlie’s future career, he could not employ detectives, or advertise -in the papers, or take any steps which might lead to a paragraph as to -the anxiety of a distinguished family on account of a son who had -disappeared. Colonel Kingsward might not be a very tender parent, but he -was fully alive to the advantage of his children, and would allow no -stigma to be attached to them which he could prevent. He went a great -deal about London in these days, going into many a spot where a man of -his dignity was out of place, with an anxious and troubled eye upon the -crowds of young men, the familiars of these confused regions, among -whom, however, no trace was to be found of his son. - -Nobody ever knew how much the Colonel undertook, in how many strange -scenes he found himself, or half of what he really did to recover -Charlie, and save him from the consequences of his folly. The most -devoted father could scarcely have done more, and his mind was almost as -full of the prodigal as were the minds of the girls, who thought of so -many grievous dangers, yet did not think of those that filled their -father’s mind. Colonel Kingsward went about everywhere, groping, saying -not a word to betray his ignorance of Charlie’s whereabouts. To those -who had any right to know his family affairs, he explained that he had -decided not to press Charlie to undergo any examination beyond what was -necessary, that he had given up the thought of taking his degree, and -was studying modern languages and international law, which were so much -more likely to be useful to him. “He is a steady fellow--he has no -vices,” he said, “and I think it is wise to let him have his head.” -Colonel Kingsward was by nature a despotic man, and his friends were -very glad to hear that he was, in respect to Charlie, so amiable--they -said to each other that his wife’s death had softened Kingsward, and -what a good thing it was that he was behaving so judiciously about his -son. - -A pause like this in the life of a family--a period of darkness in which -the life of one of its members is suspended, interrupted, as it were, in -mid career, cut off, yet not with that touch of death which stills all -anxieties--is always a difficult and miserable one. Some, and the number -increases of these uncontrolled persons, cry out to earth and heaven, -and make the lapse public and set all the world talking of their -affairs. But Colonel Kingsward sternly put down even the tears of his -young daughters. - -“If you cannot keep a watch over yourselves before the servants, you had -better leave the house,” he said, all the more stern to them that he was -soft to Charlie; but indeed it was not so much that he was soft to -Charlie as that he was concerned and anxious about Charlie’s career. - -“Betty, I suppose, can go back to the Lyons’ in Portman Square, and -Bee----” - -“If you think that I can go visiting, papa, and no one with the -children, and poor Charlie----” - -“I think--and, indeed, I know, that you can and will do what I think -best for you,” said Colonel Kingsward. - -Bee looked up at him quickly and met her father’s eyes. The two looked -at each other suspiciously, almost fiercely. Bee saw in her father’s -look possibilities and dangers as yet undeveloped, mysteries which she -divined and feared, yet neither could nor would have put into words, -while he looked at her divining her divinations, defying unconsciously -the suspicion which he could not have expressed any more than she. - -“Let it be understood once for all,” he said, “that the children have -their nurses and governess, and that your presence is by no means -indispensable to them. You are their eldest sister, you are not the -mistress of the house. Nothing will happen to the children. In -considering what is best for you----” - -“Papa!” cried Bee, almost fiercely; but she did not pour out upon him -that bitterness which had been collecting in her heart. She paused in -time; but then added, “I have not asked you to consider what was best -for me.” - -“That is enough to show that it is time for me to consider it,” he said. - -And then, once more their looks met, and clashed like the encounter of -two armies. What did she suspect? What did he intend? They both breathed -short, as if with the impulse of battle, but neither, even to -themselves, could have answered that question. Colonel Kingsward cried -“Take care, Bee!” as he went away, a by no means happy man, to his -library, while she threw herself down upon a sofa, and--inevitable -result in a girl of any such rising of passion--burst into tears. - -“Bee,” said the sensible Betty, “you ought not to speak like that to -papa.” - -“I ought to be thankful that he has considered what was best for me, and -spoilt my life!” cried Bee, through her tears. “Oh, it is very easy for -you to speak. You are to go to the Lyons’, where you wish to go--to be -free of all anxiety--for what is Charlie to you but only your brother, -and you know that you can’t do him any good by making yourself miserable -about him? And you will see Gerald Lyon, who is doing well at -Cambridge, and listen to all the talk about him, and smile, and not hate -him for being so smug and prosperous, while poor Charlie----” - -“How unjust you are!” cried Betty, growing red and then pale. “It is not -Gerald Lyon’s fault that Charlie has not done well--even if I cared -anything for Gerald Lyon.” - -“It is you who ought to take care,” said Bee, “if papa thinks it -necessary to consider what is best for you.” - -“There is nothing to consider,” said Betty, with a little movement of -her hands. - -“But it can never be so bad for you,” said Bee, with a tone of regret. -“Never! To think that my life should be ruined and all ended for the -sake of a woman--a woman--who has now ruined Charlie, and whom papa--oh, -papa!” she cried, with a tone indescribable of exasperation and scorn -and contempt. - -“What is it about papa? You look at each other, you and he, like two -tigers. You have got the same dreadful eyes. Yes, they are dreadful -eyes; they give out fire. I wonder often that they don’t make a noise -like an explosion. And Bee, you said yourself that there was something -else. You never would have given in to papa, but there was something of -your own that parted you from Aubrey--for ever. You said so, Bee--when -his mother----” - -“Is there any need for bringing in any gentleman’s name?” cried Bee, -with the dignity of a dowager. And then, ignoring her own rule, she -burst forth, “What I have got against him is nothing to anyone--but that -Aubrey Leigh should be insulted and rejected and turned away from our -door, and that my heart should be broken because of a woman whom papa -and Charlie--whom papa----! He writes to her, and she writes to him--he -tells her everything--he consults her about us, _us_, my mother’s -children! And yet it was on her account that Aubrey Leigh was turned -from the door---- Oh, if you think I can bear that, you must think me -more than flesh and blood!” Bee cried, the tears adding to the fire and -sparkle of her blazing eyes. - -“It isn’t very nice,” said little Betty, sagely, “but I am not so sure -that it was her fault, for if you had stuck to Aubrey as you meant to do -at first, your heart would not have been broken, and if Charlie had not -been very silly, a person of that age could not have done him any harm; -and then papa----. What can she do to papa? I suppose he thinks as she -is old he may write to her as a friend and ask her advice. There is not -any harm that I can see in that.” - -Bee was too much agitated to make any reply to this. She resumed again, -after a pause, as if Betty had not spoken: “He writes to her, and she -writes to him, just as she did to Charlie, for I have seen them -both--long letters, with that ridiculous “Laura,” and a big L, as if she -were a girl. You can see them, if you like, at breakfast, when he reads -them instead of his papers, and smiles to himself when he is reading -them, and looks--ridiculous”--cried Bee, in her indignation. -“Ridiculous! as if he were young too; a man who is father of all of us; -and not much more than a year ago--. Oh, if I were not to speak I think -the very trees would, and the bushes in the shrubbery! It is more than -anyone can bear.” - -“You are making up a story,” said Betty, wonderingly. “I don’t know what -you mean.” Then she cried, carrying the war into the enemy’s country, -“Oh, Bee, if you had not given him up, if you had been faithful to -him!--now we should have had somebody to consult with, somebody that -could have gone and looked for poor Charlie; for we are only two girls, -and what can we do?” - -Bee did not make any reply, but looked at her sister with startled eyes. - -“Mamma was never against Aubrey Leigh,” said Betty, pursuing her -advantage. “She never would have wished you to give him up. And it is -all your own doing, not papa’s doing, or anyone’s. If I had ever cared -for him I never, never should have given him up; and then we should have -had as good as another brother, that could have gone into the world and -hunted everywhere and brought Charlie home.” - -The argument was taken up at hazard, a chance arrow lying in the young -combatant’s way, without intention--but it went straight to its mark. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The house that had been so peaceful was thus full of agitation and -disturbance, the household, anxious and alarmed, turning their weapons -upon each other, to relieve a little the gnawing of that suspense which -they were so unaccustomed to bear. It was true what Bee’s keen and -sharply aroused observation had convinced her, that Colonel Kingsward -was in correspondence with Miss Lance, and that her letters were very -welcome to him, and read with great interest. He threw down the paper -after he had made a rush through its contents, and read eagerly the long -sheets of paper, upon which the great L, stamped at the head of every -page, could be read on the other side of the table. How did that woman -know the days he was to be at home, that her letters should always come -on those mornings and never at any other time? Bee almost forgot her -troubles, those of the family in respect to Charlie, and those which -were her very own, in her passionate hatred and distrust of the new -correspondent to whom Colonel Kingsward, like his son, had opened his -heart. - -He was not, naturally, a man given to correspondence. His letters to his -wife, in those days which now seemed so distant, had been models of -concise writing. His opinions, or rather verdicts, upon things great and -small had been conveyed in terse sentences, very much to the purpose; -deliverances not of his way of thinking, but of the unalterable dogmas -that were to rule the family life; and her replies, though diffuse, were -always more or less regulated by her consciousness of the little time -there would be given to them, and the necessity of making every -explanation as brief as possible--not to worry papa, who had so much to -do. - -Why it was that he found the long letters, which he read with a certain -defiant pride in the presence of his daughters at the breakfast table, -so agreeable, it would be difficult to tell. They were very carefully -adapted to please him, it is true; and they were what are called clever -letters--such letters as clever women write, with a _faux air_ of -brilliancy which deceives both the writer and the recipient, making the -one feel herself a Sevigné and the other a hero worthy the exercise of -such powers. And there was something very novel in this sudden inroad of -sentimental romance into an existence never either sentimental or -romantic, which had fallen into the familiar calm of family life so long -ago with a wife, who though sweet and fair enough to delight any man, -had become in reality only the chief of his vassals, following every -indication of his will, when not eagerly watching an opportunity of -anticipating his wishes. His new friend treated the Colonel in a very -different way. She expounded her views of life with all the adroitness -of a mind experienced in the treatment of those philosophies which touch -the questions of sex, the differences between a man’s and a woman’s -view, the sentiment which can be carried into the most simple subjects. -There is nothing that can give more entertaining play of argument, or -piquancy of intercourse, than this mode of correspondence when cleverly -carried out, and Miss Laura Lance was a mistress of all its methods. It -was all entirely new to Colonel Kingsward. He was as much enchanted with -it as his son had been, and thought the writer as brilliant, as -original, as poor Charlie had done, who had no way of knowing better. -The Colonel’s head, which generally had been occupied by professional or -public matters--by the intrigues of the service or the incompetencies of -the Department--now found a much more interesting private subject of -thought. He was a man full of anxiety and annoyance at this particular -crisis of his career, and his correspondent was by way of sharing his -anxiety to the utmost and even blaming herself as the cause of it; yet -she contrived to amuse him, to bring a smile, to touch a lighter key, to -relieve the tension of his mind from time to time, without ever allowing -him to feel that the chief subject of their correspondence was out of -her thoughts. He got no relief of this description at home, where the -girls’ anxious questions about Charlie, their eagerness to know what had -been done, seemed to upbraid him with indifference, as if he were not -doing everything that was possible. Miss Lance knew better the dangers -that were being run, the real difficulties of the case, than these -inexperienced chits of children; but she knew also that a man’s mind -requires relief, and that, in point of fact, the Colonel’s health, -strength and comfort, were of more importance than many Charlie’s. This -was a thing that had to be understood, not said, and the Colonel indeed -was as anxious and concerned about Charlie as it was almost possible to -be. He did not form dreadful pictures as Bee and Betty did of what the -boy might be suffering. The boy deserved to suffer, and this -consideration, had he dwelt upon it, would have afforded a certain -satisfaction. But what did make him wretched was the fear of any -exposure, the mention in public of anything that might injure his son’s -career. An opportunity was already dawning of getting him an -appointment upon which the Colonel had long kept his eye, and which -would be of double importance at present as sending him out of the -country and into new scenes. But of what use were all a father’s careful -arrangements if they were thus balked by the perversity of the boy? - -Things were still in this painful suspense when Miss Lance announced to -Colonel Kingsward her arrival in town. She described to him how it was -that she was coming. - -“My friend is absent with her son till after Easter, and I am understood -to be fond of town, and am coming to spend a week or two to see the -first of the season, the pictures, &c., as well as a few friends whom I -still keep up, the relics of brighter and younger days--this is the -reason I give, but you will easily understand, dear Colonel Kingsward, -that there is another reason far more near to my heart. Your poor boy! -Or may I for once say our poor boy? For you are aware that I have never -ceased to upbraid myself for what has happened, and that I shall always -bear a mother’s heart to Charlie, dear fellow, to whom, in wishing him -nothing but good, I have been so unfortunate as to do such dreadful -wrong. Every word you say about your hopes for him, and the great chance -which he is so likely to miss, cuts me to the heart. And it has occurred -to me that there are some places in which he may have been heard of, to -which I could myself go, or where I might take you if you wished, which -you would not yourself be likely to know. I wish I had thought of them -before. I come up now full of hope that we may hear something and find a -reliable clue. I shall be in George Street, Hanover Square, a place -which is luckily in the way for everything. Please come and see me. I -hope you will not think I am presuming in endeavouring to solve a -difficulty for which I am, alas, alas! partially to blame. To assure me -of this at least if no more, come, do come to see me to-morrow, Tuesday -afternoon. I shall do nothing till I have your approval.” - -This letter had an exciting effect upon the Colonel, more than anything -he had known for years. He held it before him, yielding himself up to -this pleasurable sensation for some minutes after he had read it. The -Easter recess had left London empty, and he had been deprived of some of -the ordinary social solaces which, though they increased the difficulty -of keeping his son’s disappearance a secret, still broke the blank of -his suspense and made existence possible. Hard to bear was the point -blank shock which he had sometimes received, as when an indiscreet but -influential friend suddenly burst upon him, “I don’t see your son’s name -in the Oxford lists, Kingsward.” “No,” the Colonel had replied, with a -countenance from which all expression had been dismissed, “we thought it -better that he should keep to his special studies.” “Quite right, quite -right,” answered that great official, for what is a mere degree to F. -O.? Even to have such things as this said to him, with the chance of -putting in a response, was better than the stagnation, in which a man is -so apt to feel that all kinds of whispers are circulating in respect to -the one matter which it is his interest to conceal. - -And his heart, though it was a middle-aged, and no longer nimble organ -given to leaping, jumped up in his breast when he read his letter. There -was the possible clue which it was good to hear of--and there was the -listener to whom he could tell everything, who took such an entire and -flattering share in his anxieties, with whom there was no need to invent -excuses, or to conceal anything. Perhaps there were other reasons, too, -which he did not put into words. The image which had dazzled him at -Oxford rose again before his eyes. It was an image which had already -often visited him. One of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and so -flattering, so confidential, so deeply impressed by himself, so candid -and anxious to blame herself, to place herself in his hands. He went -back to town with agreeable instead of painful anticipations. To share -one’s cares is always an alleviation--to be able openly to take a -friend’s advice. The girls, to whom alone he could be perfectly open on -this matter, were such little fools that he had ceased to discuss it -with them, if, indeed, he had ever discussed it. And to nobody else -could he speak on the subject at all. The opportunity of pouring forth -all his speculations and alarms, of hearing the suggestions of another -mind--and such a mind as hers--of finding a new clue, was balm to his -angry, annoyed and excited spirit. There were other douceurs involved, -which were not absent from his thoughts. The pleasure of the woman’s -society, who was so flatteringly pleased with his, her mature beauty, -which had so much attraction in it, the look of her eyes, which said -more than words, the touch--laid upon his for a moment with so much -eloquent expression, appeal, sympathy, consolation, provocation--of her -beautiful hands. All this was in the Colonel’s mind. He had scarcely -known what was the touch of a woman’s hand, at least in this way, during -the course of his long, calm domestic life. He had been very fond of his -wife, of course, and very tender, as well as he knew how, during her -illness, though entirely unconscious of how much he demanded from her -even in the course of that illness. But this was utterly different, -apart from everything he had ever known. Friendship--that friendship -between man and woman which has been the subject of so much sentimental -controversy. Somebody whom Miss Lance had quoted to him, some great man -in Oxford, had said it was the only real friendship; many others, -amongst whom Colonel Kingsward himself had figured when at any moment so -ridiculous an argument had crossed his path, denounced it as a mere -unfounded fiction to conceal other sentiments. Dolts! It was the Oxford -great man who was in the right of it. The only friendship!--with -sweetness in it which no man could give, a more entire confidence, a -more complete sympathy. He knew that he could say things to Laura--Miss -Lance--which he could say to no man, and that a look from her eyes would -do more to strengthen him than oceans of kind words from lips which -would address him as “old fellow.” He had her image before him all the -time as he went up in the train; it went with him into the decorous -dulness of his office, and when he left his work an hour earlier than -usual his steps were as light as a young man’s. He had not felt so much -exhilaration of spirit since----; but he could scarcely go back to a -date on which his bosom’s lord had sat so lightly on his throne. Truth -to tell, Colonel Kingsward had fallen on evil days. Even the course of -his ordinary existence, when he had gone through life with his pretty -wife by his side, dining out constantly, going everywhere, though -enjoyable in its way, and with the satisfaction of keeping up to the -right mark, had not been exciting. She no doubt told for a great deal in -his happiness, but there were no risks, no excitements, and not as much -as the smart of an occasional quarrel between them. He had known what to -expect of her in every emergency; there was nothing novel to be looked -for, no unaccustomed flavour in anything she was likely to do or say. He -did not make this comparison consciously, for indeed there was no -comparison at all between his late wife (he called her so already in his -mind) and Miss Lance--not the slightest comparison! The latter was a far -more piquant thing--a friend--and the most delightful friend, surely, -that ever man had! - -He found her in a little drawing-room on the first floor of what looked -very much like an ordinary London lodging-house; but within it had -changed its character completely, and had become, though in a different, -more subtle way than that of the drawing-room in Oxford, the bower of -Laura, a special habitation marked with her very name, like the -notepaper on her table. He could not for the first moment avoid a -bewildering idea that it was the same room in which he had seen her in -Oxford transported thither. There seemed the same pictures on the walls, -the same writing-table, or at least one arranged in precisely the same -way, the same chairs placed two together for conversation. What a -wonderful creature she was, thus to put the stamp of her own being upon -everything she touched. Once more he had to wait for a minute or two -before she came, but she made no apology for her delay. She came in with -her hand extended, with an air of sympathy yet satisfaction at the sight -of him which went to Colonel Kingsward’s heart. If she had been sorry -only it would have displeased him, as showing a mind occupied wholly -with Charlie, but the delicate mingling of pleasure with concern was -exactly what the Colonel felt to be most fit. - -“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “How kind of you to come so soon, -to pay such prompt attention to my wish.” - -“Considering that it was my own wish,” he said, “and what I desired -most, I should say how good of you to come, but I can’t venture to hope -that it was entirely for me.” - -“It was very much for you, Colonel Kingsward. You know what blame I take -to myself for all that has happened. And I think, perhaps, I may have it -in my power to make some inquiries that would not suggest themselves. -But we must talk of this after. In the meantime, I can’t but think first -of you. What an ordeal for you--what weary work! But what a pull over us -you men have! You keep your great spirit and command over yourself -through everything, while, whatever little trouble we may have, it shows -immediately. Oh,” said Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a calm strong -man is a sight which it elevates one only to see.” - -“You give me far too much credit. One is obliged to keep a good face to -the world. I don’t approve of people who wash their dirty linen in -public.” - -“Don’t try to make yourself little with all this commonplace reasoning. -You need not explain yourself to me, dear Colonel Kingsward. I flatter -myself that I have the gift of understanding, if nothing else.” - -“A great many things else,” he said; “and indeed my keeping up in this -emergency has been greatly helped by your great friendship and moral -support. I don’t know what you have done to this room,” he added, -changing the theme quickly, “did you bring it with you? It is not a mere -room in London--it is your room. I should have known it among a -thousand.” - -“What a delightful compliment,” she said. “I am so glad you think so, -for it is one of the things I pride myself on. I think I can always make -even a lodging-house look a bit like home.” - -“It looks like you,” he repeated. “I don’t notice such matters much, but -no one could help seeing. And I hope you are to be here for some time, -and that if I can be of any use--” - -“Oh! Colonel Kingsward, don’t hold out such flattering hopes. You of -use! Of course, to a lone woman in town you would be far more than of -use--you would simply be a tower of strength. But I do not come here to -make use of you. I come--” - -“You could not give me greater pleasure than by making use of me. I am -not going much into society, my house is not open--my girls are too -young to take the responsibilities of a season upon themselves; but -anything that a single individual can do to be of service--” - -“Your dear girls--how I should like to see them, to be able to take them -about a little, to make up to those poor children as far as a stranger -could! But I can scarcely hope that you would trust them to me after the -trouble I have helped to bring on you all. Dear Colonel Kingsward, your -chivalrous offer will make all the difference in my life. If you will -give me your arm sometimes, on a rare occasion--” - -“As often as you please--and the oftener the more it will please me,” he -cried, in tones full of warmth and eagerness. Miss Lance raised her -grateful eyes to him full of unspeakable things. She made no further -reply except by one of those light touches upon his arm less than -momentary, if that were possible, like the brush of a wing, or an -ethereal contact of ideas. - -And then she said gravely, “Now about that poor, dear boy; we must find -him, oh, we must find him. I have thought of several places where he may -have been seen. Do you know that I met him once by chance in town last -year? It was at the Academy, where I was with some artist friends. I -introduced him to them, and you know there is great freedom among them, -and they have a great charm for young men. I think some of them may have -seen him. I have put myself in communication with them.” - -“I would not for a moment,” said the Colonel, somewhat stiffly, “consent -to burden you with inquiries of this kind!” - -“You do not think,” she said, sweetly, “that I would do anything, or say -anything to compromise him or you?” - -The Colonel looked at her with the strangest sudden irritation. “I was -not thinking either of him or myself. Why should you receive men, who -must be entirely out of your way, for our sakes?” - -“Oh,” she said, with a soft laugh, “you are afraid that I may compromise -myself.” She rose with an unspoken impulse, which made him rise also, in -spite of himself, with a feeling of unutterable downfall, and the sense -of being dismissed. “Don’t be afraid for me, Colonel Kingsward, I beg. I -shall not compromise anyone.” Then she turned with a sudden illumination -of a smile. “Come back and see me to-morrow, and you shall hear what I -have found out.” - -And he went away humbly, relieved yet mortified, not holding his head as -high as when he came, but already longing for to-morrow, when he might -come back. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Colonel Kingsward had been flattered, he had been pleased. He had felt -himself for a moment one of the exceptional men in whom women find an -irresistible attraction, and then he had been put down and dismissed -with the calmest decision, with a peremptoriness which nobody in his -life had ever used to him. All these sweetnesses, and then to be, as it -were, huddled out of doors the moment he said a word which was not -satisfactory to that imperial person! He could not get it out of his -mind during the evening nor all the night through, during which it -occurred to him whenever he woke, as a prevailing thought does. And he -had been right, too. To send for men, any kind of men, artists whom she -herself described as having so much freedom in their ways, and have -interviews with them, was a thing to which he had a good right to -object. That is, her friend had a right to object to it--her friend who -took the deepest interest in her and all that she was doing. That it was -for Charlie’s advantage made really no difference. This gave a beautiful -and admirable motive, but then all her motives were beautiful and -admirable, and it must be necessary in some cases to defend her against -the movements of her own good heart. Evidently she did not sufficiently -think of what the world would say, nor, indeed, of what was essentially -right; for that a woman of her attractions, still young, living -independently in rooms of her own, should receive artists -indiscriminately, nay, send for them, admit them to sit perhaps for an -hour with her, with no chaperon or companion, was a thing that could not -be borne. This annoyance almost drove Charlie out of Colonel Kingsward’s -head. He felt that when he went to her next day he must, with all the -precautions possible, speak his mind upon this subject. A woman with -such attractions, really a young woman, alone; nobody could have more -need of guarding against evil tongues. And artists were proverbially an -unregulated, free-and-easy race, with long hair and defective linen, not -men to be privileged with access under any circumstances to such a -woman. Unquestionably he must deliver his soul on that subject for her -own sake. - -He thought about it all the morning, how to do it best. It relieved his -mind about Charlie. Charlie! Charlie was only a young fellow after all, -taking his own way, as they all did, never thinking of the anxiety he -gave his family. And no doubt he would turn up of his own accord when he -was tired of it. That she should depart from the traditions which -naturally are the safeguards of ladies for the sake of a silly boy, who -took so little trouble about the peace of mind of his family, was -monstrous. It was a thing which he could not permit to be. - -When he went into his private room at his office, Colonel Kingsward -found a card upon his table which increased the uneasiness in his mind, -though he could not have told why. He took it up with great surprise -and anger. “Mr. Aubrey Leigh.” He supposed it must have been a card left -long ago, when Aubrey Leigh was Bee’s suitor, and had come repeatedly, -endeavouring to shake her father’s determination. He looked at it -contemptuously, and then pitched it into the fire. - -What a strange perversity there is in these inanimate things! It seemed -as if some malicious imp must have replaced that card there on that very -morning to disturb him. - -Colonel Kingsward did not remember how it was that the name, the sacred -name, of Miss Lance was associated with that of Aubrey Leigh. He had -been much surprised, as well as angry, at the manner in which Bee -repeated that name, when she heard it first, with a vindictive jealousy -(these words came instinctively to his mind) which was not -comprehensible. He had refused indignantly to allow that she had ever -heard the name before. Nevertheless, her cry awakened a vague -association in his mind. Something or other, he could not recollect -what, of connection, of suggestion, was in the sound. He threw Aubrey’s -card into the fire, and endeavoured to dismiss all thought on the -subject. But it was a difficult thing to do. It is to be feared that -during those morning hours the work which Colonel Kingsward usually -executed with so much exactitude, never permitting, as he himself -stated, private matters--even such as the death of his wife or the -disappearance of his son--to interfere with it, was carried through with -many interruptions and pauses for thought, and at the earliest possible -moment was laid aside for that other engagement which had nothing to do -either with the office or the Service, though it was, he flattered -himself, a duty, and one of the most lofty kind. - -To save a noble creature, if possible, from the over generosity of her -own heart; to convince her that such proceedings were inappropriate, -inconsistent with her dignity, as well as apt to give occasion for the -adversary to blaspheme--this was the mission which inspired him. If he -thought of a natural turning towards himself, the friend of friends, in -respect to whom the precautions he enforced were unnecessary, in -consequence of these remonstrances, he kept it carefully in the -background of his thoughts. It was a duty. This beautiful, noble woman, -all frankness and candour, had taken the part of an angel in -endeavouring to help him in his trouble. Could he permit her to sully -even the tip of a wing of that generous effort. Certainly not! On the -contrary, it became doubly his duty to protect her in every way. - -This time Miss Lance was in her drawing-room, seated in one of the pair -of chairs which were arranged for intimate conversation. She did not -rise, but held out her hand to him, with a soft impulse towards the -other--in which Colonel Kingsward accordingly seated himself, with a -solemnity upon his brow which she had no difficulty in interpreting, -quick-witted as she was. She did not loose a shade upon that forehead, a -note of additional gravity in his voice. She knew as well as he did the -duty which he had come to perform. And she was a woman--not only -quick-witted and full of a definite aim, but one who took real pleasure -in her own dexterity, and played her _rôle_ with genuine enjoyment. She -allowed him to open the conversation with much dignified earnestness, -and even to begin, “My dear Miss Lance,” his countenance charged with -warning before she cut the ground from under his feet in the lightest, -yet most complete way. - -“I know you are going to say something very serious when you adopt that -tone, so please let me discharge my mind first. Mrs. Revel kindly came -to me after you left yesterday, and she has made every inquiry--indeed, -as she compelled me to go back with her to dinner, I saw for myself----” - -“Mrs. Revel?” said the Colonel. - -“Didn’t you know he was married? Oh, yes, to a great friend of mine, a -dear little woman. It is in their house I meet my artists, whom I told -you of. Tuesday is her night, and they were all there. I was able to -make my investigations without any betrayal. But I am very, very sorry -to say, dear Colonel Kingsward, equally without any effect.” - -“Without any effect,” Colonel Kingsward repeated, confused. He was not -so quick-witted as she was, and it took him some time to make his way -through these mazes. Revel, the painter, was a name, indeed, that he had -heard vaguely, but his wife, so suddenly introduced, and her “night,” -and the people described as my artists, wound him in webs of -bewilderment through which it was very difficult to guide his steps. It -became apparent to him, however, after a moment, that whatever those -things might mean, the ground had been cut from under his feet. “Does -Mrs. Revel know?” he added after a moment, in his bewilderment. - -“Know--our poor dear boy? Oh, yes; I took him there--in my foolish -desire to do the best I could for him, and thinking that to see other -circles outside of his own was good for a young man. I couldn’t take him -the round of the studios, you know--could I? But I took him to the -Revels. She is a charming little woman, a woman whom I am very fond of, -and--more extraordinary still, don’t you think, Colonel Kingsward?--who -is fond of me.” - -The Colonel was not up to the mark in this emergency. He did not give -the little compliment which is expected after such a speech. He sat -dumb, a dull, middle-aged blush rising over his face. He had no longer -anything to say; instead of the serious, even impassioned remonstrance -which he was about to address to her, he could only murmur a faint -assent, a question without meaning. And in place of the generous, -imprudent creature, following her own hasty impulses, disregarding the -opinion of the world, whom he had expected to find, here was female -dignity in person, regulated by all the nicest laws of propriety. He was -struck dumb--the ground was cut from beneath his feet. - -“This is only an interruption on my part. You were going to say -something to me? And something serious? I prize so much everything you -say that I must not lose it. Pray say it now, dear Colonel Kingsward. -Have I done something you don’t like? I am ready to accept even -blame--though you know what women are in that way, always standing out -that they are right--from you.” - -Colonel Kingsward looked at her, helpless, still without a word to say. -There was surely a laughing demon in her eyes which saw through and -through him and knew the trouble in his mind; but her face was serious, -appealing, a little raised towards him, waiting for his words as if her -fate hung upon them. The colour rose over his middle-aged countenance to -the very hair which was beginning to show traces of white over his high -forehead. - -“Blame!” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “I hope you don’t -think me quite a fool.” - -“What,” she cried, picking him up as it were on the end of her lance, -holding him out to the scorn--if not of the world, yet of himself. “Do -you think so little of a woman, Colonel Kingsward, that you would not -take the trouble to find fault with her? Ah! Don’t be so hard! You would -not be a fool if you did that--you should find that I would take it with -gratitude, accept it, be guided by it. Believe me, I am worthy, if you -think me in the wrong, to be told so--I am, indeed I am!” - -Were these tears in her fine eyes? She made them look as if they were, -and filled him with a compunction and a shame of his own superficial -judgment impossible to put into words. - -“I--think you wrong!” he said, stammering and faltering. “I would as -soon think that--heaven was wrong. I--blame you! Dear Miss Laura, how, -how can you imagine such a thing? I should be a miserable idiot indeed -if----” - -“Come,” she said, “I begin to think you didn’t mean--now that you have -called me by my name.” - -“I beg you a thousand pardons. I--I--It was a slip of the tongue. It -was--from the signature to your letters--which is somehow so like -you----” - -“Yes,” she said. “It pleases me very much that you should think so--more -like me than Lance. Lance! What a name! My mother made a mésalliance. I -don’t give up my father, poor dear, though he has saddled me with such a -family--but Laura is me, whereas Lance is only--an accident.” - -“An accident that may be removed,” he said, involuntarily. It was a -thing that might be said to any unmarried woman, a conventional sort of -half compliment, which custom would have permitted him to put in even -stronger terms--but to her! When he had said it horror seized his soul. - -“No,” she said, gently shaking her head. “No. At my age one does not -recover from an accident like that; one must bear the scar all one’s -days. And you really had nothing to find fault with me about?” - -“How monstrous!” he cried, “to entertain such a thought.” Then, for he -was really uneasy in his sense of guilt, he plunged into a new snare. -“My little daughter, Betty,” he said, “is coming to town to-day to visit -some friends in Portman Square. I wonder if I might bring her to see -you.” - -“Your daughter!” cried Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a thing I did -not venture to ask--the very first desire of my heart. Your daughter! I -would go anywhere to see her. If you will be so nice, so sweet, so kind -as to bring her, Colonel Kingsward!” - -“I shall, indeed, to-morrow. It will do her good to see you. At her -susceptible age the very sight of such a woman as you--” - -“No compliments,” she cried, “if I am not to be blamed I must not be -praised either--and I deserve it much less. Is she the eldest?” There -was a gleam under her half-dropped eyelids which the Colonel was vaguely -aware of but did not understand. - -“The second,” he said. “My eldest girl is Bee, in many respects a -stronger character than her sister, but on the other hand--” - -“I know,” said Miss Lance, “a little wilful, fond of her own way and her -own opinion. Oh, that is a good fault in a girl! When they are a little -chastened they turn out the finest women. But I understand what a man -must feel for this little sweet thing who has not begun to have a will -of her own.” - -It was not perhaps a very perfect characterisation of Betty, but still -it flattered him to see how she entered into his thoughts. “I think you -understand everything,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -It was not with any intention, but solely to deliver himself from the -dilemma in which he found himself--the inconceivable error he had made, -imagining that it was necessary to censure, however gently, and warn -against too much freedom of action, a woman so absolutely above -reproach, and so full of ladylike dignity as Miss Lance--that Colonel -Kingsward had named the name of Betty, his little daughter, just arrived -in that immaculate stronghold of the correct and respectable Portman -Square. He was a little uneasy about it when he thought of it -afterwards. He was not sure that he desired even Betty to be aware of -his intimacy with Miss Lance. He felt that her youthful presence would -change, in some degree, the character of his relations with the -enchantress who was stealing his wits away. The kind of conversation -that had arisen so naturally between them, the sentiment, the -confidences, the singular strain of mutual understanding which he felt, -with mingled pride and bashfulness--bashfulness sat strangely upon the -much-experienced Colonel, yet such was his feeling--to exist between -Laura and himself, must inevitably sustain certain modifications under -the sharp eyes of the child. She would not understand that subtle but -strong link of friendship. He would require to be more distant, to treat -his exquisite friend more like an ordinary acquaintance while under the -inspection of Betty, even though he was perfectly assured that Betty -knew nothing about such matters. And what, then, would Laura say? -Confident as she was in her own perfect honour and candour, would she -understand the subdued manner, the more formal address which would be -necessary in the presence of the child? It was true that she understood -everything without a word said; but then her own entire innocence of -any motive but those of heavenly kindness and friendship might induce -her to laugh at his precautions. Was it, perhaps, because he felt his -motives to be not unmingled that the Colonel felt this? Anyhow, the -introduction of Betty, whom he had snatched at in his haste to save him -from the consequences of his own folly, would be a trouble to the -intercourse which, as it was, was so consolatory and so sweet. - -It must be added that Miss Lance, before he left her, had been very -consolatory to him on the subject of Charlie, which, though always lying -at the bottom of his thoughts, had begun in the midst of these new -developments to weigh upon him less, perhaps, than it was natural it -should have done. She had suggested that Charlie had friends in -Scotland, that he had most probably gone there to avoid for a time his -father’s wrath, that in all probability he was enjoying himself, and -very well cared for, putting off from day to day the necessity of -writing. - -“He never was, I suppose, much of a correspondent?” she said. - -“No,” Colonel Kingsward had replied, doubtfully; for indeed there never -had been anything at all to call correspondence between him and his son. -Charlie had written to his mother, occasionally to his sisters, but to -his father, save when he wanted money, scarcely at all. - -“Then this is what has happened,” said Laura; “he has gone off to be as -far out of the way as possible. He is fishing in Loch Tay--or he is -playing golf somewhere--you know his habits.” - -“And so it seems do you,” said the Colonel, a little jealous of his son. - -“Oh, you know how a boy chatters of everything he does and likes.” - -Colonel Kingsward nodded his head gloomily. He did not know how boys -chattered--no boy had ever chattered to him; but he accepted with a -moderate satisfaction the fact that she, Laura, from whom he felt that -he himself could have no secret, had taken, and did take, the trouble of -turning the heart even--of a boy--outside in. - -“Depend upon it,” said Miss Lance, “that is where he has gone, and he -has not meant to make you anxious. Perhaps he thinks you have never -discovered that he had left Oxford, and he has meant to write day by -day. Don’t you know how one does that? It is a little difficult to -begin, and one says, ‘To-morrow,’ and then ‘To-morrow’; and the time -flies on. Dear Colonel Kingsward, you will find that all this time he is -quite happy on Loch Tay.” She held out her hand to emphasise these -words, and the Colonel, though all unaccustomed to such signs of -enthusiasm, kissed that hand which held out comfort to him. It was a -beautiful hand, so soft, like velvet, so yielding and flexible in his, -and yet so firm in its delicate pressure. He went away with his head -slightly turned, and the blood coursing through his veins. But when he -thought of little Betty he dropped down, down into a blank of decorum -and commonplace. Before Betty he certainly could not kiss any lady’s -hand. He would have to shake hands with Laura as he did with old Mrs. -Lyon in Portman Square, who, indeed, was a much older friend. This -thought gave him a little feeling of contrariety and uneasiness in the -contemplation of his promise to take his little girl to George Street, -Hanover Square. - -And next morning when he went into his office, Colonel Kingsward’s -annoyance and indignation could not be expressed when he found once more -upon his writing-table, placed in a conspicuous position so that he -could not overlook it, the card of Mr. Aubrey Leigh. Who had fished it -out of the waste paper basket and placed it there? He rang his bell -hastily to overwhelm his attendant with angry reproof. He could not have -told himself, why it made him so angry to see that card. It looked like -some vulgar interference with his most private affairs. - -“Where did you find this card?” he said, angrily, “and why is it -replaced here? I threw it into the fire--or somewhere, yesterday--and -here it is again as if the man had called to-day.” - -“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday.” - -“What?” cried Colonel Kingsward, in a voice like a trumpet; but the man -stood his ground. - -“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday. He has called two or three -times; once when you were in the country. He seemed very anxious to see -you. I said two o’clock for a general thing, but you have been leaving -the office earlier for a day or two.” - -“You are very impertinent to say anything of the kind, or to give anyone -information of my private movements; see that it never occurs again. And -as for this gentleman,” he held up his card for a moment, looked at it -contemptuously and then pitched it once more into the fireplace, “be so -good as to understand that I will not see him, whether he comes at two -or at any other hour.” - -“Am I to tell him so, sir?” said the man, annoyed. - -“Of course you are to tell him so; and mind you don’t bring me any -message or explanation. I will not see him--that is enough; now you can -go.” - -“Shall I---- say you’re too busy, Colonel, or just going out, or -engaged----?” - -“No!” shouted Colonel Kingsward, with a force of breath which blew the -attendant away like a strong wind. The Colonel returned to his work and -his correspondence with an irritation and annoyance which even to -himself seemed beyond the occasion. Bee’s old lover, he supposed, had -taken courage to make another attempt; but nothing would induce him to -change his former decision. He would not hear a word, not a word! A kind -of panic mingled in his hasty impulse of rage. He would not so much as -see the fellow--give him any opportunity of renewing---- Was it his suit -to Bee? Was it something else indefinite behind? Colonel Kingsward did -not very well know, but he was determined on one thing--not to allow the -presence of this intruder, not to hear a word that he had to say. - -And then about Betty--that was annoying too, but he had promised to do -it, and to break his word to Laura was a thing he could not do. -Laura--Miss Laura, if she pleased, though that is not a usual mode of -address--but not Lance--how right she was! The name of Lance did not -suit her at all, and yet how just and sweet all the same. Her mother had -made a mésalliance, but there was no pettiness about her. She held by -her father, though she was aware of his inferiority. And then he thought -of her as she shook her head gently, and smiled at his awkward -stumbling suggestion that the accident of the name was not irremediable. -“At my age,”--what was her age? The most delightful, the most -fascinating of ages, whatever it was. Not the silly girlhood of Bee and -Betty, but something far more entrancing, far more charming. These -thoughts interfered greatly with his correspondence, and made the mass -of foreign newspapers, and the military intelligence from all over the -world, which it was his business to look over, appear very dull, -uninteresting and confused. He rose hastily after a while, and took his -hat and sallied forth to Portman Square, where he was expected to -luncheon. He was relieved, on the whole, to be thus legitimately out of -the way in case that fellow should have the audacity to call again. - -“I want you to come out with me, Betty,” he said, after that meal, which -was very solemn, serious and prolonged, but very dull and not -appetising. “I want to take you to see a friend--” - -“Oh, papa! we are going to---- Mrs. Lyon was going to take me to see -Mr. Revel’s picture before he sends it in.” - -“To-morrow will do, my dear, equally well, if your papa wants you to go -anywhere.” - -“Mr. Revel’s picture? He is precisely a friend of the friend I am going -to take you to see.” For a moment Colonel Kingsward wavered thinking how -much more agreeable it would be to have his interview with Laura -undisturbed by the presence of this little chit with her sharp eyes. But -he was a soldier and faithful to his consignee. “If it will do as well -to-morrow, and will not derange Mrs. Lyon’s plans, I should like you to -come now.” - -“Run and get ready, Betty,” cried the old lady, to whom obedience was a -great quality, “and there will still be time to go there, if you are not -very long, when you come back.” - -The Colonel felt as if his foot was upon more solid ground; not that any -doubt of Laura had ever been in his mind--but yet---- He had not -suspected the existence of any link between her and Portman Square. - -“Mr. Revel is a very good painter, I suppose?” he said. - -“A great painter, we all think; and beginning to be really acknowledged -in the art world,” said the old lady, who liked it to be known that she -knew a great deal about pictures, and was herself considered to have -some authority in that interesting sphere. - -“And--hasn’t he a wife? I think I heard someone talking of his wife.” - -“Yes, a dear little woman!” cried Mrs. Lyon. “Her Tuesdays are the most -pleasant parties. We always go when we are able. Ah! here is Betty, like -a little rose. Now, acknowledge you are proud to have a little thing -like that, Colonel, to walk with you through the park on a fine day like -this?” - -Colonel Kingsward looked at Betty. She was a pretty little blooming -creature. He did not regard her with any enthusiasm, and yet she was a -creditable creature enough to belong to one. He gave a little nod of -approving indifference. Betty was very much admired at Portman -Square--from Gerald, who kept up an artillery of glances across the big -table, to the old butler, who called her attention specially to any -dish that was nicer than usual, and carried meringues to her twice, she -was the object of everybody’s regards. Her father did not, naturally, -look at her from the same point of view, but he was sufficiently pleased -with her appearance. He was pleased, too, exhilarated, he could scarcely -tell why, by the fact that Mrs. Lyon knew the painter’s wife and spoke -of her as a “dear little woman,” the very words Laura had used. Did he -require any guarantee that Laura herself was of the same order, knew the -same sort of people as his other friends? Had such a question been put -to him, the Colonel would have knocked the man down who made it, as in -days when duelling was possible he would have called him out---- But -yet--at all events it gave him much satisfaction that the British matron -in the shape of Mrs. Lyon spoke no otherwise of the lady whom for one -terrible moment of delusion he had intended to warn against intercourse, -too little guarded, with such equivocal men as artists. He shuddered -when he thought of that extraordinary aberration. - -“Who is it, papa, we are going to see?” said Betty’s little voice by his -side. - -“It is a lady--who has taken a great interest in your brother.” - -“Oh, papa, that I should not have asked that the first thing! Have you -any news?” - -“Nothing that I can call news, but I think I may say I have reason to -believe that Charlie has gone up to the north to the Mackinnons. That -does not excuse him for having left us in this anxiety; but the idea, -which did not occur to me till yesterday, has relieved my mind.” - -“To the Mackinnons!” said Betty, doubtfully, “but then I heard----” She -stopped herself suddenly, and added after a moment, “How strange, papa, -if he is there, that none of them should have written.” - -“It is strange; but perhaps when you think of all things, not so very -strange. He probably has not explained the circumstances to them, and -they will think that he has written; they would not feel it -necessary--why should they?--to let us know of his arrival. That, as a -matter of course, they would expect him to have done. I don’t think, on -the whole, it is at all strange; on his part inexcusable, but not to be -expected from them.” - -“But, papa!” cried Betty. - -“What is it?” he said, almost crossly. “I don’t mind saying,” he added, -“that even for him there may be excuses--if such folly can ever be -excused. He never writes to me in a general way, and it would not be a -pleasant letter to write; and no doubt he has put it off from day to -day, intending always to do it to-morrow--and every day would naturally -make it more difficult.” Thus he went on repeating unconsciously all the -suggestions that had been made to him. “Remember, Betty,” he said, “as -soon as you see that you have done anything wrong, always make a clean -breast of it at once; the longer you put it off the more difficult you -will find it to do.” - -“Yes, papa,” said little Betty, with great doubt in her tone. She did -not know what to think, for she had in her blotting book at Portman -Square a letter lately received from one of these same Mackinnons in -which not a word was said of Charlie. Why should not Helen have -mentioned him had he been there? And yet, if papa thought so, and if it -relieved his mind to think so, what was Betty to set up a different -opinion? Her mind was still full of this thought when she found herself -following her father up the narrow stairs into the little drawing-room. -There she was met by a lady, who rose and came forward to her, holding -out two beautiful hands. “Such hands!” Betty said afterwards. Her own -were plump, reddish articles, small enough and not badly shaped, but -scarcely free from the scars and smirches of gardening, wild-flower -collecting, pony saddling, all the unnecessary pieces of work that a -country girl’s, like a country boy’s, are employed for. She had at the -moment a hopeless passion for white hands. And these drew her close, -while the beautiful face stooped over her and gave her a soft lingering -kiss. Was it a beautiful face? At least it was very, very handsome--fine -features, fine eyes, an imposing benignity, like a grand duchess at the -very least. - -“So this is little Betty,” the lady said, to whom she was presented by -that title, “just out of last century, with her grandmother’s name, and -the newest version of her grandmother’s hat. How pretty! Oh, it is your -hat, you know, not you, that I am admiring. Like a little rose!” - -Betty had no prejudices aroused in her mind by this lady’s name, for -Colonel Kingsward did not think it necessary to pronounce it. He said, -“My little Betty,” introducing the girl, but he did not think it needful -to make any explanations to her. And she thus fell, all unprotected, -under the charm. Laura talked to her for full five minutes without -taking any notice of the Colonel, and drew from her all she wanted to -see, and the places to which she was going, making a complete conquest -of the little girl. It was only when Colonel Kingsward’s patience was -quite exhausted, and he was about to jump up and propose somewhat -sullenly to leave his daughter with her new friend, that Miss Lance -turned to him suddenly with an exclamation of pleasure. - -“Did you hear, Colonel Kingsward? She was going to see Arthur Revel’s -picture this afternoon. And so was I! Will you come too? He is a great -friend of mine, as I told you, and he knew dear Charlie, and, of course, -he would be proud and delighted to see you. Shall we take Betty back to -Portman Square to pick up her carriage and her old lady, and will you go -humbly on foot with me? We shall meet them, and Mrs. Revel shall give us -tea.” - -“Oh, papa, do!” Betty cried. - -It was not perhaps what he would have liked best, but he yielded with a -very good grace. He had not, perhaps, been so proud of little Betty by -his side as the Lyons had expected, but Laura by his side was a -different matter. He could not help remarking how people looked at her -as they went along, and his mind was full of pride in the handsome, -commanding figure, almost as tall as himself, and walking like a queen. -Yet it made his head turn round a little when he saw Miss Lance seated -by Mrs. Lyon’s side in the studio, talking intimately to her of the -whole Kingsward family, while Betty clung to her new friend as if she -had known her all her life. Old Mrs. Lyon was still more startled, and -her head went round too. “What a handsome woman!” she said, in Colonel -Kingsward’s ear. “What a delightful woman! Who is she?” - -“Miss Lance,” he said, rather stupidly, feeling how little information -these words conveyed. Miss Lance? Who was Miss Lance? If he had said -Laura it might have been a different matter. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -While all these things were going on, Bee was left at Kingswarden alone. -That is to say, she was so far from being alone that her solitude was -absolute. She had all the children and was very busy among them. She had -the two boys home for the Easter holidays; the house was full of the -ordinary noise, mirth and confusion natural to a large young family -under no more severe discipline than that exercised by a young elder -sister. The big boys, were in their boyish way, gentlemen, and deferred -to Bee more or less--which set a good example to the younger ones; but -she was enveloped in a torrent of talk, fun, games and jest, which raged -round her from before she got up in the morning till at least the -twilight, when the nursery children got tired, and the big boys having -exhausted every method of amusement during the day, began to feel the -burden of nothing to do, and retired into short-lived attempts at -reading, or games of beggar-my-neighbour, or any other simple mode of -possible recreation--descending to the level of imaginary football with -an old hat through the corridor before it was time to go to bed. - -In the evening Bee was thus completely alone, listening to the distant -bumps in the passage, and the voices of the players. The drawing-room -was large, but it was indifferently lighted, which is apt to make a -country drawing-room gloomy in the evening. There was one shaded lamp on -a writing-table, covered at this moment with colour boxes and rough -drawings of the boys, who had been constructing a hut in the grounds, -and wasting much vermillion and Prussian blue on their plans for it; and -near the fireplace, in which the chill of the Spring still required a -little fire, was another lamp, shining silently upon Bee’s white dress -and her hands crossed in her lap. Her face and all its thoughts were in -the shade, nobody to share, nobody to care what they were. - -Betty was in town. Her one faithful though not always entirely -sympathetic companion, the aunt--at all times not much more than a piece -of still life--was unwell and had gone to bed; Charlie was lost in the -great depth and silence of the world; Bee was thus alone. She had been -working for the children, making pinafores or some other necessary, as -became her position as sister-mother; for where there are so many -children there is always a great deal to do; but she had grown tired of -the pinafores. If it were not a hard thing to say she was a little tired -of the children too, tired of having to look after them perpetually, of -the nurse’s complaints, and the naughtiness of baby who was spoilt and -unmanageable--tired of the bumping and laughing of the boys, and tired -too of bidding them be quiet, not to rouse the children. - -All these things had suddenly become intolerable to Bee. She had a great -many times expressed her thankfulness that she had so much to do, and no -time to think--and probably to-morrow morning she would again be of -that opinion; but in the meantime she was very tired of it all--tired of -a position which was too much for her age, and which she was not able to -bear. She was only a speck in the long, empty drawing-room, her white -skirts and her hands crossed in her lap being all that showed -distinctly, betraying the fact that someone was there, but with her face -hidden in the rosy shade, there was nobody to see that tears had stolen -up into Bee’s eyes. Her hands were idle, folded in her lap. She was -tired of being dutiful and a good girl, as the best of girls are -sometimes. It seemed to her for the moment a dreary world in which she -was placed, merely to take care of the children, not for any pleasure of -her own. She felt that she could not endure for another moment the -bumping in the passage, and the distant voices of the boys. Probably if -they went on there would be a querulous message from Aunt Helen, or -pipings from the nursery of children woke up, and a furious descent of -nurse, more than insinuating that Miss Bee did not care whether baby’s -sleep was broken or not. But even with this certainty before her, Bee -did not feel that she had energy to get up from her chair and interfere; -it was too much. She was too solitary, left alone to bear all the -burden. - -Then the habitual thought of Charlie returned to her mind. Poor Charlie! -Where was he, still more alone than she. Perhaps hidden away in the -silence of the seas, or tossing in a storm, going away, away where no -one who cared for him would ever see him more. The tears which had come -vaguely to her eyes dropped, making a mark upon her dress, legitimatised -by this thought. Bee would have been ashamed had they fallen for -herself; but for Charlie--Charlie lost!--none of his family knowing -where he was--she might indeed be allowed to cry. Where was he? Where -was he? If he had been here he would have been sitting with her, making -things more possible. Bee knew very well in her heart that if Charlie -had been with her he would not have been much help to her, that he would -have been grumbling over his own hard fate, and calling upon her to pity -him; but the absent, if they are sometimes wronged, have, on the other -hand, the privilege of being remembered in their best aspect. Then Bee’s -thoughts glided on from Charlie to someone else whom she had for a long -time refused to think of, or tried to refuse to think of. She was so -solitary to-night, with all her doors open to recollections, that he had -stolen in before she knew, and now there was quite a shower of round -blots upon her white dress. Aubrey--oh, Aubrey! who had betrayed her -trust so, who had done her such cruel wrong!--but yet, but yet---- - -She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the evening post. -Kingswarden was near enough to town to have an evening post, which is a -privilege not always desirable. But any incident was a good thing for -poor Bee. She drew the pinafore, at which she had been working, hastily -over her knee to hide the spots of moisture, and dashed the tears from -her eyes with a rapid hand. In the shade of the lamp not even the most -keen eyes could see that she had been crying. She even paused as she -took the letter to say, “Will you please tell the boys not to make so -much noise?” There were three letters on the tray--one for her father, -one for her aunt, one Betty’s usual daily rigmarole of little news and -nonsense which she never failed to send when she was away. Betty’s -letter was very welcome to her sister. But as Bee read it her face began -to burn. It became more and more crimson, so that the rose shade of the -lamp was overpowered by a deeper and hotter colour. Betty to turn upon -her, to take up the other side, to cast herself under that dreadful new -banner of Fate! Bee’s breath came quickly, her heart beat with anger and -trouble. She got up from her chair and began to walk quickly about the -room, a sudden passion sweeping away all the forlorn sentiment of her -previous thoughts. Betty! in addition to all the rest. Bee felt like the -forlorn _chatelaine_ of a besieged castle alone to defend the walls -against the march of a destroying invader. The danger which had been far -off was coming--it was coming! And the castle had no garrison at all--if -it were not perhaps those dreadful boys making noise enough to bring -down the house, who were precisely the partisans least to be depended -upon, who would probably throw down their arms without striking a blow. -And Bee was alone, the captain deserted of all her forces to defend the -sacred hearth and the little children. The little children! Bee stamped -her foot upon the floor in an appeal, not to heaven, but to all the -powers of Indignation, Fury, War, War! She would defend those walls to -her last gasp. She would not give way, she would fight it out step by -step, to keep the invader from the children. The nursery should be her -citadel. Oh, she knew what would happen, she cried to herself -inconsequently! Baby, who was spoilt, would be twisted into rigid shape, -the little girls would be subdued like little mice--the boys-- - -At this moment the old hat which served as a football came with a thump -from the corridor into the hall, followed by a louder shout than ever -from Arthur and Rex. Bee rushed forth upon them flinging the door open, -with her blue eyes blazing. - -“Do you mean to bring down the house?” she said, in a sudden outburst. -“Do you mean to break the vases and the mirror and wake up the whole -nursery and bring Aunt Helen down upon us? For goodness sake try to -behave like reasonable creatures, and don’t drive me out of my senses!” -cried Bee. - -The boys were so startled by this onslaught that Rex, with a final kick -sent the wretched old hat flying to the end of the passage which led to -the servants’ hall, as if it were that harmless object that was to -blame--while Arthur covered the retreat sulkily by a complaint that -there was nothing to do in this beastly old hole, and that a fellow -couldn’t read books all the day long. Bee was so inspired and thrilling -with the passion in her, that she went further than any properly -constituted female creature knowing her own position ought to do. - -“You have a great deal more to do than I have,” she said, “far, far more -to do and to amuse yourselves with. Why should you expect so much more -than I do, because you are boys and I am a girl? Is it fair? You’re -always talking of things being fair. It isn’t fair that you should -disturb the whole house, the little babies, and everyone for your -pleasure; and I’m not so very much older than you are, and what -pleasure have I?” - -The boys were very much cast down by this fiery remonstrance. There had -been a squall as of several babies from the upper regions, and they had -already been warned of the consequence of their horseplay. But Bee’s -representation touched them in their tenderest point. Was it fair? Well, -no, perhaps it was not quite fair. They went back after her, humbled, -into the drawing-room, and besought her to join them in a game. After -they had finally retired, having finished the evening to their own -partial content, Bee took out again Betty’s letter and read it with less -excitement than at first--or at least with less demonstration of -excitement; this was what it said-- - -“Bee, such a delightful woman, a friend of her papa’s! So handsome, so -nice, so clever, so well dressed, everything you can think except young, -which of course she is not--nor anything silly. Papa told me to get -ready to come out with him to see an old friend of his and I wasn’t at -all willing, didn’t like it, I thought it must be some old image like -old Mrs. Mackinnon or Nancy Eversfield, don’t you know. Mrs. Lyon had -settled to take me out to see some pictures, and Gerald was coming, and -we were to have a turn in the park after, and I had put on my new frock -and was looking forward to it, when papa came in with this order: ‘Get -on your things and come with me, I want to take you to see an old -friend.’ Of course I had to go, for Mrs. Lyon will never allow me to -shirk anything. But I was not in a very good humour, though they called -me as fresh as a rose and all that--to please papa; as if he cared how -we look! He took me to George Street, Hanover Square, a horrid little -lodging, such as people come to when they come up from the country. And -I had to look as serious and as steady as possible for the sake of the -old lady; when there rose up from the chair, oh, such a different -person, tall, but as slight as you are, with such a handsome face and -such a manner. She might have been--let us say a nice, sweet aunt--but -aunt is not a name that means anything delightful; and mother I must not -say, for there is only one mother in the whole world; oh, but something -I cannot give a name, so understanding, so kind, so _nice_, for that -means everything. She kissed me, and then she began to talk to me as if -she knew everyone of us and was very fond of us all. And then about -Charlie, whom she seemed to know very well. She called him dear Charlie, -and I wonder if it is she who has persuaded papa that he is with the -Mackinnons, in Scotland. But I know he is not with the -Mackinnons--however, I will tell you about this after. - -“Dear Bee, what will you say when I tell you that this delightful woman -is Miss Lance? You will say I have no heart, or no spirit, and am not -sticking to you through thick and thin as I ought; but you must hear -first what I have got to say. Had I known it was Miss Lance I should -have shut myself close up, and whatever she had done or however nice she -had been, I should have had nothing to say to her. If she had been an -angel under that name I should have remembered what you had said, and I -should not have seen any good in her. But I never heard what her name -was till we were all in Mr. Revel’s studio, quite a long time after. -Papa did as he always does, introduced me to her, but not her to me. He -said: “My daughter Betty,” as if I must have known by instinct who she -was. And, dear Bee, though I acknowledge you have every reason not to -believe it, she is delightful, she is, she is! She may have done wrong. -I can’t tell, of course; but I don’t believe she ever meant it, or to -harm you, or Charlie, or anyone. Everybody is delighted with her. Mrs. -Lyon, who you know is very particular, says she has the manners of a -duchess--and that she is such a handsome, distinguished-looking woman. -She is coming to dine here next Saturday. The only one who does not seem -to be quite charmed with her is Gerald, who is prejudiced like you. - -“Do try to get over your prejudice, Bee, dear--she is, she is, indeed -delightful! You only want to know her. By the way, about the Mackinnons: -papa has got it firmly into his head that Charlie is there; he says his -mind is quite relieved about him, and that the more he thinks of it, the -more he is certain it is so; now I know that it is not so. I got a -letter from Helen Mackinnon the day I came here, and there is not a -word about Charlie--and she would have been certain to have mentioned -him had he been there. I tried to say this to papa, but his head was so -full of the other idea that he did not hear me at first, and I couldn’t -go on. I whispered to Miss Lance in the studio, and asked her what I -should do? She was so troubled and distressed about Charlie that the -tears came into her eyes, but, after thinking a moment, she said, ‘Oh, -dear child, don’t say anything. Your young friend might have been in a -hurry, she might not have thought it necessary to speak of your brother. -Oh, don’t let us worry him now! Bad news always comes soon enough, and, -of course, he will find it out if it is so.’ Do you think she was right? -But, oh Bee, dear Bee, I am afraid you will not think anything she says -is right; and yet she is _delightful_. If only you knew her! Write -directly, and tell me all you think.” - -Bee was not excited on this second reading. She did not spring to her -feet, nor stamp on the floor, or feel inclined to call upon all the -infernal gods. But her heart sank down as if it would never rise again, -and a great pain took possession of her. Who was this witch, this -magician, that everyone who belonged to Bee should be drawn into her -toils--even Betty. What could she want with Betty, who was only a little -girl, who was her sister’s natural second and support? Bee sat a long -time with her head in her hands, letting the fire go out, feeling cold -and solitary and miserable, and frightened to death. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -In the afternoon of the next day, Bee was again alone. The old aunt had -come down for lunch, but gone up to her room again to rest after that -meal. It was a little chilly outside. The children, of course, wrapped -up in their warm things, and in the virtue of the English nursery, which -shrinks from no east wind, were out for their various walks. The big -boys, attended by such of the little boys as could be trusted with these -athletes, were taking violent exercise somewhere, and Bee sat by the -fire, alone. It is not a place for a girl of twenty. The little -pinafore, half made, was on the table beside her. She had a book in her -hand. Perhaps had she been a young wife looking for the return of her -young husband in the evening, with all the air of the bigger world about -him and an abundance of news, and plans, and life, a pretty enough -picture might have been made of that cosy fireside retirement. - -But even this ideal has ceased to be satisfactory to the present -generation. And Bee’s spirits and heart were very low. She had -despatched a fiery letter to Betty, and with this all her anger had -faded away. She had no courage to do anything. She seemed to have come -to an end of all possibilities. She had no longer anyone to fall back -upon as a supporter and sympathiser--not even Betty. Even this closest -link of nature seemed to have been broken by that enemy. - -To have an enemy is not a very common experience in modern life. People -may do each other small harms and annoyances, but to most of us the -strenuous appeals and damnations of the Psalmist are quite beyond -experience. But Bee had come back to the primitive state. She had an -enemy who had succeeded in taking from her everything she cared for. -Aubrey her betrothed, Charlie, her father, her sister, one after the -other in quick succession. It was not yet a year and a half since she -first heard this woman’s name, and in that time all these losses had -happened. She was not even sure that her mother’s death was not the work -of the same subtle foe; indeed, she brought herself to believe that it -was at least accelerated by all the trouble and contention brought into -the family by her own misery and rebellion--all the work of that woman! -Why, why, had Bee been singled out for this fate? A little girl in an -English house, like other girls--no worse, no better. Why should she -alone in all England have this bitterness of an enemy to make her -desolate and break her heart? - -While she was thus turning over drearily those dismal thoughts, there -was a messenger approaching to point more sharply still the record of -these disasters and their cause. Bee had laid down her book in her lap; -her thoughts had strayed completely from it and gone back to her own -troubles, when the door of the drawing-room opened quietly and a servant -announced “Mrs. Leigh.” Mrs. Leigh! It is not an uncommon name. A Mrs. -Lee lived in the village, a Mrs. Grantham Lea was the clergyman’s wife -in the next parish. Bee drew her breath quickly and composed her looks, -but thought of no visitor that could make her heavy heart beat. Not even -when the lady came in, a more than middle-aged matron, of solid form and -good colour, dressed with the subdued fashionableness appropriate to her -age. It was not Mrs. Lee from the village, nor Mrs. Grantham Lea, -nor---- Yet Bee had seen her before. She rose up a little startled and -made a step or two forward. - -“You do not know me, Miss Kingsward? I cannot wonder at it, since we met -but once, and that in circumstances---- Don’t start nor fly, though I -see you have recognised me.” - -“Indeed I did not think of flying. Will you--will you--sit down.” - -“You need not be afraid of me, my poor child,” said Mrs. Leigh. - -Aubrey’s mother seated herself and looked with a kind yet troubled look -at the girl, who still stood up in the attitude in which she had risen -from her chair. “I scarcely saw you the other time,” she said. “It was -in the garden. You did not give me a good reception. I should like -much, sometime or other, if you would tell me why. I have never made out -why. But don’t be afraid; it is not on that subject I have come to you -now.” - -Bee seated herself. She kept her blue eyes, which seemed expanded and -larger than usual, but had none of the former indignant blaze in them, -fixed on the old lady’s face. - -“Your father is not here, the servant tells me--” - -“No--he is in town,” she answered, faltering, almost too much absorbed -by anticipation to reply. - -“And you are alone--nobody with you to stand by you?” - -“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, catching her breath, “I don’t know why you -should ask me such questions, or--or be sorry for me. I don’t need -anybody to be sorry for me.” - -“Poor little girl! We needn’t go into that question. I am sorry for any -girl who is motherless, who has to take her mother’s place. I would much -rather have spoken to your father had he been here.” - -“After all,” said Bee, “my father could say nothing. It is I who must -decide for myself.” - -She said this with an involuntary betrayal of her consciousness that -there could be but one subject between them, and it was not in the power -of Aubrey Leigh’s mother, however strongly aware she was of another -theme on which she had come to speak, not to note how different was -Bee’s reception of her from the other time, when the girl had fled from -her presence and would not even hear what she had to say. Bee’s eyes -were large and humid and full of an anxiety which was almost wistful. -She had the air of refusing to hear with her lips, but eagerly expecting -with her whole heart what was about to be said. And she looked so young, -so solitary, in her mother’s chair, with a mother’s work lying about, -the head of this silent house--that the heart of the elder woman was -deeply touched. If little Betty had been like a rose, Bee was almost as -white as the cluster of fragrant white narcissus that stood on the -table. Poor little girl, so subdued and changed from the little -passionate creature who would not hear a word, and whose indignation -was stronger than even the zeal of the mother who had come to plead her -son’s cause! - -Mrs. Leigh drew a little nearer and took Bee’s hand. The girl did not -resist, but kept her eyes upon her steadily, watching, her mind in a -great turmoil, not knowing what to expect. - -“My dear,” said the old lady, “don’t be alarmed. I have not come to -speak about Aubrey. I cannot help hoping that one day you will do him -justice; but, in the meantime, it is something else that has brought me -here. Miss Kingsward--your brother--” - -Bee’s hand, in this lady’s clasp, betrayed her in spite of herself. It -became limp and uninterested when she was assured that Aubrey was not in -question; and then, at her brother’s name, was snatched suddenly away. - -“My brother?” she cried, “Charlie!” Then, subduing herself, “What do you -know about him? Oh,” clasping her hands as new light seemed to break -upon her, “you have come to tell me some bad news?” - -“I hope not. My son found him some time ago, disheartened and unhappy -about leaving Oxford. He persuaded him to come and share his rooms. He -has been with him more or less all the time, which I hope may be a -comfort to you. And then he fell ill. My dear Aubrey has tried to see -your father, but in vain, and poor Charlie is not anxious, I fear, to -see his father. Yes, he has been ill, but not so seriously that we need -fear anything serious. He has shaken off the complaint, but he wants -rousing--he wants someone whom he loves. Aubrey sent for me a fortnight -ago. He has been well taken care of, there is nothing really wrong. But -we cannot persuade him to rouse himself. It is illness that is at the -bottom of it all. He would not have left you without news of him, he -would not shrink from his father if he were not ill. Bee, I will confess -to you that it is Aubrey who has sent me; but don’t be afraid, it is for -Charlie’s sake--only for Charlie’s sake. He thinks if you would but come -to him--if you would have the courage to come--to your brother, Bee.” - -“He--he thinks? Not Charlie--you don’t mean Charlie?” Bee cried. - -“Charlie does not seem to wish for anything. We cannot rouse him. We -think that the sight of someone he loves----” - -Bee was full of agitation. Her lips quivered; her hands trembled. “Oh, -me!” she said; “I am no one. It is not for his sister a boy cares. I do -not think I should do him any good. Oh, Charlie, Charlie! all this time -that we have been blaming him so, thinking him so cruel, he has been -lying ill! If I could do him any good!” she cried, wringing her hands. - -“The sight of you would do him good. It is not that he wants a nurse--I -have seen to that; but no nurse could rouse him as the sight of some of -his own people would. Do not question, my dear, but come--oh, come! He -thinks he is cut off from everybody, that his father will never see him, -that you must all have turned against him. Words will not convince him, -but to see you, that would do so. He would feel that he was not -forsaken.” - -“Oh, forsaken! How could he think it? He must know that we have been -breaking our hearts. It was he who forsook us all.” - -Bee had risen again, and stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, too much -shaken and agitated to keep still. Though she had thought herself so -independent, she had in reality never broken the strained band of -domestic subjugation. She had never so much as gone, though it was -little more than an hour’s journey, to London on her own authority. The -thought of taking such a step startled her. And that she should do this -on the word and in the company of Aubrey’s mother--Aubrey, for whom she -had once been ready to abandon everything, from whom she had been -violently separated, whom she had cast off, flung away from her without -hearing a word he had to say! How could she put herself in his way -again--go with his mother, accept his services? Bee had acted quickly on -the impulse of passion in all that had happened to her before. But she -had not known the conflict, the rending asunder of opposite emotions. In -the whirl of her thoughts her lover, whom she had cast off, came between -her and the brother whom he had succoured. It was to Aubrey’s house, to -his very dwelling where he was, that she must go if she went to -Charlie. And Charlie wanted her, or at least needed her, lying weak and -despairing, waiting for a sign from home. It was difficult to realise -her brother so, or to believe, indeed, that he could want her very much, -that there was any yearning in his heart towards his own flesh and -blood. But Mrs. Leigh thought so, and how could she refuse? How could -she refuse? The problem was too much for her. She looked into Mrs. -Leigh’s face with an appeal for help. - -“My dear,” her companion said, leaving a calm and cool hand upon Bee’s -arm, which trembled with nervous excitement, “If you are afraid of -meeting Aubrey, compose yourself. Aubrey would rather go to the end of -the world than give you any pain, or put himself in your way. We are -laying no trap for you--I should not have come if the case had not been -urgent. Never would I have come had it been a question of my son; I -would not beguile you even for his sake. It is for your brother, Bee; -not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey!” - -Not for Aubrey! Was that any comfort, was there any strength in that -assurance? At all events, these were the words that rang through Bee’s -head, as she made her hurried preparations. She had almost repeated them -aloud in the hasty explanations she made to Moss upstairs, who was now -at the head of the nursery, and to the housekeeper below. To neither of -these functionaries did it seem of any solemn importance that Bee should -go away for a day or two. There was no objection on their part to being -left at the head of affairs. And then Bee felt herself carried along by -the whirl of strange excitement and feeling which rather than the less -etherial methods of an express train seemed to sweep her through the air -of the darkening spring night by Mrs. Leigh’s side. A few hours before -she had felt herself the most helpless of dependent creatures, abandoned -by all, incapable of doing anything. And now, what was she doing? -Rushing into the heart of the conflict, assuming an individual part in -it, acting on her own responsibility. She could scarcely believe it was -herself who sat there by Mrs. Leigh’s side. - -But not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey! This kept ringing in her ears, like -the tolling of a bell, through all the other sounds. She sat in one -corner of the carriage, and listened to Mrs. Leigh’s explanations, and -to the clang of the engine and rush of the train, all mingled together -in bewildering confusion. But the other voice filled all space, echoing -through everything. Bee felt herself trembling on the edge of a crisis, -such as her life had never known. All the world seemed to be set against -her, her enemy, perhaps her father, and all the habitual authorities of -her young and subject life, now suddenly rising into rebellion. She -would have to do and say things which she would not have ventured so -much as to think of a little time ago; but whatever she might have to -encounter there was to be no renewal to Bee of her own story and -meaning. It was not for Aubrey that she was called or wanted--for the -succour of others, for sisterly help, for charity and kindness; but not -for her own love or life. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -It was to a house in one of the streets of Mayfair that Mrs. Leigh -conveyed her young companion; one of those small expensive places where -persons within the circle of what is called the world in London contrive -to live with as little comfort and the greatest expenditure possible. It -is dark and often dingy in Mayfair; nowhere is it more difficult to keep -furniture, or even human apparel, clean; the rooms are small and the -streets shabby; but it is one of the right places in which to live, not -so perfect as it was once, indeed, but still furnishing an unimpeachable -address. - -It had half put on the aspect of the season by this time; some of the -balconies were full of flowers, and the air of resuscitation which -comes to certain quarters of London after Easter, as if, indeed, they -too had risen from the dead, was vaguely visible. To be sure, little of -this was apparent in the dim lamplight when the two ladies arrived at -the door. Bee was hurried upstairs through the narrow passage, though -she had been very keenly aware that someone in the lower room had -momentarily lifted the blind to look out as they arrived--someone who -did not appear, who made no sound, who had nothing to do with her or her -life. - -The rooms, which are usually the drawing-rooms of such a house, were -turned evidently into the apartments of the sufferer. In the back room -which they entered first was a nurse who greeted the ladies in dumb -show, and whose white head-dress and apron had the strangest effect in -the semi-darkness. She said, half by gesture, half with whispered words -more visible than audible, “He is up--better--impatient--good -sign--discontented with everything. Is this the lady?” - -Mrs. Leigh answered in the same way, “His sister--shall I go with -her?--you?--alone?” - -“By herself,” said the nurse, laconic; and almost inaudible as this -conversation was, it occasioned a stirring and movement in the inner -room. - -“What a noise you make,” cried a querulous, unsteady voice, “Who’s -there--who’s there?” - -The nurse took Bee’s hat from her head, with a noiseless swift movement, -and relieved her of the little cloak she was wearing. She took her by -the arm and pushed her softly forward. “Nothing to worry. Soothe him,” -she breathed, holding up a curtain that Bee might pass. The room was but -badly lighted, a single lamp on a table almost extinguished by the -shade, a fire burning though the night was warm, and one of the long -windows open, letting in the atmosphere and sounds of the London street. -Bee stole in, an uncertain shadow into the shaded room, less eager than -frightened and overawed by this sudden entrance into the presence of -sickness and misery. She was not accustomed to associate such things -with her brother. It did not seem anyone with whom she was acquainted -that she was about to see. - -“Oh, Charlie!” the little cry and movement she made, falling down on her -knees beside him, raised a pale, unhappy face, half covered with the -down of an irregular fledgling beard from the pillow. - -“Hallo!” he said, and then in a tone of disappointment and disdain, -“You!” - -“Oh, Charlie, Charlie dear! You have been ill and we never knew.” - -“How do you know now? They knew I never wanted you to know,” he said. - -“Oh, Charlie--who ought to know but your own people? We have been -wretched, thinking all sorts of dreadful things--but not this.” - -“Naturally,” he said, “my own people might be trusted never to think the -right thing. Now you do know you may as well take yourself off. I don’t -want you--or anybody,” he added, with an impatient sigh. - -“Charlie--oh, please let me stay with you. Who should be with you but -your sister? And I know--a great deal about nursing. Mamma----” - -“I say--hold your tongue, can’t you? Who wants you to talk--of anything -of that sort?” - -Bee heard a slight stir in the curtains, and looking back hastily as she -dried her streaming eyes saw the laconic nurse making signs to her. The -sight of the stranger was more effectual even than her signs, and -restored Bee’s self-command at once. - -“Why did they bring you here?” said Charlie. “I didn’t want you; they -know what I want, well enough.” - -“What is it you want, oh, Charlie dear? Papa--and all of us--will do -anything in the world you want.” - -“Papa,” he said, and his weakened and irregular voice ran through the -gamut from a high feeble tone of irritation to the quaver of that -self-pity which is so strong in all youthful trouble. “Yes, he would be -pleased to get me out of the way, and be done with me now.” - -“Oh, Charlie! You know how wrong that is. Papa has been--miserable--” - -Charlie uttered a feeble laugh. He put his hand upon his chin, stroking -down the irregular tufts of hair; even in his low state the poor boy had -a certain pride in what he believed to be his beard. - -“Not much,” he said. “I daresay you’ve made a fuss--Betty and you. The -governor will crack up Arthur for the F.O. and let me drop like a -stone.” - -“No, Charlie, no. He has no such thought--he has taken such trouble not -to let it be known. He would not advertise or anything.” - -“Advertise!” A sudden hot flush came over the gaunt face. “For me!” It -did not seem that such a thought had ever occurred to the young man. -“Like the fellows in the newspapers that steal their master’s -money--’All is arranged and you can return to your situation.’ By -George!” - -There was again a faint rustle in the curtains. Bee sprang up with her -natural impatience, and went straight to the spot whence this sound had -come. - -“If I am not to speak to my brother alone and in freedom, I will not -speak to him at all,” she said. - -The laconic nurse remonstrated violently with her lips and eyes. - -“Don’t excite him. Don’t disturb him. He’ll not sleep all night,” she -managed to convey, with much arching of the eyebrows and mouth, then -disappeared silently out of the bedroom behind. - -“What’s that?” said Charlie, sharply. He moved on his sofa, and turned -his head round with difficulty. “Are there more of you to come?” - -There seemed a kind of hope and expectation in the question, but when -Bee answered with despondency, “There’s only me, Charlie,” he broke out -harshly: - -“I don’t want you--I want none of you; I told them so. You can go and -tell my father, as soon as they let me get out I’m going off to New -Zealand or somewhere--the furthest-off place I can get to.” - -“Oh, Charlie!” cried Bee, taking every word as the sincerest utterance -of a fixed intention, “what could you do there?” - -“Die, I suppose,” he said, with again that quaver of self-compassion in -his voice, “or go to the dogs, which will be easy enough. You may say, -why didn’t I die here and be done with it? I don’t know--I’m sure I -wanted to. It was that doctor fellow, and that woman that talks with her -eyebrows, and that confounded cad, Leigh--they wouldn’t let me. And -I’ve got so weak; if you don’t go away this moment I’ll cry like a -dashed baby!” with a more piteous quaver than ever in the remnant of his -once manly voice. - -All that Bee could do was to throw her arms round his neck and draw his -head upon her shoulder, which he resisted fiercely for a moment, then -yielded to in the abandonment of his weakness. Poor Charlie felt, -perhaps, a momentary sweetness in the relaxation of all the bonds of -self-control, and all the well-meaning attempts to keep him from -injuring himself by emotion; the unexpected outburst did him good, -partly because it was a breach of all the discipline of the sick room. -Presently he came to himself and pushed Bee away. - -“What do you come bothering about?” he said; “you ought to have left me -alone. I’ve made my bed, and I’ve got to lie on it. I don’t suppose that -anyone has taken the trouble to--ask about me?” he added, after a little -while, in what was intended for a careless tone. - -“Oh, Charlie, everyone who has known; but papa would let nobody know: -except at Oxford. We--went to Oxford----” - -He got up on his pillow with his eyes shining out of their hollow -sockets, his long limbs coming to the ground with a faint thump. Poor -Charlie was young enough to have grown during his illness, and those -gaunt limbs seemed unreasonably long. - -“You went to Oxford!” he said, “and you saw--” - -“Dear Charlie, they will say I am exciting you--doing you harm----” - -“You saw?” he cried, bringing down his fist upon the table with a blow -that made the very floor shake. - -“Yes,” said Bee, trembling, “we saw--or rather papa saw----” - -He pushed up the shade of the lamp with his long bony fingers, and fixed -his eyes, bright with fever, on her face. - -“Oh, Charlie, don’t look at me so!--the lady whom you used to talk to me -about--whom I saw in the academy----” - -“Yes?”--he grasped her hand across the table with a momentary hot -pressure. - -“She came and saw papa in the hotel. She told him about you, and that -you had--oh, Charlie, and she so old--as old as----” - -“Hold your tongue!” he cried, violently, and then with a long-drawn -breath, “What more? She told him--and he was rude, I suppose. Confound -him! Confound--confound them all!” - -“I will not say another word unless you are quiet,” said Bee, her spirit -rising; “put up your feet on the sofa and be quiet, and remember all the -risk you are running--or I will not say another word.” - -He obeyed her with murmurs of complaint, but no longer with the languid -gloom of his first accost. Hope seemed to have come into his heart. He -subdued himself, lay back among his pillows, obeyed her in all she -stipulated. The light from underneath the raised shade played on his -face and gave it a tinge of colour, though it showed more clearly the -emaciation of the outlines and the aspect of neglect, rather than, as -poor Charlie hoped, of enhanced manly dignity, conveyed by the irregular -sick man’s growth of the infant beard. - -“Papa was not rude,” said Bee, “he is never rude; he is a gentleman. -Worse than that--” - -“Worse--than what?” - -“Oh, I cannot understand you at all, you and--the rest,” cried the girl; -“one after another you give in to her, you admire her, you do what she -tells you--that woman who has harmed me all she can, and you all she -can, and now--Charlie!” Bee stopped with astonishment and indignation. -Her brother had raised himself up again, and aimed a furious but futile -blow at her in the air. It did not touch her, but the indignity was no -less on that account. - -“Well,” he cried, again bringing down that hand which could not reach -her, on the table, “How dare you speak of one you’re not worthy to name? -Ah! I might have known she wouldn’t desert me. It is she who has kept -the way open, and subdued my father, and----” An ineffable look of -happiness came upon the worn and gaunt countenance, his eyes softened, -his voice fell. “I might have known!” he said to himself, “I might have -known!” - -And what could Bee say? Though she did not believe in--though she hated -and feared with a child’s intensity of terror the woman who had so often -crossed her path--she could not contradict her brother’s faith, though -she considered it an infatuation, a folly beyond belief; it seemed, -after all, in a manner true that this woman had not deserted him. She -had subdued his father’s displeasure somehow, made everything easier. -Bee looked at him, the victim of those wiles, yet nevertheless indebted -to them, with the same exasperation which her father’s subjugation had -caused her. What could she say, what could she do, to reveal to them -that enchantress in her true colours? But Bee knew that she could do -nothing, and there began to rise in her heart a dreadful question. Was -it so sure that she herself was right? Was this woman, indeed, an evil -Fate, or was she, was she----? And the first story of all, the story of -Aubrey, was it perhaps true? - -The nurse came in noiselessly, hurrying, while Bee’s mind ran through -those thoughts--evidently with the conviction that she would find the -patient worse. But Charlie was not worse. He turned his face towards -his attendant, still with something of that dreamy rapture in it. - -“Oh, you may speak out,” he said; “I don’t mind noises to-night. Supper? -Yes, I’ll take some supper. Bring me a beefsteak or something -substantial. I’m going to get well at once.” - -Nurse nodded at Bee, with much uplifting of her eyelids. “Put no faith -in you,” she said, working the machinery of her lips; “was wrong; done -him no end of good. Beefsteak; not exactly; but soon, soon, if you’re -good.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Bee saw no more of Charlie that night. When she came out of his room, -where there was a certain meaning in her presence, she seemed to pass -into the region of dreams. She was taken upstairs to refresh herself and -rest, into the smaller of two bedrooms which were over Charlie’s room, -the other of which was occupied by Mrs. Leigh. And she was taken -downstairs to dine with that lady _tête-a-tête_ at the small shining -table. There was something about the little house altogether, a certain -conciseness, an absence of drapery, and of the small elegant litter -which is so general nowadays, which gave it a masculine character--or, -at least, Bee, not accustomed to æsthetic young men, accustomed rather -to big boys and their scorn of the decorative arts, thought so with a -curious flutter of her being. This perhaps was partly because the -ornamental part of the house was devoted to Charlie, and the little -dining-room below seemed the sole room to live in. It had one or two -portraits hung on the walls, pictures almost too much for its small -dimensions. The still smaller room behind was clothed with books, and -had for its only ornament a small portrait of Mrs. Leigh over the -mantel-piece. Whose rooms were these? Who had furnished them so gravely, -and left behind an impression of serious character which almost chilled -the heart of Bee? He was nowhere visible, nor any trace of him. No -allusion was made as to an absent master of the house, and yet it bore -an air so individual that Bee’s sensitive being was moved by it, with -all the might of something stranger than imagination. She stood -trembling among the books, looking at the mother’s portrait over the -mantel-piece, feeling as if the very mantel-shelf on which she rested -her arm was warm with the touch of his. But not a word was said, not an -allusion made to Aubrey. - -What had she to do with Aubrey? Nothing--less than with any other man in -the world--any stranger to whom she could speak with freedom, -interchanging the common coin of ordinary intercourse. He was the only -man in the world whom she must not talk of, must not see--the only one -of whose presence it was necessary to obliterate every sign, and never -to utter the name where she was. Poor Bee! Yet she felt him near, his -presence suggested by everything, his name always latent in the air. She -slept and waked in that strange atmosphere as in a dream. In Aubrey’s -house, yet with Aubrey obliterated--the one person in existence with -whom she had nothing, nothing to do. - -It was late before she was allowed to see her brother next day, and Bee, -in the meantime, left to her own devices, had not known what to do. She -had taken pen and paper two or three times to let her father know that -Charlie was found, but her mind revolted, somehow, from making that -intimation. What would happen when he knew? He would come here -immediately; he would probably attempt to remove Charlie; he would -certainly order Bee away at once from a place so unsuitable for her. It -was unsuitable for her, and yet--She scarcely saw even Mrs. Leigh after -breakfast, but was left to herself, with the door open into that -sanctuary which was Aubrey’s, with all his books and the newspapers laid -out upon the table. Bee sat in the dining-room and looked into that -other secluded place. In the light of day she dared not go into it. It -seemed like thrusting herself into his presence who had no thought of -her, who did not want her. Oh, not for Aubrey! Aubrey would not for the -world disturb her, or bring any embarrassment into her mind. Aubrey -would rather disappear from his own house, as if he had never existed, -than remind her that he did exist, and perhaps sometimes thought of her -still. Did he ever think of her? Bee knew that it would be wrong and -unlike Aubrey if he kept in these rooms the poor little photograph of -her almost childish face which he had once prized so much. It would have -been indelicate, unlike a gentleman; and yet she made a hasty and -furtive search everywhere to see if, perhaps, it might be somewhere, in -some book or little frame. She would have been angry had she found it, -and indignant; yet she felt a certain desolate sense of being altogether -out of the question, steal into her heart, when she did not find it--in -the inconsistencies of which the heart is full. - -It was mid-day when she was called upstairs, to find Charlie established -in the room which should have been the drawing-room, and round which she -threw another wistful look as she came into it in full daylight. Oh, not -a woman’s room in any way, with none of those little photograph frames -about which strew a woman’s table--not one, and consequently none of -Bee. She took this in at the first glance, as she made the three or four -little steps between the door and Charlie’s couch. He was more -hollow-eyed and worn in the daylight than he had been even on the night -before, his appearance entirely changed from that of the commonplace -young Oxford man to an eager, anxious being, with all the cares of a -troubled soul concentrated in his eyes. Mrs. Leigh sat near him, and -the nurse was busy with cushions and pillows arranging his couch. - -“My dear, you will be thankful to hear that the doctor gives a very good -report to-day. He says that, though he would not have sanctioned it, my -remedy has done wonders. You are my remedy, Bee. I am proud of so -successful an idea--though, to be sure, it was a very simple one. Now -you must go on and complete the cure, and I give you _carte blanche_. -Ask anyone here, anyone you please, so long as it is not too much for -Charlie. He may see one or two people if nurse sanctions it. I am going -out myself for the day. I shall not return till late in the afternoon, -and you are mistress in the meantime--absolute mistress,” said Mrs. -Leigh, kissing her. Bee felt that Aubrey’s mother would not even meet -her eyes lest she should throw too much meaning into these words. Oh, -there was no meaning in them, except so far as Charlie was concerned. - -And then she was left alone with her brother, the most natural, the only -suitable arrangement. Nurse gave the last pat to his cushions, the last -twist to the coverlet, which was over his gaunt limbs, appealed to him -the last time in dumb show whether he wanted anything, and then -withdrew. It was most natural that his sister, whose appearance had done -him so much good, should be left with him as his nurse; but she was -frightened, and Charlie self-absorbed, and it was some time before -either found a word to say. At last he said, “Bee!” calling her -attention, and then was silent again for some time, speaking no more. - -“Yes, Charlie!” There was a flutter in Bee’s voice as in her heart. - -“I say, I wasn’t, perhaps, very nice to you last night; I couldn’t bear -to be brought back; but they say I’m twice as well since you came. So I -am. I’ve got something to keep me up. Bee, look here. Am I dreadful to -look at? I know I haven’t an ounce of flesh left on my bones, but some -don’t mind that; and then, my beard. I’ve heard it said that a beard -that never was shaved was--was--an embellishment, don’t you know. Do you -think I’m dreadful to look at, Bee?” - -“Oh, Charlie,” said the girl, from the depths of her heart, “what does -it matter how you look? The more ill you look the more need you have for -your own people about you, who never would think twice of that.” - -Charlie’s gaunt countenance was distorted with a grin of rage and -annoyance. “I wish you’d shut up about my own people. The governor, -perhaps, with his grand air, or Betty, as sharp as a needle--as if I -wanted them!--or to be told that they would put up with me.” - -“Charlie,” said Bee, trembling, “I don’t want to vex you, you are a -little--but couldn’t you have a barber to come, and perhaps he could -take it off.” - -There came a flash of fire out of Charlie’s eyes; he put up his hand to -his face, as if to protect that beard in which he at least believed--“I -might have known,” he said, “that you were the last person! A fellow’s -sister is always like that: just as we never think anything of a girl’s -looks in our own families. Well, you’ve given your opinion on that -subject. And you think that people who care for me wouldn’t think twice -of that?” - -“Oh, no,” said Bee, clasping her hands, “how should they? But only feel -for you far, far more.” - -Charlie took down his hand from his young beard. He looked at her with -his hollow eyes full of anxiety, yet with a certain complacence. -“Interesting?”--he said, “is that what you meant to say?” - -“Oh, yes,” cried Bee, her eyes full of pity, “for they can see what you -have gone through, and how much you have been suffering,--if there was -any need of making you more interesting to us.” - -Charlie stroked down his little tufts of wool for some time without -speaking, and then he said in a caressing tone unusual to him, “I want -you to do me a favour, Bee.” - -“Anything--anything, whatever you wish, Charlie.” - -“There is just one thing I wish, and one person I want to see. Sit down -and write a note--you need not do more than say where I am,” said -Charlie, speaking quickly. “Say I am here, and have been very ill, but -that the hope she’d come, and to hear that she had forgiven me, was like -new life. Well! what is the meaning of your ‘anything, anything,’ if -you break down at the first thing I ask you? Look here, Bee, if you wish -me to live and get well you’ll do what I say.” - -“Oh, Charlie, how can I?--how can I?--when you know what I -feel--about----” - -“What you feel--about? Who cares what you feel? You think perhaps it was -you that did me all that good last night. That’s all conceit, like the -nonsense in novels, where a woman near your bed when you’re ill makes -all the difference. Girls,” said Charlie, “are puffed up with that folly -and believe anything. You know I didn’t want you. It was what you told -me about _her_ that did me good. And your humbug, sitting there crying, -‘anything, anything!’ Well, here’s something! You need not write a -regular letter, if you don’t like it. Put where I am--Charlie Kingsward -very ill; will you come and see him? A telegram would do, and it would -be quicker; send a telegram,” he cried. - -“Oh, Charlie!” - -“Give me the paper and pencil--I’m shaky, but I can do that much -myself----” - -“Charlie, I’ll do it rather than vex you; but I don’t know where to send -it.” - -“Oh, I can tell you that--Avondale, near the Parks, Oxford.” - -“She is not there now--she is in London,” said Bee, in a low tone. - -“In London?” Again the long, gaunt limbs came to the ground with a -thump. “Bee, if you could get me a hansom perhaps I could go.” - -The nurse at this moment came in noiselessly, and Charlie shrank before -her. She put him back on the sofa with a swift movement. “If you go on -like this I’ll take the young lady away,” she said. - -“I’ll not go on--I’ll be as meek as Moses; but, nurse, tell her she -mustn’t contradict a man in my state. She must do what I say.” - -Nurse turned her back upon the patient, and made the usual grimaces; -“Humour him,” her lips and eyebrows said. - -“Charlie, papa knows the address, and Betty--and I ought, oh, I ought to -let them know at once that you are here.” - -“Betty!” he said, with a grimace, “what does that little thing know?” - -“She knows--better than you think I do; and papa---- Papa is never happy -but when he is with that lady. He goes to see her every day; she writes -to him and he writes to her; they go out together,” cried Bee, thinking -of that invitation to Portman Square which had seemed the last insult -which she could be called on to bear. - -Charlie smiled--the same smile of ineffable self-complacence and -confidence which had replaced in a moment the gloom of the previous -night; and then he grew grave. He was not such a fool, he said to -himself, as to be jealous of his own father; but still he grudged that -anyone but himself should have her company. He remembered what it was to -go to see her every day, to write to her, to have her letters, to be -privileged to give her his arm now and then, to escort her here or -there. If it had been another fellow! But a man’s father--the governor! -He was not a rival. Charlie imagined to himself the conversations with -him for their subject, and how, perhaps for the first time, the governor -would learn to do him justice, seeing him through Laura’s eyes. It was -true that she had rejected him, had almost laughed at him, had sent him -away so completely broken down and miserable that he had not cared what -became of him. But hope had sprung within him, all the more wildly from -that downfall. It was like her to go to the old gentleman (it was thus -he considered his father) to explain everything, to set him right. She -would not have done so if her heart had not relented--her heart was so -kind. She must have felt what it was to drive a man to despair--and now -she was working for him, soothing down the governor, bringing everything -back. - -“Eh?” he said, vaguely, some time after; he had in the meantime heard -Bee’s voice going on vaguely addressing somebody, in the air, “are you -speaking to me?” - -“There is no one else to speak to,” cried Bee, almost angrily. And then -she said, “Charlie--how can you ask her to come here?” - -“Why not here? She’ll go anywhere to do a kind thing.” - -“But not to this house--not here, not here!” - -“Why not, I should like to know--what’s here?” Then Charlie stared at -her for a moment with his hollow eyes, and broke into a low, feeble -laugh. - -“Oh,” he said, “I know what you’ve got in your head--because of that -confounded cad, Aubrey Leigh? That is just why she will come, to show -what a lie all that was--as if she ever would have looked twice at a -fellow like Leigh.” - -“He seems to have saved your life,” said Bee, confused, not knowing what -to think. - -“You mean he gave me house-room when I was ill, and sent for a doctor. -Why, any shop-keeper would have done that. And now,” said Charlie, with -a grin, “he shall be fully paid back.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Betty Kingsward lived in what was to her a whirl of pleasure at Portman -Square, where everybody was fond of her, and all manner of -entertainments were devised for her pleasure. And her correspondence was -not usually of an exciting character. Her morning letters, when she had -any, were placed by her plate on the breakfast-table. If any came by -other posts, she got them when she had a spare moment to look for them, -and she had scarcely a spare moment at this very lively and very happy -moment of her young career. Besides, that particular evening when Bee’s -note arrived was a very important one to Betty. It was the evening on -which Miss Lance was to dine with the Lyons. And it was not a mere -quiet family dinner, but a party--a thing which in her newness and -inexperience still excited the little girl, who was not to say properly -“out,” in consequence of her mourning; still wearing black ribbons with -her white frocks, and only allowed to accept invitations which were -“quiet.” A dinner of twenty people is not exactly an entertainment for a -girl of her years, but Betty’s excitement in the _debût_ of Miss Lance -was so great that no ball could have occupied her more. There was an -unusual interest about it in the whole house, even Mrs. Lyon’s maid, the -most staid of confidential persons, had begged Betty to point out to her -over the baluster “the lady, Miss Betty, that is coming with your papa.” - -“Oh, she’s not coming with papa,” Betty had cried, with a laugh at -Hobbs’ mistake, “she is only a great, great friend, Hobbs. You will -easily know her, for there is nobody else so handsome.” - -“Handsome is as handsome does,” said the woman, and she patted Betty on -the shoulder under pretence of arranging her ribbon. - -Betty had not the least idea why Hobbs looked at her with such -compassionate eyes. - -Miss Lance, however, did come into the room, to Betty’s surprise, -closely followed by Colonel Kingsward, as if they had arrived together. -She was like a picture, in her black satin and lace, dressed not too -young but rather too _old_ for her age, as Mrs. Lyon pointed out, who -was as much excited about her new guest as Betty herself; and the -unknown lady had the greatest possible success in a party which -consisted chiefly, as Betty did not remark, of old friends of Colonel -Kingsward, with whom she had been acquainted all her life. Betty did not -remark it, but Gerald Lyon did, who was more than ever her comrade and -companion in this elderly company. - -“Why all these old fogies?” he had asked irreverently, as the gentlemen -with stars on their coats and the ladies in diamonds came in. - -Betty perceived that it was an unusually solemn party, but thought no -more of it. It was the evening of the first levee, and that, perhaps, -was the reason why the old gentlemen wore their orders. Old gentlemen! -They were the flower of the British army. Generals This and That, heads -of departments; impossible to imagine more grand people--in the flower -of their age, like Colonel Kingsward. But eighteen has its own ideas -very clearly marked on that subject. Betty and Gerald stood by, lighting -up one corner with a blaze of undeniable youth, to see them come in. The -young pair were like flowers in comparison with the substantial size and -well worn complexions of their seniors, and they were the only little -nobodies, the sole representatives of undistinguished and ordinary -humanity round the table. They were not by any means daunted by that. On -the contrary, they felt themselves, as it were, soaring over the heads -of all those limited persons who had attained, spurning the level -heights of realisation. They did not in the least know what was to -become of them in life, but naturally they made light of the others who -did know, who had done all they were likely to do, and had no more to -look to. The dignity of accomplished success filled the young ones with -impulses of laughter; their inferiority gave them an elevation over all -the grizzled heads; they felt themselves, nobodies, to be almost -ludicrously, dizzily above the heads of the rest. Only one of the -company seemed to see this, however; to cast them an occasional look, -even to make them the confidants of an occasional smile, a raising of -the eyebrows, a sort of unspoken comment on the fine company, which made -Betty still more lively in her criticisms. But this made almost a -quarrel between the two. - -“Oh, I wish we were nearer to Miss Lance, to hear what she thinks of it -all,” Betty said. - -“I can’t think what you see in that woman,” cried Gerald. “I, for one, -have no desire to know her opinion.” - -Betty turned her little shoulder upon him with a glance of flame, that -almost set the young man on fire. - -“You prejudiced, cynical, uncharitable, malicious, odious boy!” And they -did not say another word to each other for five minutes by the clock. - -Miss Lance, however, there was no doubt, had a distinguished success. -She captivated the gentlemen who were next to her at table, and, what -was perhaps more difficult, she made a favourable impression upon the -ladies in the drawing-room. Her aspect there, indeed, was of the most -attractive kind. She drew Betty’s arm within her own, and said with a -laugh, “You and I are the girls, little Betty, among all these grand -married ladies;” and then she added, “Isn’t it a little absurd that we -shouldn’t have some title to ourselves, we old maids?--for Miss means -eighteen, and it’s hard that it should mean forty-two. Fancy the -disappointment of hearing this juvenile title and then finding that it -means a middle-aged woman.” - -She laughed so freely that some of the other ladies laughed too. The -attention of all was directed towards the new comer, which Betty thought -very natural, she was so much the handsomest of them all. - -“You mean the disappointment of a gentleman?” said one of the guests. - -“Oh, no, of ladies too. Don’t you think women are just as fond of youth -as men are, and as much disgusted with an elderly face veiling itself -in false pretences? Oh, more! We think more of beauty than the men do,” -said Miss Lance, raising her fine head as if to expose its features to -the fire of all the glances bent upon her. - -There was a little chorus of cries, “Oh, no, no,” and arguments against -so novel a view. - -But Miss Lance did not quail; her own beauty was done full justice to. -She was so placed that more than one mirror in the old-fashioned room -reflected her graceful and not unstudied pose. - -“I know it isn’t a usual view,” she said, “but if you’ll think of it a -little you’ll find it’s true. The common thing is to talk about women -being jealous of each other. If we are it is because we are always the -first to find out a beautiful face--and usually we much exaggerate its -power.” - -“Do you know,” said Mrs. Lyon in her quavering voice, “I almost think -Miss Lance is right? Mr. Lyon instantly says ‘Humph!’ when I point out a -pretty person to him. And Gerald tells me, ‘You think every girl pretty, -aunt.’” - -“That is because there is one little girl that he thinks the most pretty -of all,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of soft maternal coo in Betty’s -ear. - -The subject was taken up and tossed about from one to another, while she -who had originated it drew back a little, listening with an air of much -attention, turning her head to each speaker, an attitude which was most -effective. It will probably be thought the greatest waste of effort for -a woman thus to exhibit what the newspapers call her personal advantages -to a group of her own sex; but Miss Lance was a very clever woman, and -she knew what she was about. After a time, when the first fervour of the -argument was over, she returned to her first theme as to the appropriate -title that ought to be invented for old maids. - -“I have thought of it a great deal,” she said. “I should have called -myself Mrs. Laura Lance, to discriminate--but for the American custom of -calling all married ladies so, which is absurd.” - -“I have a friend in New York who writes to me as Mrs. Mary Lyon,” said -the mistress of the house. - -“Yes, which is ridiculous, you know; for you are not Mrs. Mary Lyon, -dear lady. You are Mrs. Francis Lyon, if it is necessary to have a -Christian name, for Lyon is your husband’s name, not yours. You are Mrs. -Mary Howard by rights--if in such a matter there are any rights.” - -“What!” cried old Mr. Lyon, coming in after the long array of gentlemen, -“are you going to divorce my wife from me, or give her another name, or -what are you going to do? We thought it was we only who could change the -ladies’ names, Kingsward, eh?” - -Colonel Kingsward had placed himself immediately in front of Miss Lance, -and Betty, looking on all unsuspicious, saw a glance pass between -them--or rather, she saw Miss Lance look up into her father’s face. -Betty did not know in the least what that look meant, but it gave her a -little shock as if she had touched an electric battery. It meant -something more than to Betty’s consciousness had ever been put into -words. She turned her eyes away for a moment to escape the curious -thrill that ran through her, and in that moment met Gerald Lyon’s eyes, -full of something malicious, mocking, disagreeable, which made Betty -very angry. But she could not explain to herself what all these looks -meant. - -This curious sensation somehow spoiled the rest of the evening for -Betty. Everybody it seemed to her after this meant something--something -more than they said. They looked at her father, they looked at Miss -Lance, they looked even at Betty’s little self, embracing all three, -sometimes in one comprehensive glance. And all kinds of significant -little speeches were made as the company went away. “I am so glad to -have seen her,” one lady said in an undertone to Mrs. Lyon. “One -regrets, of course, but one is thankful it is no worse.” “I think,” said -another, “it will do very well--I think it will do very well; thank you -for the opportunity.” And “Charming, my dear Mrs. Lyon, charming,” said -another. They all spoke low and in the most confidential tone. What was -it they were all so interested about? - -The last of the party to go were Miss Lance and Colonel Kingsward. They -seemed to go away together as they had seemed to come together. - -“Your father is so kind as to see me home,” Miss Lance said, by way of -explanation. “I am not a grand lady with a carriage. I am old enough to -walk home by myself, and I always do it, but as Colonel Kingsward is so -kind, of course I like company best.” - -She too had a private word with Mrs. Lyon, at the head of the stairs. -Betty did not want to listen, but she heard by instinct the repeated -“Thank you, thank you! How can I ever express how much I thank you?” -Betty was so bewildered that she could not think. She paid no attention -to her father, who put his hands on her shoulders when he said -“Good-night,” and said, “Betty, I’ll see you to-morrow.” Oh, of course, -she should see him to-morrow--or not, as circumstances might ordain. -What did it matter? She was not anxious to see her father to-morrow, it -could not be of the least importance whether they met or not; but what -Betty would really have liked would have been to find out what all these -little whisperings could mean. - -Mrs. Lyon came up to her when the last, to wit, Colonel Kingsward -following Miss Lance, had disappeared, and put her arms round the little -girl. “You are looking a little tired,” she said, “just this last hour. -I did not think they would stay so late. It is all Miss Lance, I -believe, setting us on to argue with her metaphysics. Well, everybody -likes her very much, which will please you, my dear, as you are so fond -of her. And now, Betty, you must run off to bed. There’s hardly time for -your beauty sleep.” - -“Mrs. Lyon,” said Betty, very curious, “was it to meet Miss Lance that -all those grand people came?” - -“I don’t know what you call grand people. They are all great friends of -ours and also of your father’s, and I think you know them every one. And -they all know each other.” - -“Except Miss Lance,” said Gerald, who was always disagreeable--always, -when anyone mentioned Miss Lance’s name. - -“I know _her_, certainly, and better than any of them! And there is -nobody so delightful,” Betty cried, with fervour, partly because she -believed what she said, and partly to be disagreeable in her turn to -him. - -“And so they all seemed to think,” said old Mr. Lyon, “though I’m not so -fond of new people as the rest of you. Lay hands suddenly on no man is -what I say.” - -“And I say the same as my uncle,” said Gerald, “and it’s still more true -of a woman than a man.” - -“You are such an experienced person,” said the old lady; “they know so -much better than we do, Betty. But never you mind, for your friend has -made an excellent impression upon all these people--the most -tremendously respectable people,” Mrs. Lyon said, “none of your artists -and light-minded persons! Make yourself comfortable with that thought, -and good night, my little Betty. You must not stay up so late another -night.” - -What nonsense that was of staying up late, when it was not yet twelve -o’clock! But Betty went off to her room with a little confusion and -bewilderment of mind, happy on the whole, but feeling as if she had -something to think about when she should be alone. What was it she had -to think about? She could not think what it was when she sat down alone -to study her problem. There was no problem, and what the departing -guests had said to Mrs. Lyon was quite simple, and referred to something -that was their own business, that had nothing to do with Betty. How -could it have anything to do with Betty? - -Around the corner of the Park, Bee, too, was sitting alone and thinking -at the same time, and the two sets of thoughts, neither very clear, -revolved round the same circle. But neither of the sisters knew, -concerning this problem, whereabouts the other was. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -And yet all this time there lay upon Betty’s table, concealed under the -pretty laced handkerchiefs which she had pulled out of their sachet to -choose one for the party, Bee’s little tremulous letter, expressing a -state of mind more agitated than that of Betty, and full of wonderings -and trouble. It was found there by the maid who put things in order next -morning, when she called the young visitor. - -“Here’s a letter that came last night, and you have never opened it,” -said the maid, half reproachfully. She, at least, she was anxious to -note, had not been to blame. - -Betty took it with great _sang froid_. She saw by the writing it was -only Bee’s--and Bee’s news was never imperative. There could not be -much to disclose to her of the state of affairs at Kingswarden that was -new, since the night before last. - -But the result was that Betty went downstairs in her hat and gloves, and -that Mr. Lyon and Gerald, who were both sitting down to that substantial -breakfast which is the first symbol of good health and a good conscience -in England, had much ado to detain her long enough to share that meal. - -Mrs. Lyon did not come downstairs in the morning, so that they used the -argument of helplessness, professing themselves unable to pour out their -own tea. - -“And what business can Betty have of such importance that she must run -out without her breakfast?” said the old gentleman. - -“Oh, it is news I have heard which I must take at once to papa!” - -The two gentlemen looked at each other, and Mr. Lyon shook his big, old -head. - -“I would not trouble your papa, my dear, with anything you may have -heard. Depend upon it, he will let you know anything he wishes you to -know--in his own time.” - -“But it is news--news,” said Betty; “news about Charlie!” - -Then she remembered that very little had been said even to the Lyons -about Charlie, and stopped with embarrassment, and her friends could not -but believe that this was a hasty expedient to conceal from them that -she had heard something--some flying rumour which had set her little -impetuous being on fire. When she had escaped from their sympathetic -looks and Gerald’s magnanimous proposal to accompany her--without so -much as an egg to fortify him for the labours of the day!--Betty set -out, crossing the Park in the early glory of the morning, which feels at -nine o’clock what six o’clock feels in the country, to carry the news to -her father. - -Charlie found, and ill; and demanding to see Miss Lance, his health and -recovery depending upon whether he should see her or not! Betty’s first -instinct had been to hasten at once to George Street, Hanover Square, -but then she remembered that papa presumably was the one who was most -anxious about Charlie and had the best right to know, and it was perhaps -better not to explain to the friends in Portman Square why Miss Lance -should go to Charlie. Indeed, when she had set out, a great many -questions occurred to Betty, circulating through her lively little mind -without any possibility of an answer to them. Why should Charlie be so -anxious to see Miss Lance? Why had he been so long there, ill, and -nobody come to tell his people of it? And what was Bee doing in Curzon -Street, in Aubrey Leigh’s house, which was the last house in the world -where she had any right to be? But she walked so fast, and the sunny air -with all its movement and lightness so carried her on and filled her -with pleasant sounds and images, that these thoughts, blowing like the -wind through her little intelligence, had not much effect on Betty -now--though there was incipient trouble in them, as even she could see. - -Colonel Kingsward was seated at his breakfast when his little girl burst -in upon him in all the freshness of the morning. Her youth and her -bloom, and her white frock, notwithstanding its black accoutrements, -made a great show in the dark-coloured, solemn, official-looking room, -with its Turkey carpets and morocco chairs. The Colonel was evidently -startled by the sight of her. He said, “Well?” in that tone of -self-defence, and almost defiance, with which a man prepares for being -called upon to give an account of himself; as if anything so absurd -could be possible as that Betty, little Betty, could call upon her -father to give an account of himself! But then it is very true that when -there is something to be accounted for, the strongest feel how -“conscience doth make cowards of us all.” - -“Oh,” she cried, breathless, “Papa--Charlie! Bee has found Charlie, and -he’s been very ill--typhoid fever; he’s getting better, and he’s in -London, and she’s with him; and he wants but to see Miss Lance. Oh, -papa, that’s what I came about chiefly--he wants to see Miss Lance.” - -Colonel Kingsward’s face changed many times during this breathless -deliverance. He said first, “He’s at Mackinnon’s, I know;” then, “In -London!” with no pleasure at all in his tone; and finally, “Miss Lance!” -angrily, his face covered with a dark glow. - -“What is all this?” he cried, when she stopped for want of breath. -“Charlie--in town? You must be out of your senses. Why, he is in -Scotland. I heard from--, eh? Well, I don’t know that I had any letter, -but--. And ill--and Bee with him? What is the meaning of all this? Are -you both mad, or in a conspiracy to make yourselves disagreeable to me?” - -“Papa!” cried Betty, very ready to take up the challenge; but on the -whole the news was too important to justify a combat of self-defence. -She produced Bee’s note out of its envelope, and placed it before him, -running on with a report of it while the Colonel groped for his eyeglass -and arranged it upon his nose. - -“A lady came and fetched her,” cried Betty, hurriedly, to forestall the -reading, “and brought her up to town and took her to him--oh, so -bad--where he had been for weeks; and she told him you had been to -Oxford, and something about Miss Lance; and he wants to see Miss Lance, -and calls and calls for her, and won’t be satisfied. Oh, papa!” - -Colonel Kingsward had arranged his _pince-nez_ very carefully; he had -taken up Bee’s note, and went over it word by word while Betty made her -breathless report. When he came to the first mention of Miss Lance he -struck his hand upon the table like any other man in a passion, making -all the cups and plates ring. - -“The little fool!” he said, “the little fool! What right had she to -bring in that name? It was this that called forth Betty’s exclamation, -but no more was said by either till he read it out to the end. Then he -flung the letter from him, and getting up, paced about the room in rage -and dismay. - -“A long illness,” said the Colonel, “was perhaps the best thing that -could have happened to him to sweep all that had passed before out of -his mind; and here does this infernal little idiot, this little demon -full of spite and malice, get at the boy at his worst moment and bring -everything back. What right had she, the spiteful, envious little fool, -to bring in the name of a lady--of a lady to whom you all owe the -greatest respect?” - -“Papa!” cried Betty, overwhelmed, “Bee couldn’t have meant any harm.” - -Colonel Kingsward was out of himself and he uttered words which -terrified his daughter, and which need not be recorded against him--for -he certainly did not in cold blood wish Bee to fall under any celestial -malediction. He stormed about the room, saying much that Betty could not -understand; that it was just the thing of all others that should not -have happened, and the time of all others; that if it had been a little -later, or even a little earlier, it would not have mattered; that it was -enough to overturn every arrangement, increase every difficulty. He was -not at all a man to give way to his feelings so. His children, indeed, -until very lately, had never seen him excited at all, and it was an -astonishment beyond description to little Betty to be a spectator of -this scene. Indeed, Colonel Kingsward awoke presently to a sense of the -self-exposure he had been making, and calmed down, or, at least, -controlled himself, upon which Betty ventured to ask him very humbly -what he thought she had better do. - -“May I go to Miss Lance and tell her? She is not angry now, nor unhappy -about him like--like _us_,” said Betty, putting the best face upon it -with instinctive capacity, “and she might know what to do. She is so -very kind and understanding, don’t you know, papa?--and she would know -what to do.” - -For the first time Colonel Kingsward gave his agitated little visitor a -smile. “You seem to have some understanding, too, for a little girl,” he -said, “and it looks as if you would be worthy of my confidence, Betty. -When I see you this afternoon I shall, perhaps, have something to tell -you that----” - -There came over Colonel Kingsward’s fine countenance a smile, a -consciousness, which filled Betty with amaze. She had seen her father -look handsome, commanding, very serious. She had seen him wear an air -which the girls in their profanity had been used in their mother’s happy -days to call that of the _père noble_. She had seen him angry, even in a -passion, as to-day. She had heard him, alas! blaspheme, which had been -very terrible to Betty. But she had never, she acknowledged to herself, -seen him look _silly_ before. Silly, in a girl’s phraseology, was what -he looked now, with that fatuity which is almost solely to be attributed -to one cause; but of this Betty was not aware. It came over his -countenance, and for a moment Colonel Kingsward let himself go on the -flood of complacent consciousness, which healed all his wounds. Then he -suddenly braced himself up and turned to Betty again. - -“Perhaps,” he said, in his most fatherly tone, for it seemed to the man -in this crisis of his life that even little Betty’s support was -something to hold by, “my dear child, your instinct is right. Go to Miss -Lance and tell her how things are. Don’t take this odious letter, -however,” he said, seizing Bee’s note and tearing it across with -indignant vehemence, “with all its prejudices and assumptions. Tell her -in your own words; and where they are--and---- Where are they, by the -way?” he said, groping for the fragments of the letter in his -waste-paper basket. “I hope you noted the address.” - -He had not then, it was evident, noted the address, nor the name of Mrs. -Leigh, nor in whose house Charlie was. Betty’s heart beat high with the -question whether she should call his attention to these additional -facts, but her courage failed her. He had cooled down, he was himself -again: and after a moment he added, “I will write a little note which -you can take,” with once more the smile that Betty thought silly -floating across his face. She was standing close by the writing-table, -and Betty was not aware that there was any harm in the natural glimpse -which her keen eyes took, before she was conscious of it, of the note he -was writing. It was not like a common note. It did not begin “Dear Miss -Lance,” as would have been natural. In short, it had no beginning at -all, nor any signature--or rather it was signed only with his initial -“F.” How very extraordinary that papa should sign “F.” and should not -put any beginning to his letter. A kind of wondering consternation -enveloped the little girl. But still she did not in the least understand -what it meant. - -Betty walked away along Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and by the edge of the -Park to George Street, Hanover Square. It is not according to the -present fashion that a girl should shrink from walking along through -those busy London streets, where nobody is in search of adventures, at -least at that hour of the morning. Her white morning frock and her black -ribbons, and her early bloom, like the morning, though delightful to -behold, did not make all the passers by stand and stare as the movements -of a pretty girl used to do, if we are to credit the novels, in the -beginning of the century. People, perhaps, have too much to do nowadays -to give to that not unusual sight the attention which the dandies and -the macaroni bestowed upon it, and Betty was so evidently bent on her -own little business, whatever it was, that nothing naturally occurred to -detain her. - -It was so unusual for her to have a grave piece of business in hand that -she was a little elated by it, even though so sorry for Charlie who was -so ill, and for Bee who was so perturbed about everything. Betty herself -was not perturbed; she was full of the pleasure of the morning and the -long, interesting walk, and the sense of her own importance as a -messenger. If there did occasionally float across her mind the idea -that her father’s demeanour was strange, or that it was odd that he -should have signed his note to Miss Lance with an F., it was merely a -momentary idea and she did not question it or detain it. And poor -Charlie! Ill--not able to get out this fine weather; but he was getting -better, so that there was really nothing to be troubled about. - -Miss Lance was up, but had not yet appeared when Betty was shown into -her little drawing-room. She was not an early riser. It was one of her -vices, she frankly allowed. Betty had to wait, and had time to admire -all her friend’s knick-knacks, of which there were many, before she came -in, which she did at last, with her arms put out to take Betty -maternally to her bosom. She looked in the girl’s face with a very -intent glance before she took her into this embrace. - -“My little Betty, so early,” she said, and kissed the girl, and then -looked at her again, as if in expectation of something; but as Betty -could not think of anything that Miss Lance would be expecting from her, -she remained unconscious of any special meaning in this look. - -“Yes, I am early,” she said; “it is because I have something to tell -you, and something to ask of you, too.” - -“Tell, my dear little girl, and ask. You may be sure I shall be at your -service. But what is this in your hand--a note for me?” - -“Yes, it is a note for you, but may I tell you first what it is about?” -Betty went on quickly with her story, though Miss Lance, without waiting -for it, took the note and opened it. “Miss Lance, Charlie is found; he -has been very ill, and he wants to see you.” - -“To see me?” Miss Lance looked with eyes of sympathy, yet great -innocence, as if at an impossible proposal, at the breathless girl so -anxious to get it out. “But, Betty, if he is with your friends, the -Mackinnons, in Scotland--?” - -“Oh, Miss Lance, I told you he was not there, don’t you remember? He has -never been anywhere all this time. He has had typhoid fever, and on -Thursday Bee was sent for, and found him still ill, but mending. And -when he heard you were in town he would give her no peace till she wrote -and asked you to come and see him. And she did not know your address so -she wrote to me. I went to tell papa first, and then I came on here. Oh, -will you come and see Charlie? Bee said he wanted to get into a hansom -and come to you as soon as he heard you were here.” - -“What induced them to talk of me, and why did she tell him I was here?” -Miss Lance cried, with a momentary cloud upon her face, such as Betty -had never seen there before. She sat down suddenly in a chair, with a -pat of her foot upon the carpet, which was almost a stamp of impatience, -and then she read Colonel Kingsward’s note for the second time, with her -brows drawn together and a blackness about her eyes which filled Betty -with alarm and dismay. She looked up, however, next minute with her -countenance cleared. “Your father says I am to use my own discretion,” -she said, with a half laugh; “that is not much help to me, is it, in -deciding what is best to do? So he has been ill--and not in Scotland at -all?” - -“I told you he was not in Scotland,” cried Betty, a little impatient in -her turn. “Oh, Miss Lance, he has been ill, he is still ill, and won’t -you come and see him when he wants you so? Oh, come and see him, please! -He looks so ill and wretched, Bee says, and weak, and cannot get back -his strength; and he thinks if he could see you----” - -“Poor boy--silly boy!” said Miss Lance; “why does he think it will do -him good to see me? I doubt if it would do him any good; and your father -says I am to use my discretion. I would do anything for any of you, -Betty, but perhaps I should do him harm instead of good. Have you got -your sister’s letter?” - -“I left it with papa--that is, he threw it into the waste paper basket,” -said the too truthful Betty, growing red. - -“I understand,” said Miss Lance, “it was not a letter to show me. Bee -has her prejudices, and perhaps she is right. I cannot expect that all -the family should be as nice to me as you. Have they taken him to -Kingswarden? Or where is he, poor boy?” - -“He is at No. 1000, Curzon Street,” Betty said. - -“What!” said Miss Lance. “Where?” Her brow curved over her eyes, her -face grew dark as if the light had gone out of the morning, and she -spoke the two monosyllables in a sharp imperative tone, so that they -seemed to cut like a knife. - -“At No. 1000; Curzon Street,” Betty repeated with great alarm, not -knowing what to think. - -Miss Lance rose quickly, as if there had been something that stung her -in the innocent words. She looked as if she were about to pace the room -from end to end, as Colonel Kingsward did when he was disturbed. But -either she did not mean this, or she restrained herself, for what she -did was to walk to her writing-table and put Colonel Kingsward’s note -away in a drawer, and then she went to the window and looked out, and -said it was a fine morning but dusty for walking--and then she returned -to her chair and sat down again and looked at Betty. She was pale, and -there were lines in her face that had not been there before. Her eyes -were almost piteous as she looked at the surprised girl. - -“I am in a very strait place,” she said, “and I don’t know what to do.” -Something like moisture seemed to come up into her eyes. “This is always -how it happens to me,” she said, “just at the moment, just at the -moment! What am I to do?” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Bee had passed the whole day with Charlie, the Friday of the dinner -party at Portman Square. She had resisted as long as she could writing -the letter which had brought so much excitement to Betty, and the -passion with which he had insisted upon this--the struggle between them, -the vehemence with which he had declared that he cared for nothing in -the world but to see Laura once again, to thank her for having pleaded -for him with his father, to ask her forgiveness for his follies--had -been bad for Charlie, who lay for the rest of the day upon the sofa, -tossing from him one after the other the novels that were provided for -his amusement, declaring them to be “rot” or “rubbish,” growling at his -sister when she continued to speak to him, and reducing poor Bee to that -state of wounded imbecility which is the lot of those who endeavour to -please an unpleasable invalid, with the conviction that all the time -they are doing more harm than good. - -Bee was not maladroit by nature, and she had the warmest desire to be -serviceable to her brother, but it appeared that she always did the -wrong thing, not only in the eyes of Charlie, but in those of the nurse, -who came in from time to time with swift movements, bringing -subordination and quiet where there had been nothing but irritation and -resistance. And in this house, where she had been brought entirely for -the service of Charlie, Bee did not know what to do. She was afraid to -leave the rooms that had been given up to him lest she should meet -someone on the stairs, or be seen only to be avoided, as if her presence -there was that of a ghost or an enemy. Poor Bee--wearing out the long -hours of the spring afternoon with poor attempts to be useful to the -invalid, to watch his looks--which he resented by frequent adjurations -not to watch him as a cat watches a mouse--to anticipate his -wishes--which immediately became the last thing in the world he wanted -as soon as she found out the drink or got the paper for which he was -looking, heard or thought she heard steps coming to the street door, -subdued voices in the hall, comings and goings half stealthily, noises -subdued lest she should hear. What did it matter whether she heard or -not? Why should the master of the house be banished that she, so -ineffectual as she had proved, should be brought to her brother’s side? -She had not done, and could not do, any good to Charlie. All that she -had done had been to remind him of Miss Lance, to be the medium of -calling that disastrous person, who had done all the harm, back into -Charlie’s life--nay, of bringing her back to this house, the inmates of -which she had already harmed to the utmost of her power. - -That was all that had been done by Bee, and now her presence kept at a -distance the one individual in the world who had the best right to be -here. He came almost secretly, she felt sure, to the door in the dusk -to inquire after his patient, or to get his letters; or stole in, -subduing his step, that she might not be disturbed. - -Poor Bee! It was very bitter to her to think that Aubrey Leigh should -leave his own house because she was there. Sometimes she wondered -whether it was some remnant of old, almost-extinguished feeling in his -breast which had made him think that the sight of Bee would do Charlie -good--the sight of Bee, for which her brother did not care at all, not -at all; which was an annoyance and a fatigue to him, except when she had -betrayed what was the last thing in the world she should have betrayed, -the possibility of seeing again that woman who had harmed them all. If -Aubrey had thought so, with some remnant of the old romance, how -mistaken he had been! And it was intolerable for the girl to think that -for the sake of this unsuccessful experiment he had been sent away from -his own house. She placed herself in the corner of the room in which -Charlie (to whom she was supposed to do good and bring pleasure) could -see her least, and bitterness filled her heart. There were times in -which she thought of stealing away, leaving a word for Mrs. Leigh to the -effect that she was doing Charlie no good, and that Betty, who would -come to-morrow, might perhaps be of more use--and returning forlorn to -Kingswarden to renew the life, where perhaps nobody wanted her very -much, but where, at least, there were so many things which she and no -one else was there to do. - -She was still in this depressed state when Mrs. Leigh (who had evidently -gone away that the brother and sister might be alone and happy together) -came back, looking into Charlie’s room to ask how he was on her way -upstairs to dress for dinner. - -“Better,” the nurse said, with her eyebrows. “Peevish--young lady -mustn’t cross him--must be humoured--things not gone quite so well -to-day.” - -“You will tell me about it at dinner,” said Mrs. Leigh, and Bee went -downstairs with a heavy heart to be questioned. Aubrey’s mother looked -cheerful enough; she did not seem to be unhappy about his absence or to -dislike the society of the girl who had driven him away. And she was -very considerate even in her questions about the patient. - -“We must expect these fluctuations,” she said; “you must not be cast -down if you are not quite so triumphantly successful to-day.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Leigh, I am deceiving you. I have never been successful at -all. He did not want me--he doesn’t care for me, and to stay here is -dreadful, upsetting the house--doing no good.” - -“My dear, this is a strange statement to make, and you must not expect -me to believe you in the face of facts. He was much better after seeing -you last night.” - -“Doing no good,” said Bee, shaking her head, “but harm, oh, real harm! -It was not I that did him good, it was telling him of someone, of a -lady. Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how am I to tell you?” - -“My dear child, anything that you yourself know can surely be told to -me. We were afraid that something about a woman was at the bottom of it, -but then that is always the thing that is said, and typhoid, you know, -means bad drains and not a troubled mind--though the one may make you -susceptible to the other. Don’t be so distressed, my dear. It seems more -to your inexperience than it is in reality. He will get over that.” - -“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, very pale, “he has made me write to ask her to -come and see him here.” - -It was now Mrs. Leigh’s turn to change colour. She grew red, looking -astonished in the girl’s despairing face. - -“A woman to come and see him, here! But your brother would never insult -the house and you---- I am talking nonsense,” she said, suddenly -stopping herself, “and misconstruing him altogether. It is some lady who -has jilted him--or something of that kind.” - -Bee had not understood what Mrs. Leigh’s first idea was, and she did not -see any cause for relief in the second. - -“I don’t know what she did to him, or what she has done to them all,” -the girl said, mournfully. “They are all the same. Papa, even, who does -not care very much for ladies, generally---- But Charlie, poor Charlie! -Oh, I believe he is in love with her still, though she is twice as old -as he is and has almost broken his heart. - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Leigh, “this must be something very different to -what we thought. We thought he had got into some very dreadful trouble -about a--an altogether inferior person. But as it seems to be a lady, -and one that is known to the family, and who can be asked to come -here--if you can tell me a little more clearly what the story is, I -shall be more able to give you my advice.” - -Bee looked at her questioner helpless, half distracted, not knowing how -to speak, and yet the story must be told. She had written that fatal -invitation, and it could not be concealed who this possible visitor was. -She began with a great deal of hesitation to talk of the lady whom -Charlie had raved about at Oxford, and how he was to work to please her; -and how he did not work, but failed in every way, and fled from Oxford; -and how her father went to inquire into the story; and how the lady had -come to Colonel Kingsward at the hotel, to explain to him, to excuse -Charlie, to beg his father to forgive him. - -“But, my dear, she can’t be so very bad,” said Mrs. Leigh, soothingly. -“You must not judge her hardly; if she thought she had been to blame in -the matter, that was really the right thing to do.” - -“And since then,” resumed Bee, “I think papa has thought of nobody else; -he writes to her and tells her everything. He goes to see her; he -forgets about Charlie and all of us; he has taken Betty there, and Betty -adores her too. And to-night,” cried Bee, the angry tears coming into -her eyes, “she is dining in Portman Square, dining with the Lyons as a -great friend of ours--in Portman Square.” - -Mrs. Leigh drew Bee to her and gave her a kiss of consolation. I think -it was partly that the girl in her misery should not see the smile, -which Mrs. Leigh, thinking that she now saw through this not uncommon -mystery, could not otherwise conceal. - -“My poor child,” she said, “my dear girl! This is hard upon you since -you dislike her so much, but I am afraid it is quite natural, and a -thing that could not have been guarded against. And then you must -consider that your father may probably be a better judge than yourself. -I don’t see any harm this lady has done, except that perhaps it is not -quite good taste to make herself so agreeable both to the father and -son; but perhaps in Charlie’s case that was not her fault. And I see no -reason, my dear--really and sincerely as your friend, Bee--why you -should be so prejudiced against a poor woman whose only fault is that -everybody else likes her. Now isn’t it a little unreasonable when you -think of it calmly yourself?” - -“Oh, Mrs. Leigh!” Bee cried. The situation was so intolerable, the -passion of injury and misconception so strong in her that she could only -gasp in insupportable anger and dismay. - -“Bee! Bee! this feeling is natural but you must not let it carry you -away. Have you seen her? Let me come in when she is here and give my -opinion.” - -“I have seen her three times,” said Bee, solemnly, “once at the Baths, -and once at the Academy, and once at Oxford;” and then once more -excitement mastered the girl. “Oh, when you know who she is! Don’t -smile, don’t smile, but listen! She is Miss Lance.” - -“Miss Lance!” Mrs. Leigh repeated the name with surprise, looking into -Bee’s face. “You must compose yourself,” she said, “you must compose -yourself. Miss----? My dear, you have got over excited, you have mixed -things up.” - -“No, I am not over-excited! I am telling you only the truth. It is Miss -Lance, and they all believe in her as if she were an angel, and she is -coming here.” - -Mrs. Leigh was very much startled, but yet she would not believe her -ears. She had heard Charlie delirious in his fever not so long ago. Her -mind gave a little leap to the alarming thought that there might be -madness in the family, and that Bee had been seized like her brother. -That what she said was actual fact seemed to her too impossible to be -true. She soothed the excited girl with all her power. “Whoever it is, -my dear, you shall not take any harm. There is nothing to be frightened -about. I will take care of you, whoever it is.” - -“I do not think you believe me,” said Bee. “I am not out of my mind, as -you think. It is Miss Lance--Miss Laura Lance--the same, the very same, -that--and I have written, and she will be coming here.” - -“This is very strange,” said Mrs. Leigh. “It does not seem possible to -believe it. The same--who came between Aubrey and you? Oh, I never meant -to name him, I was never to name him; but how can I help it? Laura, who -was the trouble of his house--who would not leave him--who went to your -father? And now your father! I cannot understand it. I cannot believe -that it is true.” - -“It is true,” said Bee. “But, Mrs. Leigh, you forget that no one cared -then, except myself; they have forgotten all that now, they have -forgotten what happened. It was only my business, it was not their -business. All that has gone from papa; he remembers nothing about it. -And she is a witch, she is a magician, she is a devil--oh, please -forgive me, forgive me--I don’t know what I am saying. It has all been -growing, one thing after another--first me--and then Charlie--and then -papa--and then Betty. And now, after bringing him almost to death and -destruction, here is Charlie, in this house, calling for her, raging -with me till I wrote to call her--me!” cried Bee, with a sort of -indignant eloquence. “Me! Could it go further than that? Could anything -be more than that? Me!--and in this house.” - -“My dear child,” said Mrs. Leigh, “I don’t wonder, I don’t wonder--it is -like something in a tragedy. Oh, Bee! Forgive me for what is first in my -thoughts. Was she the reason, the only reason, for your breach with my -poor Aubrey? For at first you stood by him--and then you turned upon -him.” - -“Do not ask me any more questions, please. I am not able to answer -anything. Isn’t it enough that all these things have happened through -this woman, and that she is coming here?” - -Mrs. Leigh made no further question. She saw that the girl’s excitement -was almost beyond her control, and that her young mind was strained to -its utmost. She said, half to herself, “I must think. I cannot tell in a -moment what to do. I must send for Aubrey. It is his duty and mine to -let it go no further. You must try to compose yourself, my dear, and -trust us. Oh, Bee,” there were tears in her eyes as she came up to the -girl and kissed her, “if you could but have trusted us--in all things! -I don’t think you ever would have repented.” - -But Bee did not make any response. Her hands were cold and her head hot. -She was wrapt in a strange passion and confusion of human chaos and -bewilderment--everything gone wrong--all the elements of life twisted -the perverse way; nothing open, nothing clear. She was incapable of any -simple, unmingled feeling in that confusion and medley of everything -going wrong. - -Mrs. Leigh, a little disappointed, went into the inner room, the little -library, to write a letter--no doubt to consult or summon her son--from -which she was interrupted a few minutes later by a faint call, and Bee’s -white face in the doorway. - -“Mrs. Leigh, papa will come to-morrow, and he will take us away; at -least he will take me away. I--I shan’t be any longer in anyone’s way. -Oh, don’t keep him apart from you--don’t send anyone out of the house -because of me!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -There was a great deal of commotion next morning in the house in -Mayfair. - -Bee was startled by having a tray brought to her bedroom with her -breakfast when she was almost ready to go downstairs. “Mrs. Leigh -thought, Miss, as you had been so tired last night, you might like to -rest a little longer,” said the maid; and Bee divined with a sharp pang -through all the trouble and confusion of her mind that she was not -wanted--that probably Aubrey was coming to consult with his mother what -was to be done. It may be imagined with what scrupulousness she kept -within her room, her pride all up in arms though her heart she thought -was broken. Though the precaution was so natural, though it was taken at -what was supposed to be her desire, at what was really her desire--the -only one she would have expressed--yet she resented it, in the -contradiction and ferment of her being. If Mrs. Leigh supposed that she -wanted to see Aubrey! He was nothing to her, he had no part in her life. -When she had been brought here, against her will, it had been expressly -explained that it was not for Aubrey, that he would rather go away to -the end of the world than disturb her. And she had herself appealed to -his mother--her last action on the previous night--to bring him back, -not to banish him on account of the girl who was nothing to him, and -whose part it was, not his, to go away. All this, however, did not make -it seem less keen a wound to Bee that she should be, so to speak, -imprisoned in her own room, because Aubrey was expected downstairs. She -had never, she declared to herself vehemently, felt at ease under the -roof that was his; nothing but Charlie’s supposed want of her would have -induced her to subject herself to the chances of meeting him, and the -still more appalling chance of being supposed to wish to meet him. And -now this insult of imprisonment in her bedroom, lest she should by any -chance come under his observation, offend his eye!--Bee was -contradictory enough at all times, a rosebud set about with wilful -thorns; but everything was in tumult about her, and all her conditions -nothing but contradictions now. - -Thus it happened that while Betty was setting out with much excitement, -but that all pleasurable, walking lightly among undiscovered dangers, -Bee was suddenly arrested, as she felt, imprisoned in the little room -looking out upon roofs and backs of houses, thrust aside into a corner -that she might not be seen or her presence known--imperceptibly the -force of the description grew as she went on piling up agony upon agony. -It was some time before, in the commotion of her feelings, she could -bring herself to swallow her tea, and then she walked about the room, -gazed out of the window from which, as it was at the back of the house, -she saw nothing, and found the position more and more intolerable every -minute. A prisoner! she who had been brought here against her will, on -pretence that her presence might save her brother’s life, or something -equally grandiose and impossible--save her brother’s life, bring him -back from despair by the sight of some one that he loved. These were the -sort of words that Mrs. Leigh had said. As if it mattered to Charlie one -way or the other what Bee might think or do! As if he were to be -consoled by her, or stimulated, or brought back to life! She had -affected him involuntarily, undesirably, by her betrayal of the vicinity -of that woman, that witch, who had warped his heart and being. But as -for influencing in her own person her brother’s mind or life, Bee knew -she was as little capable as baby, the little tyrant of the nursery. Oh! -how foolish she had been to come at all, to yield to what was said, the -flattering suggestion that she could do so much, when she knew all along -in her inmost consciousness that she could do nothing! The only thing -for her to do now was to go back to the dull life of which in her -impatient foolishness she had grown so weary, the dull life in which she -was indeed of some use after all, where it was clearly her duty to get -the upper hand of baby, to preserve the discipline of the nursery, to -train the little ones, and keep the big boys in order. These were the -elder sister’s duties, with which nobody could interfere--not any -ridiculous, sentimental, exaggerated idea, as Charlie had said, of what -a woman’s ministrations could do. “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease!” -that sort of foolish, foolish, intolerable, ludicrous kind of thing, -which it used to be considered right to say, though people knew better -now. Bee felt bitterly that to say of her that she was a ministering -angel would be irony, contumely, the sort of thing people said when they -laughed at women and their old-fashioned sham pretences. She had never -made any such pretence. She had said from the beginning that Charlie -would care for none of her ministrations. She had been brought here -against her judgment, against her will, and now she was shut up as in a -prison in order that Aubrey might not be embarrassed by the sight of -her! As if she had wished to see Aubrey! As if it had not been on the -assurance that she was not to see Aubrey that she had been beguiled -here! - -When a message came to her that she was to go to her brother, Bee did -not know what to do. It seemed to her that Aubrey might be lurking -somewhere on the stairs, that he might be behind Charlie’s sofa, or -lying in wait on the other side of the curtain, notwithstanding her -offence at the quite contradictory idea that she was imprisoned in her -room to be kept out of his way. These two things were entirely contrary -from each other, yet it was quite possible to entertain and be disturbed -by both in the tumult and confusion of a perverse young mind. She -stepped out of her room as if she were about to fall into an ambush, -notwithstanding that she had been thrilling in every irritated nerve -with the idea of being imprisoned there. - -Charlie had insisted on getting up much earlier than usual. He had not -waited for the doctor’s visit. He was better; well, he said, stimulated -into nervous strength and capability, though his gaunt limbs tottered -under him and his thin hand trembled. When he got into his sitting-room -he flung away all his cushions and wrappings as soon as his nurse left -him and went to the mirror over the mantel-piece and gazed at himself in -the glass, smoothing down and stroking into their right place those -irregular soft tufts growing here and there upon his chin, which he -thought were the beginnings of a beard. - -Would she think it was a beard, that sign of manhood? They were too -downy, fluffy, unenergetic, a foolish kind of growth, like a colt’s, -some long, some short, yet Charlie could not help being proud of them. -He felt that they would come to something in time, and remembered that -he had often heard it said that a beard which never had been shaved -became the finest--in time. Would she think so? or would she laugh and -tell him that this would not do, that he must get himself shaved? - -He would not mind that she should laugh. She might do anything, all she -did was delightful to poor Charlie, and there would be a compliment even -in being told that he must get shaved. Charlie had stroked his upper lip -occasionally with a razor, but it had never been necessary to suggest to -him that he should get shaved before. - -He had to be put back upon his sofa when nurse re-appeared, but he only -remained there for the time, promising no permanent obedience. When -Laura came he certainly should not receive her there. - -“When did your letter go? When would Betty receive it?” he said, when -Bee, breathless and pale, at last, under nurse’s escort, was brought -downstairs. - -“She must have got it last night. But there was a dinner party,” said -Bee, after a pause, “last night at Portman Square.” - -“What do I care for their dinner parties? I suppose the postman would go -all the same.” - -“But Betty could not do anything till this morning.” - -“No,” said Charlie, “I suppose not. She would be too much taken up with -her ridiculous dress and what she was to wear”--the knowledge of a young -man who had sisters, pierced through even his indignation--“or with some -nonsense about Gerald Lyon--that fellow! And to think,” he said, in an -outburst of high, moral indignation “that one’s fate should be at the -mercy of a little thing like Betty, or what she might say or do!” - -“Betty is not so much younger than we are; to be sure,” said Bee, with -reflective sadness, “she has never had anything to make her think of all -the troubles that are in the world.” - -Charlie turned upon her with scorn. - -“And what have you had to make you think, and what do you suppose you -know? A girl, always protected by everybody, kept out of the battle, -never allowed to feel the air on your cheek! I must tell you, Bee, that -your setting yourself up for knowing things is the most ridiculous -exhibition in the world.” - -Bee’s wounded soul could not find any words. She kept out of the battle! -She setting up for knowing things! And what was his knowledge in -comparison with hers? He had but been deluded like the rest by a woman -whom Bee had always seen through, and never, never put any faith in; -whereas she had lost what was most dear, all her individual hopes and -prospects, and been obliged to sacrifice what she knew would be the only -love of her life. - -She looked at Charlie with eyes that were full of unutterable things. -He was reckless with hope and expectation, self-deceived, thinking that -all was coming right again; whereas Bee knew that things would never -more be right with her. And yet he presumed to say that she knew -nothing, and that to think she had suffered was a mere pretence! “How -little, how little,” Bee thought, “other people know.” - -The house seemed full that morning of sounds and commotions, unlike -ordinary times. There were sounds of ringing bells, of doors opened and -shut, of voices downstairs. Once both Charlie and Bee held their breath, -thinking the moment had come, for a carriage stopped at the door, there -was the sound of a noisy summons, and then steps coming upstairs. - -Alas! it was nothing but the doctor, who came in, ushered by nurse, but -not until she had held a private conference with him, keeping them both -in the most tremendous suspense in the bedroom. It is true this was a -thing which happened every morning, but they had both forgotten that in -the tension of highly-wrought feeling. - -And when the doctor came he shook his head. “There has been too much -going on here,” he said. “You have been doing too much or talking too -much. Miss Kingsward, you helped us greatly with our patient yesterday, -but I am afraid you have been going too far, you have hurried him too -much. We dare not press recovery at railway speed after so serious an -illness as this.” - -“Oh, I have not wished to do so,” said Bee. “It is some friends that we -are expecting.” - -“Friends? I never said he was to see friends,” the doctor said. - -“Come doctor,” said Charlie, “you must not be too hard upon me. -It’s--it’s my father and sister that are coming.” - -“Your father and sister are different, but not too much even of them. -Recollect, nurse, what I say, not too much even of the nearest and -dearest. The machinery has been too much out of gear to come round all -in a moment. And, Miss Kingsward, you are pale, too. You had better go -out a little and take the air. There must not be too much conversation, -not too much reading either. I must have quiet, perfect quiet.” - -“Am I to do nothing but think?” said Charlie. “Is that the best thing -for a fellow to do that has missed his schools and lost his time?” - -“Be thankful that you are at a time of life when the loss of a few weeks -doesn’t matter, and don’t think,” said the doctor, “or we shall have to -stop even the father and sister, and send you to bed again. Be -reasonable, be reasonable. A few days’ quiet and you will be out of my -hands.” - -“Oh, Charlie, then you have given up seeing anyone else,” said Bee, with -a cry of relief as the doctor, attended by the nurse, went downstairs. - -“I have done nothing of the kind,” he cried, jumping up from the sofa -and going to the window. “And you had better tell that woman to go out -for a walk and that you will look after me. Do you think when Laura -comes that I will not see her if fifty doctors were to interfere? But if -you want to save me a little you will send that woman out of the way. It -is the worry and being contradicted that does me harm.” - -“How can I, Charlie--oh, how can I, in the face of what the doctor -said?” - -He turned back upon her flaming with feverish rage and excitement. - -“If you don’t I’ll go out. I’ll have a cab called, and get away from -this prison,” he cried. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I shall -see her if I die for it.” - -“Perhaps,” said Bee to herself, trembling, “she will not come. Oh! -perhaps she will not come!” But she felt that this was a very forlorn -hope, and when the nurse came back the poor girl, faltering and ill at -ease, obeyed the peremptory signs and frowns of Charlie, once more -established on the sofa and seeming to take no part in the negotiation. - -“Nurse, I have been thinking,” said Bee, with that talent for the -circumstantial which women have, even when acting against their will, -“that you have far more need of a walk and a little fresh air than I -have, who have only been here for a day, and that if you will tell me -exactly what to do, I could take care of him while you go out a little.” - -“Shouldn’t think of leaving him,” said nurse, with her eyebrows working -as usual and a mocking smile about her lips. “Too much talk; doctor not -pleased.” - -“But if I promise not to talk? I shall not talk. You don’t want to talk, -do you, Charlie?” - -Charlie launched a missile at her in his ingratitude, over his shoulder. -“Not with you,” he said. - -“You hear?” cried Bee, now intent upon gaining her point, and terrified -lest other visitors might arrive before this matter were decided; “we -shall not talk, and I will do all you tell me. Oh, only tell me what I -am to do.” - -“Nothing to do,” said the nurse, “not for the next hour; nothing, but -keep him quiet. Well, if you think you can undertake that, just for half -an hour--” - -“I will--I will--for as long as you please,” cried Bee. It was better, -indeed, if there must be this interview with Laura, that there should be -as few spectators as possible. She hurried the woman away with -eagerness, though she had been alarmed at the first suggestion. But when -she was alone with him, and nobody to stand by her, thinking at every -sound she heard that this was the dreaded arrival, Bee crept close to -him with a sudden panic of terror and dismay. - -“Oh, Charlie, don’t listen to her, don’t believe her; oh, don’t be led -astray by her again! I have done what you told me, but I oughtn’t to -have done it. Oh, Charlie, stand fast, whatever she says, and don’t be -led astray by her again.” - -The only sign of Charlie’s gratitude that Bee received was to be hastily -pushed away by his shoulder. “You little fool, what do you know about -it?” her brother said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -But the nurse went out for her walk and came in again and nothing -happened, and Charlie had his invalid dinner, which in his excitement he -could not eat, and Bee was called downstairs to luncheon, and yet nobody -came. The luncheon was a terrible ordeal for Bee. She attempted to eat, -with an eye on the window, to watch for the arrival of the visitors, and -an ear upon the subdued sounds of the house, through which she seemed to -hear the distant step, the distant voice of someone whose presence was -not acknowledged. She repeated with eagerness her little speech of the -night before. “Something must have detained papa,” she said, “I cannot -understand it, but he is sure to come, and he will take me away.” - -“I don’t want you to be taken away, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I should -not let you go if I could help it.” - -“Oh, but I must, I must,” said Bee, trembling and agitated. She could -not eat anything, any more than Charlie, and when the nurse came -downstairs, indignantly carrying the tray from which scarcely anything -had been taken, Bee could make no reply to her remonstrances. “The young -lady had better not come upstairs again,” said nurse; “she has done him -more harm than good, he will have a relapse if we don’t mind. It is as -much as my character is worth.” She talked like other people when there -was no patient present, and she was genuinely afraid. - -“What are we to do?” said Mrs. Leigh. “If this lady comes he ought not -to see her! But perhaps she will not come.” - -“That is what I have hoped,” said Bee, “but if she doesn’t come he will -go out, he will get to her somehow; he will kill himself with -struggling----” - -At the suggestion of going out the nurse gave a shriek and thrust her -tray into the servant’s hands who was waiting. “He will have to kill me -first,” she said, rushing away. - -And immediately upon this scene came Betty, fresh and shining in her -white frock, with a smile like a little sunbeam, who announced at once -that Miss Lance was coming. - -“How is Charlie?” said Betty. “Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how good you have been! -Papa is coming himself to thank you. What a trouble it must have been to -have him ill here all the time. Mrs. Lyon, whom I am staying with, -thinks it so wonderful of you--so kind, so kind! And Bee, _she_ is -coming, though it is rather a hard thing for her to do. She says you -will not like to see her, Mrs. Leigh, and that it will be an intrusion -upon you; but I said when you had been so good to poor Charlie all -along, you would not be angry that she should come who is such a -friend.” - -“Any friend, of course, of Colonel Kingsward’s----” Mrs. Leigh said -stiffly, while little Betty stared. She thought they all looked very -strange; the old lady so stiff, and Bee turning red and turning white, -and a general air as if something had gone wrong. - -“Is Charlie worse?” she said, with an anxious look. - -And then Bee was suddenly called upstairs. “Can’t manage him any -longer,” the nurse said on the landing. “I wash my hands of it. Your -fault if he has a relapse.” - -“Who is that?” said Charlie, from within, “Who is it? I will see her! -Nobody shall interfere, no one--doctor, or nurse, or--the devil himself. -Bee!” - -“It is only Betty,” said Bee, upon which Charlie ceased his raging and -flung himself again on his sofa. - -“You want to torment me; you want to wear me out; you want to kill me,” -he said, with tears of keen disappointment in his eyes. - -“Charlie,” said Bee, “she is coming. Betty is here to say so; she is -coming in about an hour or so. If you will eat your dinner and lie quite -quiet and compose yourself you will be allowed to see her, and nurse -will not object.” - -“Oh, Miss Kingsward, don’t answer for me. It is as much as his life is -worth.” - -“But not unless you eat your dinner and keep perfectly quiet.” - -“Give us that old dinner,” said Charlie, with a loud, unsteady laugh, -and the tray was brought back and he performed his duty upon the -half-cold dishes with an expedition and exuberance that gave nurse new -apprehensions. - -“He’ll have indigestion,” she said, “if he gobbles like that,” speaking -once more inaudibly over Charlie’s shoulder. But afterwards all was -quiet till the fated moment came. - -I do not think if these girls had known the feelings that were within -Miss Lance’s breast that they would have been able to retain their -respective feelings towards her--Betty of adoration or Bee of hostility. -She had lived a life of adventure, and she had come already on various -occasions to the very eve of such a settled condition of life as would -have made further adventure unnecessary and impossible--but something -had always come in the way. Something so often comes in the way of such -a career. The stolid people who are incapable of any skilful -combinations go on and prosper, while those who have wasted so much -cleverness or much wit, so much trouble--and disturbed the lives of -others and risked their own--fail just at the moment of success. I am -sometimes very sorry for the poor adventurers. Miss Lance went to Curzon -Street with all her wits painfully about her, knowing that she was about -to stand for her life. It seemed the most extraordinary spite of fate -that this should have happened in the house of Aubrey Leigh. She would -have had in any case a disagreeable moment enough between Charlie -Kingsward and his father, but it was too much to have the other brought -in. The man whom she had so wronged, the family (for she knew that his -mother was there also) who knew all about her, who could tell -everything, and stop her on the very threshold of the new life--that new -life in which there would be no equivocal circumstances, nothing that -she could be reproached with, only duty and kindness. So often she -seemed to have been just within sight of that halcyon spot where she -would need to scheme no more, where duty and every virtuous thing would -be natural and easy. Was the failure to come all over again? - -She was little more than an adventuress, this troubled woman, and yet it -was not without something of the exalted feeling of one who is about to -stand for his life, for emancipation and freedom to do well and all that -is best in existence, that she walked through the streets towards her -fate. Truth alone was possible with the Leighs, who knew everything -about her past, and could not be persuaded or turned from their -certainty by any explanations. But poor Charlie! Bare truth was not -possible with him, whom she had sacrificed lightly to the amusement of -the moment, whom she could never have married or made the instrument of -building up her fortune except in the way which, to do her justice she -had not foreseen, through the access he had given her to his father. How -was she to satisfy that foolish, hot-headed boy?--and how to stop the -mouths of the others in the background?--and how to persuade Colonel -Kingsward that circumstances alone were against her--that she herself -was not to blame? She did not conceal from herself any of these -difficulties, but she was too brave a woman to fly before them. She -preferred to walk, and to walk alone, to this trial which awaited her, -in order to subdue her nerves and get the aid of the fresh air and -solitude to steady her being. She was going to stand for her life. - -It seemed a good augury that she was allowed to enter the house without -any interruption from the sitting-room below, where she had the -conviction that her worst opponents were lying in wait. She thought even -that she had been able to distinguish the white cap and shawl of Mrs. -Leigh through the window, but it was Betty who met her in the hall--met -her with a kiss and expression of delight. - -“Oh, I am so glad you have come,” said Betty, “he is so eager to see -you.” The people in ambush in the ground floor rooms must have heard the -exclamation, but they made no sign. At the door upstairs they were met -by the nurse, excited and laconic, speaking without any sound. - -“No worry--don’t contradict. Much as life is worth,” she said, with -emphatic, silent lips. Miss Lance, so composed, so perfect in her -manner, so wound up to everything, laughed a little--she was so -natural!--and nodded her head. And then she went in. - -Charlie on the sofa was of course the chief figure. But he had jumped -up, flinging his wrappings about, and stood in his gaunt and tremulous -length, with his big hollow eyes and his ragged little beard, and his -hands stretched out. “At last!” he said, “at last---- Laura!” stumbling -in his weakness as he advanced to her. Bee was standing up straight -against the window in the furthest corner of the room, not making a -movement. How real, how natural, how completely herself and ready for -any emergency this visitor was! She took Charlie’s hands in hers, -supporting him with that firm hold, and put him back upon his couch. - -“Now,” she said, “the conditions of my visit are these: perfect quiet -and obedience, and no excitement. If you rebel in any way I shall go. I -know what nursing is, and I know what common-sense is--and I came here -to help you, not to harm you. Move a toe or finger more than you ought, -and I shall go!” - -“I will not move, not an eyelid if you tell me not. I want to do nothing -but look at you. Laura! oh, Laura! I have been dead, and now I am alive -again,” Charlie said. - -“Ill or well,” said Miss Lance, arranging his cushions with great skill, -“you are a foolish, absurd boy. Partly it belongs to your age and partly -to your temperament. I should not have considered you like your father -at the first glance, but you are like him. Now, perfect quiet. Consider -that your grandmother has come to see you, and that it does not suit the -old lady to have her mind disturbed.” - -He had seized her hand and was kissing it over and over again. Miss -Lance took those caresses very quietly, but after a minute she withdrew -her hand. “Now, tell me all about it,” she said; “you went off in such a -commotion--so angry with me--” - -“Never angry,” he said, “but miserable, oh, more miserable--too -miserable for words. I thought that you had cut me off for ever.” - -“You were right so far as your foolish ideas of that moment went, but I -hope you have learnt better since, and now tell me what did you do? I -hoped you had gone home, and then that you had gone to Scotland, and -then--. What did you do?” - -“I don’t know,” said Charlie, “I can’t tell you. I suppose I must have -been ill then. I came up to town, but I don’t know what I did. And I was -brought here, and I’ve been ill ever since, and couldn’t seem to get -better until I heard you had been speaking for me. _You_ speaking for -me, Laura! Thinking of me a little, trying to bring me back to life. -I’ll come back to life, dear, for you--anything, Laura, for you!” - -“My dear boy, it is a pity you should not have a better reason,” she -said. The two girls had not gone away. Betty had retired to the corner -where Bee was, and they stood close together holding each other, ashamed -and scornful beyond expression of Charlie’s abandonment. Even Betty, who -was almost as much in love with Miss Lance as Charlie was, was ashamed -to hear him “going on” in this ridiculous way. What Miss Lance felt to -have these words of devotion addressed to her in the presence of two -such listeners I will not say. She was acutely sensible of their -presence, and of what they were thinking, but she did not shrink from -the ordeal. “And you must not call me Laura,” she said, “unless you can -make it Aunt Laura, or Grandmother Laura, which are titles I shouldn’t -object to. Anything else would be ridiculous between you and me.” - -“Laura!” the young man said, raising himself quickly. - -“Say Aunt Laura, my dear, and if you move another inch I will go away!” - -“You are crushing me,” he cried, “you are driving me to despair!” - -“Dear Charlie,” said Miss Lance, “all this, you know, is very great -nonsense--between you and me; I have told you so all along. Now things -have really become too serious to go on. I want to be kind to you, to -help you to get well, and to see as much of you as possible; for you are -a dear boy and I am fond of you. But this can’t be unless you will see -things in their true light and acknowledge the real state of affairs. I -am most willing and ready to be your friend, to be a mother to you. But -anything else is ridiculous. Do you hear me, Charlie?--ridiculous! You -don’t want to be laughed at, and you don’t want me to be laughed at, I -suppose?” She took his hands with which he had covered his face and held -them in hers. “Now, no nonsense, Charlie. Be a man! Will you have me for -your friend, always ready to do anything for you, or will you have -nothing to do with me? Come! I might be your mother, I have always told -you so. And look here,” she said, with a tone of genuine passion in her -voice and a half turn of her flexible figure towards the two girls, “I’m -worth having for a mother; whatever you may think in your cruel youth, I -am, I am!” Surely this was to them and not to him. The movement, the -accent, was momentary. Her voice changed again into the softness of a -caress. “Charlie, my dear boy, don’t make me ridiculous, don’t make -people laugh at me. They call me an old witch, trying to entrap a young -man. Will you let people--nay, will you _make_ people call me so?” - -“_I_ make anyone call you--anything but what you are!” he cried. -“Nobody would dare,” said the unfortunate fellow, “to do anything but -revere you and admire you so long as I was there.” - -“And then break out laughing the moment your back was turned,” she said. -“‘What a hold the old hag has got upon him!’ is what they would say. And -it would be quite true. Not that I am an old hag. No, I don’t think I am -that, I am worse. I’m a very well preserved woman of my years. I’ve -taken great care of myself to keep up what are called my personal -advantages. I have never wished--I don’t wish now--to be thought older -than I am, or ugly. I am just old enough--to be your mother, Charlie, if -I had married young, as your mother did----” - -He drew his hands out of her cool and firm grasp, and once more covered -his face with them. “Don’t torture me,” he cried. - -“No, my dear boy, I don’t want to torture you, but you must not make me, -nor yourself--whom I am proud of--ridiculous. I am going probably--for -nothing is certain till it happens,” she said, with a mournful tone in -her voice, slightly shaking her head, “and you may perhaps help to balk -me--I am probably going to make a match with a reasonable person suited -to my age.” - -Poor Charlie started up, his hands fell from his face, his large -miserable eyes were fixed upon hers. “And you come--you come--to tell me -this!” he cried. - -“It will be partly for you--to show how impossible your folly is--but -most for myself, to secure my own happiness.” She said these words very -slowly, one by one--“To secure my own happiness. Have I not the right to -do that, because a young man, who should have been my son, has taken it -into his foolish head to form other ideas of me? You would rather make -me ridiculous and wretched than consider my dignity, my welfare, my -happiness--and this is what you call love!” she said. - -The girls listened to this conversation with feelings impossible to put -into words, not knowing what to think. One of them loved the woman and -the other hated her; they were equally overwhelmed in their young and -simple ideas. She seemed to be speaking a language new to them, and to -have risen into a region which they had never known. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -She left Charlie’s room, having soothed him and reduced him to quiet in -this inconceivable way, with a smile on her face and the look of one who -was perfectly mistress of the situation. But when she had gone down -half-a-dozen steps and reached the landing, she stood still and leaned -against the wall, clasping her hands tight as if there was something in -them to hold by. She had carried through this part of her ordeal with a -high hand. She had made it look the kindest yet the most decisive -interview in the world, crushing the foolish young heart, without -remorse, yet tenderly, kindly, with such a force of sense and reason as -could not be resisted--and all so naturally, with so much apparent ease, -as if it cost her nothing. But she was after all, merely a woman, and -she knew that only half, nay, not half, not the worst half of her trial -was over. She lay back against the wall, having nothing else to rest -upon, and closed her eyes for a moment. The two girls had followed her -instinctively out of Charlie’s room, and stood on the stairs one above -the other, gazing at her. The long lines of her figure seemed to relax, -as if she might have fallen, and in their wonder and ignorance they -might still have stood by and looked on letting her fall, without -knowing what to do. But she did not do so. The corner of the walls -supported her as if they had made a couch for her, and presently she -opened her eyes with a vague smile at Betty, who was foremost. “I was -tired,” she said, and then, “it isn’t easy”--drawing a long breath. - -At this moment the trim figure of Mrs. Leigh’s maid appeared on the -stairs below, so commonplace, so trim, so neat, the little apparition of -ordinary life which glides through every tragedy, lifting its everyday -voice in announcements of dinner, in inquiries about tea, in all the -nothings of routine, in the midst of all tumults of misery and passion. -“If you please, madam--my lady would be glad if you would step into the -dining-room,” she said. - -Miss Lance raised herself in a moment from that half-recumbent position -against the wall. She recovered herself, got back her colour and the -brightness of her eyes, and that look of being perfectly natural, at her -ease, unstrained, spontaneous, which she had shown throughout the -interview with Charlie. “Certainly,” she said. There did not seem to be -time for the twinkling of an eyelid between the one mood and the other. -She required no preparation or interval to pull herself together. She -looked at the two sisters as if to call them to follow her, and then -walked quietly downstairs to be tried for her life--like a martyr--oh, -no, for she was not a martyr, but a criminal. She had no confidence of -innocence about her. She knew what indictment was about to be brought -against her, and she knew it was true. This knowledge, however, gives a -certain strength. It gives courage such as the innocent who do not know -what charge may be brought against them or how to meet it, do not -possess. She had rehearsed the scene. She knew what she was going to be -accused of, and had thought over, and set in order, all the pleas. She -knew exactly what she had done and what she had not, which was a tower -of strength to her, and she knew that on her power of fighting it out -depended her life. It is difficult altogether to deny our sympathy to a -brave creature fighting for bare life. However guilty he may be, human -nature takes sides with him, hopes in the face of all justice that there -may be a loophole of escape. Even Bee, coming slowly downstairs after -her, already thrown into a curious tumult of feeling by that scene in -Charlie’s room, began to feel her breath quicken with excitement even in -the hostility of her heart. - -There was one thing that Miss Lance had not foreseen, and that burst -upon her at once when the maid opened the door--Colonel Kingsward, -standing with his arm upon the mantel-piece and his countenance as if -turned to stone. The shock which this sight gave her was very difficult -to overcome or conceal, it struck her with a sudden dart as of despair; -her impulse was to fling down her arms, to acknowledge herself -vanquished, and to retreat, a defeated and ruined adventuress, but she -was too brave and unalterably by nature too sanguine to do this. She -gave him a nod and a smile, to which he scarcely responded, as she went -towards Mrs. Leigh. - -“How strange,” she said, “when I come to see a new friend to find so old -a friend! I wondered if it could be Mr. Leigh’s house, but I was not -sure--of the number.” - -“I am afraid I cannot say I am glad to see you, Laura,” said Mrs. Leigh. - -“No? Perhaps it would have been too much to expect. We were, so to -speak, on different sides. Poor Amy, I know, was never satisfactory to -you, and I don’t wonder. Of course you only thought of me as her -friend.” - -“If that were all!” Mrs. Leigh said. - -“Was there more than that? May I sit down? I have had a long walk, and -rather an exhaustive interview--and I did not expect to be put on my -trial. But it is always best to know what one is accused of. I think it -quite natural--quite natural that you should not like me, Mrs. Leigh. I -was Amy’s friend and she was trying to you. She put me in a very false -position which I ought never to have accepted. But yet--I understand -your attitude, and I submit to it with respect--but, pardon -me--sincerely, I don’t know what there was more.” - -Miss Lance had taken a chair, a perfectly upright one, on which few -people could have sat gracefully. She made it evident that it was mere -fatigue which made her subside upon it momentarily, and lifted her fine -head and limpid eyes with so candid and respectful an air towards Mrs. -Leigh’s comfortable, unheroic face, that no contrast of the oppressed -and oppressor could have been more marked. If anyone had suffered in the -matter between these two ladies, it certainly was not the one with the -rosy countenance and round, well-filled-out figure; or so, at least, any -impartial observer certainly would have felt. - -Mrs. Leigh, for her part, was almost speechless with excitement and -anger. She had intended to keep perfectly calm, but the look, the tone, -the appearance of this personage altogether, brought before her -overpoweringly many past scenes--scenes in which, to tell the truth, -Miss Lance had not been always in the wrong, in which the other figure, -now altogether disappeared, of Aubrey’s wife was the foremost, an -immovable gentle-mannered fool, with whom all reason and argument were -unavailing, whom everybody had believed to be inspired by the companion -to whom she clung. All Amy’s faults had been bound upon Laura’s -shoulders, but this was not altogether deserved, and Miss Lance did not -shrink from anything that could be said on that subject. It required -more courage to say, “Was there anything more?” - -“More!” cried Mrs. Leigh, choking with the remembrance. “More! My boy’s -house was made unsafe for him, it was made miserable to him, he was -involved in every kind of danger and scandal, and she asks me if there -was more?” - -“Poor Amy,” said Miss Lance, with a little pause on the name, shaking -her head gently in compassion and regret. “Poor Amy put me in a very -false position. I have already said so, I ought not to have accepted it, -I ought not to have promised; but it was so difficult to refuse a -promise to the dying. Let Colonel Kingsward judge. She was very unwise, -but she had been my friend from infancy and clung to me more, much more -than I wished. She exacted a promise from me on her death-bed that I -would never leave her child--which was folly, and, perhaps more than -folly, so far, at least, as I was concerned. You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward,” she added, steadfastly regarding him. He had kept his head -turned away, not looking at her, but this gaze compelled him against his -will to shift his position, to turn towards the appellant who made him -the judge. He still kept his eyes away, but his head turned by an -attraction which he could not withstand. “You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward--that I was the person who suffered most,” Miss Lance said -after that pause, “compelled to stay in a house where I had never been -welcome, except to poor Amy, who was dead; a sort of guardian, a sort of -nurse, and yet with none of their rights, held fast by a promise which -I had given against my will, and which I never ceased to regret. You are -a man, Colonel Kingsward, but you have more understanding of a woman’s -feelings than any I know. My position was a false one, it was cruel--but -I was bound by my word.” - -“No one ought to have given such a promise,” he said, coldly, with -averted eyes. - -“You are always right, I ought not to have done so; but she was dying, -and I was fond of her, poor girl, though she was foolish--it is not -always the wisest people one loves most--fond of her, very fond of her, -and of her poor little child.” - -The tears came to Miss Lance’s eyes. She shook her head a little as if -to shake them from her eyelashes. “Why should I cry? They have been so -long happy, happier far than we----” - -Mrs. Leigh, the prosecutor, the accuser, gave a gulp, a sob; the child -was her grandchild, her only one--and besides anger in a woman is as -prone to tears as sorrow. She gave a stifled cry, “I don’t deny you -were good to the child; oh, Laura, I could have forgiven you -everything! But not--not----” - -“What?” Miss Lance said. - -Mrs. Leigh seized upon Bee by the arm and drew her forward--Aubrey’s -mother wanted words, she wanted eloquence, her arguments had to be -pointed by fact. She took Bee, who had been standing in proud yet -excited spectatorship, and held her by her own side. “Aubrey,” she said, -almost inarticulately, and stopped to recover her breath--“Aubrey--whom -you had driven from his home--found at last this dear girl, this nice, -good girl, who would have made him a new life. But you interfered, you -wrote to her father, you went--I don’t know what you did--and said you -had a claim, a prior claim. If you appeal to Colonel Kingsward, he is -the best judge. You went to him----” - -“Not to me, I was not aware, I never even saw Miss Lance till long -after; forgive me for interrupting you.” - -Miss Lance turned towards him again with that full look of faith and -confidence. “Always just!” she said. And this time for a tremulous -moment their eyes met. He turned his away again hastily, but he had -received that touch; an indefinable wavering came over his aspect of -iron. - -“Yes,” she said, “I do not deny it--it is quite true. Shall I now -explain before every one who is here? I think,” she added, after a -moment, “that my little Betty, who has nothing particular to do with it, -may run away.” - -“I!” said Betty, clinging to the back of a chair. - -“Go,” said her father, impatiently, “go!” - -“Yes, my dear, run away. Charlie must want some one. He will have got -over me a little, and he will want some one. Dear little Betty, run -away!” - -Miss Lance rose from her seat--probably that too was a relief to -her--and, with a smile and a kiss, turned Betty out of the room. She -came back then and sat down again. It gained a little time, and she was -at a crisis harder than she had ever faced before. She had gained a -moment to think, but even now she was not sure what way there was out of -this strait, the most momentous in which she had ever been. She looked -round her at one after another with a look that seemed as secure and -confident, as easy and natural, as before; but her brain was working at -the most tremendous rate, looking for some clue, some indication. She -looked round as with a pause of conscious power, and then her gaze fixed -itself on Bee. Bee stood near Mrs. Leigh’s chair. She was standing firm -but tremulous, a deeply concerned spectator, but there was on her face -nothing of the eager attention with which a girl would listen to an -explanation about her lover. She was not more interested than she had -been before, not so much so as when Charlie was in question. When Mrs. -Leigh, in her indictment, said, “You interfered,” Bee had made a faint, -almost imperceptible movement of her head. The mind works very quickly -when its fate hangs on the balance of a minute, and now, suddenly, the -culprit arraigned before these terrible judges saw her way. - -“I interfered,” Miss Lance said, slowly, “but not because of any prior -claim;”--she paused again for a moment--“that would have been as absurd -as in the case Colonel Kingsward knows of. I interfered--because I had -other reasons for believing that Aubrey Leigh was not the man to marry a -dear, good, nice girl.” - -“You had--other reasons, Laura! Mind what you are saying--you will have -to prove your words,” cried Mrs. Leigh, rising in her wrath, with an -astonished and threatening face. - -“I do not ask his mother to believe me. It is before Colonel Kingsward,” -said Miss Lance, “that I stand or fall.” - -“Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out! You know it was because she -claimed my son--she, a woman twice his age; and now she pretends---- -Make her speak out! How dare you? You said he had promised to marry -you--that he was bound to you. Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out!” - -“That was what I understood,” he said, looking out of the window, his -head turned half towards the other speakers, but not venturing to look -at them. “I did not see Miss Lance, but that was what I understood.” - -Laura sat firm, as if she were made of marble, but almost as pale. Her -nerves were so highly strung that if she had for a moment relaxed their -tension, she would have fallen to the ground. She sat like a rock, -holding herself together with the strong grasp of her clasped hands. - -“You hear, you hear! You are convicted out of your own mouth. Oh, you -are cruel, you are wicked, Laura Lance! If you have anything to say -speak out, speak out!” - -“I will say nothing,” said Miss Lance. “I will leave another, a better -witness, to say it for me. Colonel Kingsward, ask your daughter if it -was because of my prior claim, as his mother calls it, that she broke -off her engagement with Aubrey Leigh.” - -Colonel Kingsward turned, surprised, to his daughter, who, roused by the -sound of her own name, looked up quickly--first at the seemingly -composed and serious woman opposite to her, then at her father. He spoke -to her angrily, abruptly. - -“Do you hear? Answer the question that is put to you. Was it because of -this lady, or any claim of hers, that you--how shall I say it?--a girl -like you had no right to decide one way or the other--that you broke -off--that your mind was changed towards Mr. Aubrey Leigh?” - -It appeared to Bee suddenly as if she had become the culprit, and all -eyes were fixed on her. She trembled, looking at them all. What had she -done? She was surely unhappy enough, wretched enough, a clandestine -visitor, keeping Aubrey out of his own house, and what had she to do -with Aubrey? Nothing, nothing! Nor he with her--that her heart should -now be snatched out of her bosom publicly in respect to him. - -“That is long past,” she said, faltering, “it is an old story. Mr. -Aubrey Leigh is--a stranger to me; it is of no consequence--now!” - -“Bee,” her father thundered at her, “answer the question! Was it because -of--this lady that you changed your mind?” - -Colonel Kingsward had always the art, somehow, of kindling the blaze of -opposition in the blue eyes which were so like his own. She looked at -him almost fiercely in reply, fully roused. - -“No!” she said, “no! It was not because of--that lady. It was -another--reason of my own.” - -“What was your reason?” cried Mrs. Leigh. “Oh, Bee, speak! What was it, -what was it? Tell me, tell me, my dear, what was your reason? that I may -prove to you it was not true.” - -“Had it anything to do with--this lady?” asked Colonel Kingsward once -more. - -“I never spoke to that lady but once,” cried Bee, almost violently. “I -don’t know her; I don’t want to know her. She has nothing to do with it. -It was because of something quite different, something that we -heard--I--and mamma.” - -Miss Lance looked at him with a smile on her face, loosing the grip of -her hands, spreading them out in demonstration of her acquittal. She -rose up slowly, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. She allowed it to -be seen for the first time how she was shaken with emotion. - -“You have heard,” she said, “a witness you trust more than me--if I put -myself into the breach to secure a pause, it was only such a piece of -folly as I have done before. I hope now that you will let me withdraw. -I am dreadfully tired, I am not fit for any more.” - -She looked with that appeal upon her face, first at one of her judges, -then at the other. “If you are satisfied, let me go.” It seemed as if -she could not say a word more. They made no response, but she did not -wait for that. “I take it for granted,” she added, “that by that child’s -mouth I am cleared,” and then she turned towards the door. - -Colonel Kingsward, with a little start, came from his place by the -mantel-piece and opened it for her, as he would have done for any woman. -She let it appear that this movement was unexpected, and went to her -heart; she paused a moment looking up at him--her eyes swimming in -tears, her mouth quivering. - -“How kind you are!” she said, “even though you don’t believe in me any -more! but I have done all I can. I am very tired, scarcely able to -walk.” He stood rigid, and made no sign, and she, looking at him, softly -shook her head--“Let me see you at least once,” she said, very low, in a -pleading tone, “this evening, some time?” - -Still he gave no answer, standing like a man of iron, holding the door -open. She gave him another look, and then walked quietly, but with a -slight quiver and half stumble, away. They all stood watching until her -tall figure was seen to pass the window, disappearing in the street, -which is the outer world. - -“Colonel Kingsward--” said Mrs. Leigh. - -He started at the sound of his name, as if he had but just awakened out -of a dream, and began to smooth his hat, which all this time he had held -in his hands. - -“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me, another time. I have some pressing -business to see to now.” - -And he, too, disappeared into that street which led both ways, into the -monotony of London, which is the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Those who were left behind were not very careful of what Colonel -Kingsward did. They were not thinking of his concerns; in the strain of -personal feeling the most generous of human creatures is forced to think -first of their own. Neither of the women who were left in the room had -any time to consider the matter, but if they had they would have made -sure without hesitation that nothing which could happen to Colonel -Kingsward could be half so important as that crisis in which his -daughter was involved. - -Mrs. Leigh turned round upon the girl by her side and seized her hands. -“Bee,” she cried, “now we are alone and we can speak freely. Tell me -what it was, there is nobody here to frighten you, to take the words -from your mouth. What was it, what was it that made you turn from -Aubrey? At last, at last, it can be cleared up whatever it was.” - -Bee turned away, trying to disengage her hands. “It is of no -consequence,” she said, “Oh, don’t make me go back to those old, old -things. What does it matter to Mr. Leigh? And as for me----” - -“It matters everything to Aubrey. He will be able to clear himself if -you will give him the chance. How could he clear himself when he was -never allowed to speak, when he did not know? Bee, in justice, in mere -justice! What was it? You said your mother----” - -“Yes, I had her then. We heard it together, and she felt it like me. But -we had no time to talk of it after, for she was ill. If you would please -not ask me, Mrs. Leigh! I was very miserable--mother dying, and nowhere, -nowhere in all the world anything to trust to. Don’t, oh! don’t make me -go back upon it! I am not--so very--happy, even now!” - -The girl would not let herself be drawn into Mrs. Leigh’s arms. She -refused to rest her head upon the warm and ample bosom which was offered -to her. She drew away her hands. It was difficult, very difficult, to -keep from crying. It is always hard for a girl to keep from crying when -her being is so moved. The only chance for her was to keep apart from -all contact, to stand by herself and persuade herself that nobody cared -and that she was alone in the world. - -“Bee, I believe,” said Mrs. Leigh, solemnly, “that you have but to speak -a word and you will be happy. You have not your mother now. You can’t -turn to her and ask her what you should do. But I am sure that she would -say, ‘speak!’ If she were here she would not let you break a man’s heart -and spoil his life for a punctilio. I have always heard she was a good -woman and kind--kind. Bee,” the elder lady laid her hand suddenly on the -girl’s shoulder, making her start, “she would say ‘speak’ if she were -here.” - -“Oh, mamma, if you were here!” said Bee, through her tears. - -She broke down altogether and became inarticulate, sobbing with her face -buried in her hands. The ordeal of the last two days had been severe. -Charlie and his concerns and the appearance of Miss Lance, and the -conflict only half understood which had been going on round her, had -excited and disturbed her beyond expression, as everybody could see and -understand. But, indeed, these were but secondary elements in the storm -which had overwhelmed Bee, which was chiefly brought back by that sudden -plunge into the atmosphere of Aubrey. The sensation of being in his -house, which she might in other circumstances have shared with him, of -sitting at his table, in his seat, under the roof that habitually -sheltered him--here, where her own life ought to have been passed, but -where the first condition now was that there should be nothing of him -visible. In Aubrey’s house, but not for Aubrey! Aubrey banished, lest -perhaps her eyes might fall upon him by chance, or her ears be offended -by the sound of his voice! Even his mother did not understand how much -this had to do with the passion and trouble of the girl, from whose -eyes the innocent name of her mother, sweetest though saddest of -memories, had let forth the salt and boiling tears. If Mrs. Leigh had -been anybody in the world save Aubrey’s mother, Bee would have clung to -her, accepting the tender support and consolation of the elder women’s -arms and her sympathy, but from Aubrey’s mother she felt herself -compelled to keep apart. - -It was not until her almost convulsive sobbing was over that this -question could be re-opened, and in the meantime Betty having heard the -sound of the closing door came rushing downstairs and burst into the -room: perhaps she was not so much disturbed or excited as Mrs. Leigh was -by Bee’s condition. She gave her sister a kiss as she lay on the sofa -where Mrs. Leigh had placed her, and patted her on the shoulder. - -“She will be better when she has had it out,” said Betty. “She has -worked herself up into such a state about Miss Lance. And oh, please -tell me what has happened. You are her enemy, too, Mrs. Leigh--oh, how -can you misjudge her so! As if she had been the cause of any harm! I was -sent away,” said Betty, “and, of course, Bee could not speak--but I -could have told you. Yes, of course, I knew! How could I help knowing, -being her sister? I can’t tell whether she told me, I knew without -telling; and, of course, she must have told me. This is how it was----” - -Bee put forth her hand and caught her sister by the dress, but Betty was -not so easily stopped. She turned round quickly, and took the detaining -hand into her own and patted and caressed it. - -“It is far better to speak out,” she said, “it must be told now, and -though I am young and you call me little Betty, I cannot help hearing, -can I, what people say? Mrs. Leigh, this was how it was. Whatever -happened about dear Miss Lance--whom I shall stick to and believe in -whatever you say,” cried Betty, by way of an interlude, with flashing -eyes, “that had nothing, nothing to do with it. That was a story--like -Charlie’s, I suppose, and Bee no more made a fuss about it than I should -do. It was after, when Bee was standing by Aubrey, like--like Joan of -Arc; yes, of course I shall call him Aubrey--I should like to have him -for a brother, but that has got nothing to do with it. A lady came to -call upon mamma, and she told a story about someone on the railway who -had met Aubrey on the way home after that scene at Cologne, after he was -engaged to Bee, and was miserable because of papa’s opposition.” Betty -spoke so fast that her words tumbled over each other, so to speak, in -the rush for utterance. “Well, he was seen,” she resumed, pausing for -breath, “putting a young woman with children into one of the sleeping -carriages--a poor young woman that had no money or right to be there. He -put her in, and when they got to London he was seen talking to her, and -giving her money, as if she belonged to him. I don’t see any harm in -that, for he was always kind to poor people. But these ladies did, and I -suppose so did mamma, and Bee blazed up. That is just like her. She -takes fire, she never waits to ask questions, she stops her ears. She -thought it was something dreadful, showing that he had never cared for -her, that he had cared for other people even when he was pretending, I -should have done quite different. I should have said, ‘Now, look here, -Aubrey, what does it mean?’--or, rather, I should never have thought -anything but that he was kind. He was always kind--silly, indeed, about -poor people, as so many are.” - -Mrs. Leigh had followed Betty’s rapid narrative with as much attention -as she could concentrate upon it, but the speed with which the words -flew forth, the little interruptions, the expressions of Betty’s matured -and wise opinions, bewildered her beyond measure. - -“What does it all mean?” she asked, looking from one to another when the -story was done. “A sleeping carriage on the railway--a woman with -children--as if she belonged to him? How could a woman with children -belong to him?” Then she paused and grew crimson with an old woman’s -painful blush. “Is it vice, horrible vulgar vice, this child is -attributing to my boy?” - -The two girls stared, confused and troubled. Bee got up from the sofa -and put her hands to her head, her eyes fixed upon Mrs. Leigh with an -appalled and horrified look. She had not asked herself of what Aubrey -had been accused. She had fled from him before the dreadful thought of -relationships she did not understand, of something which was the last -insult to her, whatever it might be in itself. “Vulgar vice!” The girls -were cowed as if some guilt had been imputed to themselves. - -“You are not like anything I have known, you girls of the period,” cried -the angry mother. “You are acquainted with such things as I at my age -had never heard of. You make accusations! But now--he shall answer for -himself,” she said, flaming with righteous wrath. Mrs. Leigh went to the -bell and rang it so violently that the sound echoed all over the house. - -“Go and ask your master to come here at once, directly; I want him this -moment,” she said, stamping her foot in her impatience. And then there -was a pause. The man went off and was seen from the window to cross the -street on his errand. Then Bee rose, her tears hastily dried up, pushing -back from her forehead her disordered hair. - -“I had better go. If you have sent for Mr. Leigh it will be better that -I should go.” - -Mrs. Leigh was almost incapable of speech. She took Bee by the shoulders -and put her back almost violently on the sofa. “You shall stay there,” -she said, in a choked and angry voice. - -What a horrible pause it was! The girls were silent, looking at each -other with wild alarm. Betty, who had blurted out the story, but to whom -the idea of repeating it before Aubrey--before a man--was unspeakable -horror, made a step towards the door. Then she said, “No, I will not run -away,” with tremendous courage. “It is not our fault,” she added, after -a pause. “Bee, if I have got to say it again, give me your hand.” - -“It is I who ought to say it,” said Bee, pale with the horror of what -was to come. “Vulgar vice!” And she to accuse him, and to stand up -before the world and say that was why! - -It seemed a long time, but it was really only a few minutes, before -Aubrey appeared. He came in quickly, breathless with haste and suspense. -He expected, from what his mother had told him, to find Miss Lance and -Colonel Kingsward there. He came into the agitated room and found, of -all people in the world, Bee and Betty, terrified, and his mother, -walking about the room sounding, as it were, a metaphorical lash about -their ears, in the frank passion of an elder woman who has the most just -cause of offence and no reason to bate her breath. There was something -humorous in the tragic situation, but to them it was wholly tragic, and -Aubrey, seeing for the first time after so long an interval the girl he -loved, and seeing her in such strange circumstances, was by no means -disposed to see any humorous side. - -“Here, Aubrey!” said his mother, “I have called upon you to hear what -you are accused of. You thought it was Laura Lance, but she has nothing -to do with it. You are accused of travelling from Germany, that time -when you were sent off from Cologne--the time those Kingswards turned -upon you”--(the girls both started, and recovered themselves a little at -the shock of this contemptuous description),--“travelling in sleeping -carriages and I know not what with a woman and children, who were -believed to belong to you! What have you to say?” - -“That was not what I said, Mrs. Leigh.” - -“What have you to say?” cried Mrs. Leigh, waving her hand to silence -Betty; “the accused has surely the right to speak first.” - -“What have I to say? But to what, mother? What is it? Was I travelling -with a woman and children? I suppose I was travelling--with all the -women and children that were in the same train. But otherwise, of course -you know I was with nobody. What does it mean?” - -Bee got up from the sofa like a ghost, her blue eyes wild, her face -pale. “Oh, let us go, let us go! Do not torment us,” she said. “I will -acknowledge that it was not true. Now that I see him I am sure that it -was not true. I was mad. I was so stung to think---- Mrs. Leigh, do not -kill me! I did him no harm; do not, do not go over it any more!” - -“Go over what?” cried Aubrey. “Bee! She can’t stand, she doesn’t see -where she is going. Mother, what on earth does it matter what was -against me if it is all over? Mother! How dare you torture my poor -girl--?” - -This was naturally all the thanks Mrs. Leigh got for her efforts to -unravel the mystery, which the reader knows was the most innocent -mystery, and which had never been cleared up or thought of since that -day. It came clear of itself the moment that Aubrey, only to support -her, took Bee into his arms. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -The Sorceress walked away very slowly down the street. - -She had the sensation of having fallen from a great height, after the -excitement of having fought bravely to keep her place there, and of -having anticipated every step of a combat still more severe which yet -had not come to pass after her previsions. It had been a fight lasting -for hours, from the moment Betty, all unconscious, had told her of the -house in which Charlie was. That was in the morning, and now it was late -afternoon, and the work of the day, the common work of the day in which -all the innocent common people about had been employed, was rounding -towards its end. It seemed to her a long, long time that she had been -involved, first in imagination, in severe thought, and then in actual -conflict--in this struggle, fighting for her life. From the beginning -she had made up her mind that she should fail. It was a consciously -losing game that she had fought so gallantly, never giving in; and -indeed she was not unaware, nor was she without a languid satisfaction -in the fact that she had indeed carried off the honours of the field, -that it would not be said that she had been beaten. But what did that -matter? Argument she knew and felt had nothing to do with such affairs. -She had known herself to have lost from the moment she saw Colonel -Kingsward standing there against the mantelpiece in the dining-room. It -had not been possible for her then to give in, to turn and go forth into -the street flinging down her arms. On the contrary, it was her nature to -fight to the last; and she had carried off an apparent victory. She had -marched off with colours flying from the field of battle, leaving every -enemy confounded. But she herself entertained no illusion in the matter. -It was possible no doubt that her spell might yet be strong enough upon -her middle-aged captive to make him ignore and pass over everything that -told against her--but, after considering the situation with a keen and -close survey of every likelihood, she dismissed that hope. No, her -chance was lost--again; the battle was over--again. It had been so near -being successful that the shock was greater perhaps than usual; but she -had now been feeling the shock for hours; so that her actual fall was as -much a relief as a pang, and her mind, full of resource, obstinately -sanguine, was becoming ready to pass on to the next chance, and had -already sprung up to think--What now? - -I am sorry that in this story I have always been placed in natural -opposition to this woman, who was certainly a creature full of interest, -full of resource, and indomitable in her way. And she had a theory of -existence, as, it is my opinion, we all must have, making out to -ourselves the most plausible reasons and excuses for all we do. Her -struggle--in which she would not have denied that she had sometimes been -unscrupulous--had always been for a standing-ground on which, if once -attained, she could have been good. She had always promised herself that -she would be good when once she had attained--oh, excellent! kind, just, -true!--a model woman. And what, after all, had been her methods? There -had been little harm in them. Here and there somebody had been injured, -as in the case of Aubrey Leigh, of Charlie Kingsward. To the first she -had indeed done considerable harm, but then she had soothed the life of -Amy, his little foolish wife, to whom she had been more kind than she -had been unkind to him. She had not wanted to be the third person -between that tiresome couple. She had stayed in his house from a kind of -sense of duty, and had Aubrey Leigh indeed asked her to become his -second wife she would, of course, have accepted him for the sake of the -position, but with a grimace. She was not particularly sorry for having -harmed him. It served him right for--well, for being Aubrey Leigh. And -as for Bee Kingsward, she had triumphantly proved, much to her own -surprise it must be said, that it was not she who had done Bee any -harm. Then Charlie--poor Charlie, poor boy! He thought, of course, that -he was very miserable and badly used. Great heavens! that a boy should -have the folly to imagine that anything could make him miserable, at -twenty-two--a man, and with all the world before him. Miss Lance at this -moment was not in the least sorry for Charlie. It would do him good. A -young fellow who had nothing in the world to complain of, who had -everything in his favour--it was good for him to be unhappy a little, to -be made to remember that he was only flesh and blood after all. - -Thus she came to the conclusion, as she walked along, that really she -had done no harm to other people. To herself, alas! she was always doing -harm, and every failure made it more and more unlikely that she would -ever succeed. She did not brood over her losses when she was thus -defeated. She turned to the next thing that offered with what would have -been in a better cause a splendid philosophy, but yet in moments like -this she felt that it became every day more improbable that she would -ever succeed. Instead of the large and liberal sphere in which she -always hoped to be able to fulfil all the duties of life in an imposing -and remarkable way, she would have probably to drop into--what? A -governess’s place, for which she would already be thought too old, some -dreadful position about a school, some miserable place as -housekeeper--she with all her schemes, her hopes of better things, her -power over others. This prospect was always before her, and came back to -her mind at moments when she was at the lowest ebb, for she had no money -at all. She had always been dependent upon somebody. Even now her little -campaign in George Street, Hanover Square, was at the expense of the -friend with whom she had lived in Oxford, and who believed Laura was -concerting measures to establish herself permanently in some -remunerative occupation. These accounts would have to be settled -somehow, and some other expedient be found by which to try again. Well, -one thing done with, another to come on--was not that the course of -life? And there was a certain relief in the thought that it was done -with. The suspense was over; there was no longer the conflict between -hope and fear, which wears out the nerves and clouds the clearness of -one’s mental vision. One down, another come on! She said this to herself -with a forlorn laugh in the depths of her being, yet not so very -forlorn. This woman had a kind of pleasure in the new start, even when -she did not know what it was to be. There are a great many things in -which I avow I have the greatest sympathy with her, and find her more -interesting than a great many blameless people. Poetic justice is -generally in books awarded to such persons. But that is, one is aware, -not always the case in life. - -While Miss Lance went on quietly along the long unlovely street, with -those thoughts in her mind, walking more slowly than usual, a little -languid and exhausted after her struggle, but as has been said frankly -and without _arriere penseé_ giving up the battle as lost, and accepting -her defeat--she became suddenly aware of a quick firm footstep behind, -sounding fast and continuous upon the pavement. A woman like this has -all her wits very sharply about her, the ears and the sight of a -savage, and an unslumbering habit of observation, or she could never -carry on her career. She heard the step and instinctively noted it -before her mind awoke to any sense of meaning and importance in it. -Then, all at once, as it came just to that distance behind which made it -apparent that this footstep was following someone who went before, it -suddenly slackened without stopping, became slow when it had been fast. -At this, her thoughts flew away like a mist and she became all ears, but -she was too wise to turn round, to display any interest. Perhaps it -might be that he was only going his own way, not intending to follow, -and that he had slackened his pace unconsciously without ulterior -motives when he saw her in front of him--though this Miss Lance scarcely -believed. - -Perhaps--I will not affirm it--she threw a little more of her real -languor and weariness into her attitude and movements when she made this -exciting discovery. She was, in reality, very tired. She had looked so -when she left the house; perhaps she had forgotten her great fatigue a -little in the course of her walk, but it now came back again with -double force, which is not unusual in the most matter of fact -circumstances. As her pace grew slower, the footstep behind became -slower also, but always followed on. Miss Lance proceeded steadily, -choosing the quietest streets, pausing now and then at a shop window to -rest. The climax came when she reached a window which had a rail round -it, upon which she leaned heavily, every line of her dress expressing, -with a faculty which her garments specially possessed, an exhaustion -which could scarcely go further. Then she raised her head to look what -the place was. It was full of embroideries and needlework, a woman’s -shop, where she was sure of sympathy. She went in blindly, as if her -very sight were clouded with her fatigue. - -“I am very tired,” she said; “I want some silk for embroidery; but that -is not my chief object. May I sit down a little? I am so very tired.” - -“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” cried the mistress of the shop, rushing -round from behind the counter to place a chair for her and offer a -glass of water. She sat down so as to be visible from the door, but -still with her back to it. The step had stopped, and there was a shadow -across the window--the tall shadow of a man looking in. A smile came -upon Miss Lance’s face--of gratitude and thanks to the kind people--also -perhaps of some internal satisfaction. But she did not act as if she -were conscious of anyone waiting for her. She took the glass of water -with many acknowledgments; she leant back on the chair murmuring, -“Thanks, thanks,” to the exhortations of the shop-woman not to hurry, to -take a good rest. She did not hurry at all. Finally, she was so much -better as to be able to buy her silks, and, declaring herself quite -restored, to go out again into the open air. - -She was met by the shadow that had been visible through the window, and -which, as she knew very well, was Colonel Kingsward, stiff and -embarrassed, yet with great anxiety in his face. “I feared you were -ill,” he said, with a little jerk, the words coming in spite of him. “I -feared you were fainting.” - -“Oh, Colonel Kingsward, you!” - -“Yes--I feared you were fainting. It is--nothing, I hope?” - -“Nothing but exhaustion,” she said, with a faint smile. “I was very -tired, but I have rested and I am a little better now.” - -“Will you let me call a cab for you? You don’t seem fit to walk.” - -“Oh, no cab, thanks! I would much rather walk--the air and the slow -movement does one a little good.” - -She was pale, and her voice was rather faint, and every line of her -dress, as I have said, was tired--tired to death--and yet not -ungracefully tired. - -“I cannot let you go like this alone.” His voice softened every moment; -they went on for a step or two together. “You had better--take my arm, -at least,” he said. - -She took it with a little cry and a sudden clasp. “I think you are not a -mere man, but an archangel of kindness and goodness,” she said, with a -faint laugh that broke down, and tears in her eyes. - -And I think for that moment, in the extraordinary revulsion of feeling, -Miss Lance almost believed what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -What more is there to say? It is better, when one is able to deal poetic -justice all round, to reward the good and punish the evil. Who are the -good and who are the evil? We have not to do with murderers, with -breakers of the law, with enemies of God or man. If Aubrey Leigh had not -been exceedingly imprudent, if Bee had not been hot-headed and -passionate, there would never have been that miserable breach between -them. And the Sorceress, who destroyed for a time the peace of the -Kingsward family, really never at any time meant that family any real -harm. She meant them indeed, to her own consciousness, all the good in -the world, and to promote their welfare in every way by making them her -own. And as a matter of fact she did so, devoting herself to their -welfare. She made Colonel Kingsward an excellent wife and adopted his -children into her sedulous and unremitting care with a zeal which a -mother could not have surpassed. Her translation from scheming poverty -to abundance, and that graceful modest wealth which is almost the most -beautiful of the conditions of life, was made in a way which was quite -exquisite as a work of art. Nobody could ever have suspected that she -had been once poor. She had all the habits of the best society. There -was nowhere they could go, even into the most exalted regions, where the -new Mrs. Kingsward was not distinguished. She extended the Colonel’s -connections and interest, and made his house popular and delightful; and -she was perfect for his children. Even the county people and near -neighbours, who were the most critical, acknowledged this. The little -girls soon learned to adore their step-mother; the big boys admired and -stood in awe of her, submitting more or less to her influence, though a -little suspicious and sometimes half hostile. As for baby, who had been -in a fair way of growing up detestable and a little family tyrant, his -father’s new marriage was the saving of him. He scarcely knew as he grew -up that the former Miss Lance was not his mother, and he was said in the -family to be her idol, but a very well disciplined and well behaved -idol, and the one of the boys who was likely to have the finest career. - -Charlie, poor Charlie, was not so fortunate, at least at first. The -appointment which Colonel Kingsward declared he had been looking out for -all along was got as soon as Charlie was able to accept it, and he left -England when he was little more than convalescent. People said it was -strange that a man with considerable influence, and in the very centre -of affairs, should have sent his eldest son away to the ends of the -earth, to a dangerous climate and a difficult post. But it turned out -very well on the whole, for after a few years of languor and disgust -with the world, there suddenly fell in Charlie’s way an opportunity of -showing that there was, after all, a great deal of English pluck and -courage in him. I do not think it came to anything more than that--but -then that, at certain moments, has been the foundation and the saving -of the British Empire in various regions of the world. There was not one -of his relations who celebrated Charlie’s success with so much fervour -as his step-mother, who was never tired of talking of it, nor of -declaring that she had always expected as much, and known what was in -him. Dear Charlie, she said, had fulfilled all her expectations, and -made her more glad and proud than words could say. It was a poor return -for this maternal devotion, yet a melancholy fact, that Charlie turned -away in disgust whenever he heard of her, and could not endure her name. - -Bee, whose little troubles have been so much the subject of this story, -accomplished her fate by becoming Mrs. Aubrey Leigh in the natural -course of events. There was no family quarrel kept up to scandalise and -amuse society, but there never was much intercourse nor any great -cordiality between the houses of Kingswarden and Forestleigh. I think, -however, that it was against her father that Bee’s heart revolted most. - - THE END. - - - TILLOTSON AND SON PRINTERS BOLTON - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress, v. 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS, V. 3-3 *** - -***** This file should be named 53182-0.txt or 53182-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/1/8/53182/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress, v. 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: October 1, 2016 [EBook #53182] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS, V. 3 of 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="cb">THE SORCERESS.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="316" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE SORCERESS.</h1> - -<p class="c"><span class="eng">A Novel.</span><br /> -<br /><br /> -<small>BY</small> -<br /> -<big>M R S. O L I P H A N T,</big><br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”<br /> -“THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,”<br /> -ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i><br /> -<br /> -VOL. III.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -F. V. WHITE & Co.,<br /> -31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.<br /> -1893.<br /> -<br /> -<small>(<i>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</i>)</small><br /> -<br /> -<small>PRINTED BY<br /> -TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON,<br /> -LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN.</small> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:4px double black;font-weight: bold;"> - -<tr><td class="c"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS: <a href="#CHAPTER_I">I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>THE SORCERESS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Charlie Kingsward fled from Oxford, half mad with disappointment -and misery, he had no idea or intention about the future left in his -mind. He had come to one of those strange passes in life beyond which -the imagination does not go. He had been rejected with that deepest -contumely which takes the aspect of the sweetest kindness, when a woman -affects the most innocent suspicion at the climax to which, consciously -or unconsciously, she has been working up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor boy, was that what you were thinking of?” There is no way -in which a blow can be administered with such sharp and keen effect. It -made the young man’s brain, which was only an ordinary brain, and for -some time had exercised but small restraining power upon him in the -hurry and sweep of his feelings, reel. When he pulled the door upon him -of those gardens of Aminda, that fool’s paradise in which he had been -wasting his youth, and which were represented in his case by a very -ordinary suburban garden in that part of Oxford called the Parks, his -rejected and disappointed passion had every possible auxiliary emotion -to make it unbearable. Keen mortification, humiliation, the sharp sense -of being mocked and deceived; the sudden conviction of having given what -seemed to the half-maddened boy his whole life, for nothing whipped him -like the lashes of the Furies. In most of the crises of life the thought -what to do next occurs with almost the rapidity of lightning after a -great catastrophe, but Charlie felt as if there was nothing beyond. The -whole world had crumbled about him. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> was no next step; his very -footing had failed him. He rushed back to his rooms by instinct, as a -wounded creature would rush to its lair, but on his way was met by eager -groups returning from the “Schools,” in which he ought to have been, -discussing among each other the stiffness of the papers, and how they -had been done. This would scarcely add to his pain, but it added to that -sickening effort of absolute failure of the demolition of everything -around and before him, which was what he felt the most. They made the -impossible more impossible still, and cut off every retreat. When he -stood in his room, amid all the useless books which he had not opened -for days or weeks, and heard the others mounting the staircase outside -his locked door, it seemed to the unhappy young man as though the floor -under his feet was the last spot on which standing ground was possible, -and that beyond and around there was nothing but chaos. For what reason -and on what impulse he rushed to London it would be difficult to tell. -He had little money, few friends—or rather none who were not also the -friends of his family—no idea or intention of doing anything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps the world will end to-night.”</p> - -<p>He did not even think so much as that, though perhaps it was in some -sort the feeling in his mind. Yet no suggestions of suicide, or of -anything that constitutes a moral suicide, occurred to him. These would -have been something definite, they would have provided for a future, but -Charlie was stupefied and had none. He had not so much sense of any -resource as consisted in a pistol or a plunge into the river. He flung -himself into the train and went to London, because after a time the -sound of his comrades, or of those who ought to have been his comrades, -became intolerable to him. They kept pacing, rushing up and down the -staircase, calling to each other. One or two, indeed, talked at his own -closed door, driving him into a silent frenzy. As soon as they were gone -he seized a travelling bag, thrust something, he did not know what, into -it, and fled—to the desert—to London, where he would be lost and no -one would drive him frantic by calling to him, by making believe that -there was something left in life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<p>It occurred to him somehow, by force of that secondary consciousness -which works for us when our minds are past all exertion, to fling -himself into the corner of a third-class carriage as the place where he -was least likely to meet anyone he knew, though indeed the precaution -was scarcely necessary, since he could not have recognised anyone, as he -sat huddled up in his corner, staring blankly at the landscape that flew -past the window and seeing nothing. When he arrived in the midst of the -din and bustle of the great railway station, he fled once more through -the crowd into the greater crowd outside, clutching instinctively at the -bag which lay beside him, but seeing no one, nor whither he went nor -where he was going. He walked fast, and in a fierce unconsciousness -pushing his way through everything, and though he had in reality no aim, -took instinctively the way to his father’s house—his home—though it -was at that time no home for him, being occupied by strangers. When he -got into the park a vague recollection of this penetrated through the -maze in which he was enveloped, and for a moment he paused, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> then -went on walking at the same pace, making the circuit of the park which -lay before him in the mists of the afternoon, the frosty sun setting, -the hay taking a rosy tint. He went all round the silences of the -half-deserted walks, beginning to feel vaguely the strange desolate -sentiment of not knowing where to go, though only in the secondary phase -of his consciousness. Until all at once his strength seemed to fail him, -his limbs grew feeble, his steps slow, and he stopped short, -mechanically, as he had walked, not knowing why, and flung himself upon -a bench, where he sat long, motionless, as if that had now become the -only thing solid in the world and there was no step remaining to him -beyond.</p> - -<p>A young man, though he may have numberless friends, may yet make a -despairing transit like this from one place to another through the midst -of a crowd without being seen by anyone who knows him; if the encounters -of life are wonderful, the failures to encounter, the manner in which we -walk alone with friends on all hands, and in our desperate moments, when -help is most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> necessary, do not meet or come within sight of any, is -equally wonderful. The Kingswards had a large circle of acquaintance, -and Charlie himself had the numberless intimates of a public school boy, -a young university man, acquainted with half the youth of his -period—yet nobody saw him, except one to whom he would scarcely have -accorded a salutation in ordinary circumstances. Aubrey Leigh, who had -been so strangely and closely connected for a moment with the Kingsward -family, and then so swiftly and peremptorily cut off, arrived in London -from a short visit to a suburban house by the same train which brought -Charlie, and caught sight of him as he jumped out of his compartment -with his bag in his hand. A very cool, self-possessed, and trim young -man young Kingsward had always appeared to the other, with whose -brightest and at the same time most painful recollections his figure was -so connected. To see him now suddenly, with that air of desperation -which had triumphed over all his natural habits and laws, that -abstracted look, clutching his bag, half leaping, half stumbling out of -the carriage, going off at a swift,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> unconscious pace, pushing through -every crowd, filled Aubrey with surprise which soon turned into anxiety. -Charlie Kingsward, with a bag in his hand, rushing through the London -streets conveyed an entirely new idea to the minds of the spectators. -What such an arrival would have meant in ordinary circumstances would -have been the rattling up of a hansom, the careless calling out of an -address, the noisy progress over the stones, of the driver expectant of -something more than his fare, and keenly cognisant of the habits of the -young gentlemen from Oxford.</p> - -<p>Aubrey quickened his own pace to follow the other, whose arrival this -time was in such different guise. A sudden terror seized his mind, -naturally quite unjustified by the outward circumstances. Was anyone -ill?—which meant, was Bee ill? Had anything dreadful happened? A -moment’s reflection would have shown that in such a case the hansom -would be more needed than usual, as conveying her brother the more -quickly to his home. But Aubrey did not pause on probabilities. A moment -more would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> made him sure of the unlikelihood that Charlie would be -sent for in case of Bee’s illness, unless, indeed, the question had been -one of life and death.</p> - -<p>But he had not even heard of his love for many months. His heart was -hungry for news of her, and in that case he would have done his best to -intercept Charlie, to extract from him, if possible, some news of his -sister. He followed, accordingly, with something of the same headlong -haste with which Charlie was pushing through the streets, and for a long -time, up to the gates of the park, indeed, kept him in sight. At the -rate at which the young man was going it was impossible to do more.</p> - -<p>Then Aubrey suddenly lost sight of the figure he was pursuing. There was -a group of people collected for some vulgar, unsupportable object or -other at that point, and it was there that Charlie deflected from the -straight road for home, which he had hitherto taken, and which his -pursuer took it for granted he would follow for the rest of the way. -When Aubrey had pushed his way through the little crowd Charlie was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> -longer visible. He looked to left and to right in vain, scrutinised the -short cut over the park, and the broad road full of passing carriages -and wayfarers, but saw no trace of the figure he sought. Aubrey then -walked quickly to the point where Charlie, as he supposed, must be -going, and soon came to the gate on the other side and the street itself -in which the house of the Kingswards was. But he saw no sign of Charlie, -nor of anyone looking for him. He himself had no acquaintance with that -house, to which he had never been admitted, but he had passed it many -times in the vain hope of seeing Bee at a window, not knowing that it -was occupied by strangers. While he walked down the street, however, -anxiously gazing to see if there were any signs of illness, asking -himself whether he dared to inquire at the door, he saw a gentleman come -up and enter with a latch key, who certainly did not belong to the -Kingsward family. This changed the whole current of Aubrey’s thoughts. -It was not here then that Charlie was coming. His rapid and wild walk -could not mean any disaster to the family—any trouble to Bee.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> The -discovery was at once a disappointment and a relief; a relief from the -anxiety which had gradually been gaining upon him, a disappointment of -the hope of hearing something of her. For if Charlie was not going home, -who could trace out where such a young man might be going? To the dogs, -Aubrey thought, instinctively; to the devil, to judge by his looks. Yet -Charlie Kingsward, the most correct of modern young men, had surely in -him no natural proclivity towards that facile descent. What could it be -that had driven him along like a leaf before the wind?</p> - -<p>Aubrey was himself greatly disturbed and stirred up by this encounter. -He had schooled himself to quiet, and the pangs of his overthrow, though -not quenched, had been kept under with a strong hand. The life which he -desired for himself, which he had so fully planned, so warmly hoped for, -had been broken to pieces and made an end of, leaving the way he had -chosen blank to him, as he thought, for evermore. He had been very -unfortunate in that way, his early venture ending in bitter -disappointment; his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> other, more wise, more sweet, cut off before it had -ever been. But he was a reasonable being, and knew that life had to be -put to other uses, even when that sole fair path which the heart desired -was closed. He had given it up definitely, neither thinking nor hoping -again for the household life, the patriarchal existence among his own -fields, his own people, under his own roof, and was now doing his best -to conform his life to a more grey and monotonous standard.</p> - -<p>But the sight of Charlie, or rather the sight of Bee’s brother, -evidently under the influence of some strong feeling, and utterly -carried away by it so as to ignore all that regard for appearance and -decorum which had been his leading principle, came suddenly like a touch -upon a wound, reviving all the questions and impatiences of the past. -Aubrey felt that he could not endure the ignorance of her and all her -ways which had fallen over him like a pall, cutting off her being from -him as if they were not still living in the same world, still within -reach of each other. He might endure, he said to himself, to be parted -from her, to give up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> hope of her, since she willed it so—yet, at -least, he must know something of her, find out if she were ill or well, -what she was doing, where she was even; for that mere outside detail he -did not know. How was it possible he should bear this—not even to know -where she was? This thought took hold of him, and drove him into a fever -of sudden feeling. Oh! yes; he had resigned himself to live without her, -to endure his solitary existence far from her, since she willed it so; -but not even to know where she was, how she was, what she was doing!</p> - -<p>Suddenly, in a moment, the fiery stinging came back, the sword plunged -into the wound. He had not for a moment deluded himself with the idea -that he was cured of it, but yet it had been subdued by necessity, by -the very silence which now he felt to be intolerable. He went back into -the park, where the long lines of the misty paths were now almost -deserted, gleams of the lamps outside shining through the dark tracery -of the branches, and all quiet except in the broad road, still sounding -with a diminished<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> stream of carriages. He dived into the intersections -of the deserted paths, something as Charlie had done, seeking -instinctively a silent place where he could be alone with the -newly-aroused torment of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>When he came suddenly upon the bench upon which Charlie had flung -himself, his first movement was to turn back. He had been walking over -the grass, and his steps were consequently noiseless, and he was in the -mood to which any human presence—the possible encounter of anyone who -might speak to him and disturb his own hurrying passions—was -intolerable. But as he turned, his eye fell on the bag—the dusty, -half-empty thing still clutched by a hand that seemed more or less -unconscious. This insignificant detail arrested Aubrey. He moved a -little way, keeping on the grass, to get a fuller view of the -half-reclining figure. And then he made out in the partial light that it -was the same figure which he had pursued so long.</p> - -<p>What was Charlie doing here in this secluded spot—he, the most unlike -any such retirement, the well-equipped, confident,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> prosperous young man -of the world, subject to so few delusions, knowing his way so well, both -in the outer and the inner world?</p> - -<p>Aubrey was more startled than tongue can tell. He thought no longer of -family disaster, of illness, or trouble. Whatever was amiss, it was -evidently Charlie who was the sufferer. He paused for a minute or more, -reflecting what he should do. Then he stepped forward upon the gravel, -and sitting down, put his hand suddenly upon that which held the -half-filled bag.</p> - -<p>“Kingsward!” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Meanwhile</span> Colonel Kingsward had remained in Oxford. It was necessary -that he should regulate all Charlie’s affairs, find out and pay what -bills he had left, and formally sever his connection with the -University. It is a thing which many fathers have had to do, with pain -and sorrow, and a sense of premature failure, which is one of the -bitterest things in life; but Colonel Kingsward had not this painful -feeling to aggravate the annoyance and vexation which he actually felt. -The fact that his son had been idle in the way of books, and was leaving -Oxford without taking his degree, did not affect his mind much. Many -young fellows did that, especially in the portion of the world to which -Charlie belonged. The Colonel was irritated by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> having to interfere, by -the trouble he was having, and the deviation from salutary routine, but -he felt no humiliation either for himself or his son. And Charlie’s -liabilities were not large, so far as he could discover. The fellow, at -least, had no vices, he said to himself. Even the unsympathetic Don had -nothing to say against him but that charge of idleness, which the -Colonel rather liked than otherwise. Had he been able to say that it was -his son’s social or even athletic successes which were the causes of the -idleness he would have liked it altogether. He paid Charlie’s bills with -a compensating consciousness that these were the last that would have to -be paid at Oxford, and he was not even sorry that he could not get back -to town by the last train. Indeed, I think he could have managed that -very well had he tried. He remained for the second night with wonderful -equanimity, finding, as a matter of course, a man he knew in the hotel, -and dining not unpleasantly that day. Before he went back to town, he -thought it only civil to go out to the Parks to return, as politeness -demanded, the visit of the lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> who had so kindly and courageously gone -to see him, and from whom he had received the only explanation of -Charlie’s strange behaviour. He went forth as soon as he had eaten an -early luncheon, in order to be sure to find Miss Lance before she went -out, and stopped only to throw a rapid glance in passing at a band of -young ruffians—mud up to their eyes, and quite undistinguishable for -the elegant undergraduates which some of them were—who were playing -football in the Parks. The Colonel had, like most men, a warm interest -in athletic sports, but his soldierly instincts disliked the mud. Miss -Lance’s house was beyond that much broken up and down-trampled green. It -was a house in a garden of the order brought into fashion by the late -Randolph Caldecott, red with white “fixings” and pointed roof, and it -bore triumphantly upon its little gate post the name of Wensleydale, -Oxford Dons, and the inhabitants of that district generally, being fond -of such extension titles. Colonel Kingsward unconsciously drew himself -together, settled his head into his collar, and twisted his moustache, -as he knocked at the door,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> and yet it was not an imposing door. It was -opened, not by a solemn butler, but by a neat maid, who showed Colonel -Kingsward into a trim drawing-room, very feminine and full of flowers -and knick-knacks. Here he waited full five minutes before anyone -appeared, looking about him with much curiosity, examining the little -stands of books, the work-tables, the writing-tables, the corners for -conversation. It was not a large room, and yet space had been found for -two little centres of social intercourse. There were, therefore, the -Colonel divined, two ladies who shared this abode. Colonel Kingsward had -never been what is called a ladies’ man. The feminine element in life -had been supplied to him in that subdued way naturally exhibited by a -yielding and gentle wife in a house where the husband is supreme. He was -quite unacquainted with it in its unalloyed state, and the spectacle -amused and pleasantly affected him with a sense at once of superiority -and of novelty. It was pleasant to see how these little known creatures -arranged themselves in their own private dominion, where they had -everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> their own way, and the touch of the artificial which -appeared in all these dainty particulars seemed appropriate and -commended itself agreeably to the man who was accustomed to a broader -and larger style of household economy. A man likes to see the difference -well marked, at least a man who holds Colonel Kingsward’s ideas of life. -He had gone so far as to note the “Laura” with a large and flowing “L” -on the notepaper, which “L” was repeated on various pretty articles -about. When the door opened and Miss Lance appeared, she came up to him -holding out both her hands as to an old friend.</p> - -<p>“Will you forgive me for keeping you waiting, Colonel Kingsward? The -fact is we have just come in, and you know that a woman has always a -toilette to make, not like you lucky people who put on or put off a hat -and all is done.”</p> - -<p>“I did not think you were likely to be out so early,” the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>“My friend has a son at Oriel,” replied Miss Lance. “He is a great -football player as it happens, and we are bound to be present<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> when he -is playing; besides, the Parks are so near.”</p> - -<p>“I did not think it was a game that would interest you.”</p> - -<p>“It does not, except in so far that I am interested in everything that -interests my surroundings. My friend goes into it with enthusiasm; she -even believes that she understands what it is all about.”</p> - -<p>“It seems chiefly mud that is about,” said the Colonel, with a slight -tone of disapproval, for it displeased him to think that a woman like -this should go to a football match, and also it displeased him after his -private amusement and reflections on the feminine character of the house -to find, after all, a man connected with it, even if that man were only -a boy.</p> - -<p>“Come,” said Miss Lance, indicating a certain chair, “sit down here by -me, Colonel Kingsward, and let us not talk commonplaces any longer. You -have been obliged to stay longer than you intended. I had been thinking -of you as in London to-day.”</p> - -<p>“It was very kind to think of me at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say so—that is one of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> commonplaces too. Of course, I -have been thinking of you with a great deal of interest, and with some -rather rebellious, undutiful sort of thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“What thoughts?” cried the Colonel, in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Well,” she said, “it is a great blessing, no doubt, to have -children—to women, perhaps, an unalloyed blessing; and yet, you know, -an unattached person like myself cannot help a grudge occasionally. Here -are you, for instance, in the prime of life; your thoughts about -everything matured, your reason more important to the world than any of -the escapades of youth, and yet you are depleted from your own grave -path in life; your mind occupied, your thoughts distracted; really your -use to your country interrupted by—by what are called the cares of a -family,” she concluded, with a short laugh.</p> - -<p>She spoke with much use of her hands in graceful movement that could -scarcely be called gesticulation—clasping them together, spreading them -out, making them emphasise everything. And they were very white and -pretty hands, with a diamond on one, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> sparkled at appropriate -moments, and added its special emphasis too.</p> - -<p>The Colonel was flattered with this description of himself and his -capacities.</p> - -<p>“There is great truth,” he said, “in what you say. I have felt it, but -for a father at the head of a family to put forth such sentiments would -shock many good people.”</p> - -<p>“Fortunately there are no good people here, and if there were I might -still express them freely. It is a thing that strikes me every day. In -feeble specimens it destroys the individuality; in strong characters -like yourself——”</p> - -<p>“You do me too much honour, Miss Lance. My position, you are aware, is -doubly unfortunate, for I have all upon my shoulders. Still, one must do -one’s duty at whatever cost.”</p> - -<p>“That would be your feeling, of course,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of -admiring and regretful expression. “For my part, I am the most dreadful -rebel. I kick against duty. I think a man has a duty to himself. To -stint a noble human being for the sake of nourishing some half-dozen -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span>secondary ones, is to me—— Oh, don’t let us talk of it! Tell me, dear -Colonel Kingsward, have you got everything satisfactorily settled, and -heard of the arrival——? Oh,” she cried, clasping those white hands, -“how can I sit here calmly and ask, seeing that I have a share in -causing all this trouble—though, heaven knows, how unintentionally on -my part!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so,” said the Colonel, putting his hands for a second on -those clasped white hands. “I am sure that you can have done nothing but -good to my foolish boy. To be admitted here at all was too much honour.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never be able to take an interest in anyone again,” she said, -drooping her head. “It is so strange, so strange to have one’s motives -misunderstood, but you don’t do so. I am so thankful I had the courage -to go to you. My friend dissuaded me strongly from taking such a step. -She said that a parent would naturally blame anyone rather than his own -son——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Lance, who could blame you? I don’t know,” said the -Colonel, “that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> I blame poor Charlie so much either. To be much in your -company might well be dangerous for any man.”</p> - -<p>“You must not speak so—indeed, indeed, you must not! I feel more and -more ashamed! When a woman comes to a certain age—and has no children -of her own. Surely, surely——”</p> - -<p>“Come!” he cried. “You said a parent’s cares destroyed one’s -individuality——”</p> - -<p>“Not with a woman. What individuality has a woman? The only use of her -is to sink that pride in a better—the pride of being of some use. What -I regretted was for you—and such as you—if there are enough of such to -make a class—. Yes, yes,” she added, looking up, “I acknowledge the -inconsistency. I have not sense enough to see the pity of it in all -cases—but my real principle, my deep belief is that to draw a man like -you away from your career, to trouble and distress you about others, who -are not of half your value—is a thing that ought to be prevented by Act -of Parliament,” she cried, breaking off with a laugh. “But you have not -told me yet how everything has finished,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> she added, in a confidential -low tone, after a pause.</p> - -<p>Then he told her in some detail what he had done. It was delightful to -tell her, a woman so sympathising, so quick to understand, with that -approving, consoling, remonstrating action of her white hands which -seemed at the same moment to applaud and deprecate, with a constant -inference that he was too good, that really he ought not to be so good. -She laughed at his description of the Don, adding a graphic touch or two -to make the picture more perfect—till Colonel Kingsward was surprised -at himself to think how cleverly he had done it, and was delighted with -his own success. This gave a slightly comic character to his other -sketches of poor Charlie’s tradesmen, and scout, and an unutterable cad -of a young fellow who had met the Colonel leaving the college and had -told him of a small sum which Charlie owed him.</p> - -<p>“The little beast!” the Colonel said.</p> - -<p>“Worse!” cried Miss Lance, “I would not slander any gentlemanly dog by -calling him of the same species.”</p> - -<p>Altogether, her interest and sympathy changed this not particularly -lively occasion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> into one of the brightest moments of Colonel -Kingsward’s life. He had not been used to a woman so clever, who took -him up at half a word, and enhanced the interest of everything. Had he -been asked, indeed, he would have said that he did not like clever -women. But then Miss Lance had other qualities. She was very handsome, -and she had an evident and undisguised admiration for him. She was so -very frank and sure of her position as a woman of a certain age—a -qualification which she appropriated to herself constantly, though most -women thought it an insult—that she did not find it needful to conceal -that admiration. When he thanked her for her kindness for the patient -hearing of all his story, and the interest she had shown, to which he -had so little claim, Miss Lance smiled and held out those white hands.</p> - -<p>“I assure you,” she said, “the benefit is all on my side. Living here -among very young men, you must think what it is to talk to, to be -treated confidentially, by a man like yourself. It is like a glance into -another life.” She sighed, and added, “The young are delightful. I am -very fond of young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> people. Still, to meet now and then with someone of -one’s own age, of one’s own species, if I may say so—”</p> - -<p>“You do me too much honour,” said Colonel Kingsward, feeling with a -curious elation, how superior he was. She went with him to the garden -gate, not afraid of the wintry air, showing no sense of the chill, and -though she had given him her hand before, offered it again with the -sweetest friendliness.</p> - -<p>“And you promised,” she said, looking in his face while he held it, -“that you would send me one line when you got home, to tell me how you -find him—and that all is well—and forgiven.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be too happy to be permitted to write,” Colonel Kingsward said.</p> - -<p>“Forgiven,” she said, “and forgotten!” holding up a finger of the other -hand, the hand with the diamond. She stood for a moment watching while -he closed the low gate, and then, waving her hand to him, turned away. -Colonel Kingsward had never been a finer fellow, in his own estimation, -than when he walked slowly off from that closed door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I will</span> not repeat the often described scene of anxiety which existed in -Kingswarden for some time after. Colonel Kingsward returned, as Bee had -done, to find that nothing had been seen or heard of Charlie, whom both -had expected to find defiant and wretched at home. It is astonishing how -quickly in such circumstances the tables are turned, and the young -culprit—whom parents and friends have been ready to crush the moment he -appears with well-deserved rebuke—becomes, when he does not appear, the -object of the most eager appeals; forgiveness, and advantages of every -kind all ready to greet him if only he will come back. The girls were -frightened beyond description by their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> brother’s disappearance, and -conjured up every dreadful image of disaster and misery. They thought of -Charlie in his despair going off to the ends of the earth and never -being seen more. They thought of him as in some wretched condition on -shipboard, sick and miserable, reduced to dreadful work and still more -dreadful privations, he who had lain in the lilies and fed on the roses -of life. They thought of him, Colonel Kingsward’s son, enlisted as a -private soldier, in a crowded barrack-room. They thought of him -wandering about the street, cold, perhaps hungry, without a shelter. The -most dreadful images came before their inexperienced eyes. The old aunt -who was their companion told them dreadful stories of family prodigals -who disappeared and were never heard of again, and terror took hold of -the girls’ minds.</p> - -<p>Their constant walk was to the station, with the idea that he might -perhaps come as far as the village, and that there his heart might fail -him. Except for that melancholy indulgence, they would not be out of the -house at any time together, lest at that moment Charlie might arrive, -and no one be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> there to welcome him. There was always one who ran to the -door at every sound, scandalising the servant, who could never get there -so fast but one of the young ladies was before him. They had endless -conversations and consultations on the subject, forming a hundred plans -as to how they should go forth into the world to seek for him, all -rendered abortive by the reflection that they knew not where to go. Bee -and Betty were very unhappy during these lingering, chilly days of early -spring. The tranquillity of the family life seemed to be destroyed in a -moment. Where was Charlie? Was there any news of Charlie? This was the -question that filled their minds day and night.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was not less affectionate, but he was more practical -and experienced. He knew that now and then it does happen that a young -man disappears, sinks under the stream, and goes, as people say, to the -dogs, and is heard of no more—or, at least, only in a shipwrecked -condition, the shame and trouble of his friends. It did not seem to him, -at first, that there could be any such danger for his son. He -anticipated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> nothing more than a few days’ sullenness, perhaps in some -friend’s house, who would make cautious overtures and intercede for the -rebellious but shame-stricken boy. When, however, the time passed on, -and a longer interval than any judicious friend would permit had -elapsed, a deep anxiety arose also in Colonel Kingsward’s mind. The -<i>esclandre</i> of an Oxford failure did not trouble him much, but, in view -of Charlie’s future career, he could not employ detectives, or advertise -in the papers, or take any steps which might lead to a paragraph as to -the anxiety of a distinguished family on account of a son who had -disappeared. Colonel Kingsward might not be a very tender parent, but he -was fully alive to the advantage of his children, and would allow no -stigma to be attached to them which he could prevent. He went a great -deal about London in these days, going into many a spot where a man of -his dignity was out of place, with an anxious and troubled eye upon the -crowds of young men, the familiars of these confused regions, among -whom, however, no trace was to be found of his son.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>Nobody ever knew how much the Colonel undertook, in how many strange -scenes he found himself, or half of what he really did to recover -Charlie, and save him from the consequences of his folly. The most -devoted father could scarcely have done more, and his mind was almost as -full of the prodigal as were the minds of the girls, who thought of so -many grievous dangers, yet did not think of those that filled their -father’s mind. Colonel Kingsward went about everywhere, groping, saying -not a word to betray his ignorance of Charlie’s whereabouts. To those -who had any right to know his family affairs, he explained that he had -decided not to press Charlie to undergo any examination beyond what was -necessary, that he had given up the thought of taking his degree, and -was studying modern languages and international law, which were so much -more likely to be useful to him. “He is a steady fellow—he has no -vices,” he said, “and I think it is wise to let him have his head.” -Colonel Kingsward was by nature a despotic man, and his friends were -very glad to hear that he was, in respect to Charlie, so amiable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span>—they -said to each other that his wife’s death had softened Kingsward, and -what a good thing it was that he was behaving so judiciously about his -son.</p> - -<p>A pause like this in the life of a family—a period of darkness in which -the life of one of its members is suspended, interrupted, as it were, in -mid career, cut off, yet not with that touch of death which stills all -anxieties—is always a difficult and miserable one. Some, and the number -increases of these uncontrolled persons, cry out to earth and heaven, -and make the lapse public and set all the world talking of their -affairs. But Colonel Kingsward sternly put down even the tears of his -young daughters.</p> - -<p>“If you cannot keep a watch over yourselves before the servants, you had -better leave the house,” he said, all the more stern to them that he was -soft to Charlie; but indeed it was not so much that he was soft to -Charlie as that he was concerned and anxious about Charlie’s career.</p> - -<p>“Betty, I suppose, can go back to the Lyons’ in Portman Square, and -Bee——”</p> - -<p>“If you think that I can go visiting, papa,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> and no one with the -children, and poor Charlie——”</p> - -<p>“I think—and, indeed, I know, that you can and will do what I think -best for you,” said Colonel Kingsward.</p> - -<p>Bee looked up at him quickly and met her father’s eyes. The two looked -at each other suspiciously, almost fiercely. Bee saw in her father’s -look possibilities and dangers as yet undeveloped, mysteries which she -divined and feared, yet neither could nor would have put into words, -while he looked at her divining her divinations, defying unconsciously -the suspicion which he could not have expressed any more than she.</p> - -<p>“Let it be understood once for all,” he said, “that the children have -their nurses and governess, and that your presence is by no means -indispensable to them. You are their eldest sister, you are not the -mistress of the house. Nothing will happen to the children. In -considering what is best for you——”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Bee, almost fiercely; but she did not pour out upon him -that bitterness which had been collecting in her heart. She paused in -time; but then added, “I have not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> asked you to consider what was best -for me.”</p> - -<p>“That is enough to show that it is time for me to consider it,” he said.</p> - -<p>And then, once more their looks met, and clashed like the encounter of -two armies. What did she suspect? What did he intend? They both breathed -short, as if with the impulse of battle, but neither, even to -themselves, could have answered that question. Colonel Kingsward cried -“Take care, Bee!” as he went away, a by no means happy man, to his -library, while she threw herself down upon a sofa, and—inevitable -result in a girl of any such rising of passion—burst into tears.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” said the sensible Betty, “you ought not to speak like that to -papa.”</p> - -<p>“I ought to be thankful that he has considered what was best for me, and -spoilt my life!” cried Bee, through her tears. “Oh, it is very easy for -you to speak. You are to go to the Lyons’, where you wish to go—to be -free of all anxiety—for what is Charlie to you but only your brother, -and you know that you can’t do him any good by making yourself miserable -about him? And you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> see Gerald Lyon, who is doing well at -Cambridge, and listen to all the talk about him, and smile, and not hate -him for being so smug and prosperous, while poor Charlie——”</p> - -<p>“How unjust you are!” cried Betty, growing red and then pale. “It is not -Gerald Lyon’s fault that Charlie has not done well—even if I cared -anything for Gerald Lyon.”</p> - -<p>“It is you who ought to take care,” said Bee, “if papa thinks it -necessary to consider what is best for you.”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to consider,” said Betty, with a little movement of -her hands.</p> - -<p>“But it can never be so bad for you,” said Bee, with a tone of regret. -“Never! To think that my life should be ruined and all ended for the -sake of a woman—a woman—who has now ruined Charlie, and whom papa—oh, -papa!” she cried, with a tone indescribable of exasperation and scorn -and contempt.</p> - -<p>“What is it about papa? You look at each other, you and he, like two -tigers. You have got the same dreadful eyes. Yes, they are dreadful -eyes; they give out fire. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> wonder often that they don’t make a noise -like an explosion. And Bee, you said yourself that there was something -else. You never would have given in to papa, but there was something of -your own that parted you from Aubrey—for ever. You said so, Bee—when -his mother——”</p> - -<p>“Is there any need for bringing in any gentleman’s name?” cried Bee, -with the dignity of a dowager. And then, ignoring her own rule, she -burst forth, “What I have got against him is nothing to anyone—but that -Aubrey Leigh should be insulted and rejected and turned away from our -door, and that my heart should be broken because of a woman whom papa -and Charlie—whom papa——! He writes to her, and she writes to him—he -tells her everything—he consults her about us, <i>us</i>, my mother’s -children! And yet it was on her account that Aubrey Leigh was turned -from the door—— Oh, if you think I can bear that, you must think me -more than flesh and blood!” Bee cried, the tears adding to the fire and -sparkle of her blazing eyes.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t very nice,” said little Betty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> sagely, “but I am not so sure -that it was her fault, for if you had stuck to Aubrey as you meant to do -at first, your heart would not have been broken, and if Charlie had not -been very silly, a person of that age could not have done him any harm; -and then papa——. What can she do to papa? I suppose he thinks as she -is old he may write to her as a friend and ask her advice. There is not -any harm that I can see in that.”</p> - -<p>Bee was too much agitated to make any reply to this. She resumed again, -after a pause, as if Betty had not spoken: “He writes to her, and she -writes to him, just as she did to Charlie, for I have seen them -both—long letters, with that ridiculous “Laura,” and a big L, as if she -were a girl. You can see them, if you like, at breakfast, when he reads -them instead of his papers, and smiles to himself when he is reading -them, and looks—ridiculous”—cried Bee, in her indignation. -“Ridiculous! as if he were young too; a man who is father of all of us; -and not much more than a year ago—. Oh, if I were not to speak I think -the very trees would, and the bushes in the shrubbery! It is more than -anyone can bear.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<p>“You are making up a story,” said Betty, wonderingly. “I don’t know what -you mean.” Then she cried, carrying the war into the enemy’s country, -“Oh, Bee, if you had not given him up, if you had been faithful to -him!—now we should have had somebody to consult with, somebody that -could have gone and looked for poor Charlie; for we are only two girls, -and what can we do?”</p> - -<p>Bee did not make any reply, but looked at her sister with startled eyes.</p> - -<p>“Mamma was never against Aubrey Leigh,” said Betty, pursuing her -advantage. “She never would have wished you to give him up. And it is -all your own doing, not papa’s doing, or anyone’s. If I had ever cared -for him I never, never should have given him up; and then we should have -had as good as another brother, that could have gone into the world and -hunted everywhere and brought Charlie home.”</p> - -<p>The argument was taken up at hazard, a chance arrow lying in the young -combatant’s way, without intention—but it went straight to its mark.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house that had been so peaceful was thus full of agitation and -disturbance, the household, anxious and alarmed, turning their weapons -upon each other, to relieve a little the gnawing of that suspense which -they were so unaccustomed to bear. It was true what Bee’s keen and -sharply aroused observation had convinced her, that Colonel Kingsward -was in correspondence with Miss Lance, and that her letters were very -welcome to him, and read with great interest. He threw down the paper -after he had made a rush through its contents, and read eagerly the long -sheets of paper, upon which the great L, stamped at the head of every -page, could be read on the other side of the table.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> How did that woman -know the days he was to be at home, that her letters should always come -on those mornings and never at any other time? Bee almost forgot her -troubles, those of the family in respect to Charlie, and those which -were her very own, in her passionate hatred and distrust of the new -correspondent to whom Colonel Kingsward, like his son, had opened his -heart.</p> - -<p>He was not, naturally, a man given to correspondence. His letters to his -wife, in those days which now seemed so distant, had been models of -concise writing. His opinions, or rather verdicts, upon things great and -small had been conveyed in terse sentences, very much to the purpose; -deliverances not of his way of thinking, but of the unalterable dogmas -that were to rule the family life; and her replies, though diffuse, were -always more or less regulated by her consciousness of the little time -there would be given to them, and the necessity of making every -explanation as brief as possible—not to worry papa, who had so much to -do.</p> - -<p>Why it was that he found the long letters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> which he read with a certain -defiant pride in the presence of his daughters at the breakfast table, -so agreeable, it would be difficult to tell. They were very carefully -adapted to please him, it is true; and they were what are called clever -letters—such letters as clever women write, with a <i>faux air</i> of -brilliancy which deceives both the writer and the recipient, making the -one feel herself a Sevigné and the other a hero worthy the exercise of -such powers. And there was something very novel in this sudden inroad of -sentimental romance into an existence never either sentimental or -romantic, which had fallen into the familiar calm of family life so long -ago with a wife, who though sweet and fair enough to delight any man, -had become in reality only the chief of his vassals, following every -indication of his will, when not eagerly watching an opportunity of -anticipating his wishes. His new friend treated the Colonel in a very -different way. She expounded her views of life with all the adroitness -of a mind experienced in the treatment of those philosophies which touch -the questions of sex, the differences between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> a man’s and a woman’s -view, the sentiment which can be carried into the most simple subjects. -There is nothing that can give more entertaining play of argument, or -piquancy of intercourse, than this mode of correspondence when cleverly -carried out, and Miss Laura Lance was a mistress of all its methods. It -was all entirely new to Colonel Kingsward. He was as much enchanted with -it as his son had been, and thought the writer as brilliant, as -original, as poor Charlie had done, who had no way of knowing better. -The Colonel’s head, which generally had been occupied by professional or -public matters—by the intrigues of the service or the incompetencies of -the Department—now found a much more interesting private subject of -thought. He was a man full of anxiety and annoyance at this particular -crisis of his career, and his correspondent was by way of sharing his -anxiety to the utmost and even blaming herself as the cause of it; yet -she contrived to amuse him, to bring a smile, to touch a lighter key, to -relieve the tension of his mind from time to time, without ever allowing -him to feel that the chief subject of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> their correspondence was out of -her thoughts. He got no relief of this description at home, where the -girls’ anxious questions about Charlie, their eagerness to know what had -been done, seemed to upbraid him with indifference, as if he were not -doing everything that was possible. Miss Lance knew better the dangers -that were being run, the real difficulties of the case, than these -inexperienced chits of children; but she knew also that a man’s mind -requires relief, and that, in point of fact, the Colonel’s health, -strength and comfort, were of more importance than many Charlie’s. This -was a thing that had to be understood, not said, and the Colonel indeed -was as anxious and concerned about Charlie as it was almost possible to -be. He did not form dreadful pictures as Bee and Betty did of what the -boy might be suffering. The boy deserved to suffer, and this -consideration, had he dwelt upon it, would have afforded a certain -satisfaction. But what did make him wretched was the fear of any -exposure, the mention in public of anything that might injure his son’s -career. An opportunity was already dawning of getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> him an -appointment upon which the Colonel had long kept his eye, and which -would be of double importance at present as sending him out of the -country and into new scenes. But of what use were all a father’s careful -arrangements if they were thus balked by the perversity of the boy?</p> - -<p>Things were still in this painful suspense when Miss Lance announced to -Colonel Kingsward her arrival in town. She described to him how it was -that she was coming.</p> - -<p>“My friend is absent with her son till after Easter, and I am understood -to be fond of town, and am coming to spend a week or two to see the -first of the season, the pictures, &c., as well as a few friends whom I -still keep up, the relics of brighter and younger days—this is the -reason I give, but you will easily understand, dear Colonel Kingsward, -that there is another reason far more near to my heart. Your poor boy! -Or may I for once say our poor boy? For you are aware that I have never -ceased to upbraid myself for what has happened, and that I shall always -bear a mother’s heart to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> Charlie, dear fellow, to whom, in wishing him -nothing but good, I have been so unfortunate as to do such dreadful -wrong. Every word you say about your hopes for him, and the great chance -which he is so likely to miss, cuts me to the heart. And it has occurred -to me that there are some places in which he may have been heard of, to -which I could myself go, or where I might take you if you wished, which -you would not yourself be likely to know. I wish I had thought of them -before. I come up now full of hope that we may hear something and find a -reliable clue. I shall be in George Street, Hanover Square, a place -which is luckily in the way for everything. Please come and see me. I -hope you will not think I am presuming in endeavouring to solve a -difficulty for which I am, alas, alas! partially to blame. To assure me -of this at least if no more, come, do come to see me to-morrow, Tuesday -afternoon. I shall do nothing till I have your approval.”</p> - -<p>This letter had an exciting effect upon the Colonel, more than anything -he had known for years. He held it before him, yielding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> himself up to -this pleasurable sensation for some minutes after he had read it. The -Easter recess had left London empty, and he had been deprived of some of -the ordinary social solaces which, though they increased the difficulty -of keeping his son’s disappearance a secret, still broke the blank of -his suspense and made existence possible. Hard to bear was the point -blank shock which he had sometimes received, as when an indiscreet but -influential friend suddenly burst upon him, “I don’t see your son’s name -in the Oxford lists, Kingsward.” “No,” the Colonel had replied, with a -countenance from which all expression had been dismissed, “we thought it -better that he should keep to his special studies.” “Quite right, quite -right,” answered that great official, for what is a mere degree to F. -O.? Even to have such things as this said to him, with the chance of -putting in a response, was better than the stagnation, in which a man is -so apt to feel that all kinds of whispers are circulating in respect to -the one matter which it is his interest to conceal.</p> - -<p>And his heart, though it was a middle-aged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span>, and no longer nimble organ -given to leaping, jumped up in his breast when he read his letter. There -was the possible clue which it was good to hear of—and there was the -listener to whom he could tell everything, who took such an entire and -flattering share in his anxieties, with whom there was no need to invent -excuses, or to conceal anything. Perhaps there were other reasons, too, -which he did not put into words. The image which had dazzled him at -Oxford rose again before his eyes. It was an image which had already -often visited him. One of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and so -flattering, so confidential, so deeply impressed by himself, so candid -and anxious to blame herself, to place herself in his hands. He went -back to town with agreeable instead of painful anticipations. To share -one’s cares is always an alleviation—to be able openly to take a -friend’s advice. The girls, to whom alone he could be perfectly open on -this matter, were such little fools that he had ceased to discuss it -with them, if, indeed, he had ever discussed it. And to nobody else -could he speak on the subject at all. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> opportunity of pouring forth -all his speculations and alarms, of hearing the suggestions of another -mind—and such a mind as hers—of finding a new clue, was balm to his -angry, annoyed and excited spirit. There were other douceurs involved, -which were not absent from his thoughts. The pleasure of the woman’s -society, who was so flatteringly pleased with his, her mature beauty, -which had so much attraction in it, the look of her eyes, which said -more than words, the touch—laid upon his for a moment with so much -eloquent expression, appeal, sympathy, consolation, provocation—of her -beautiful hands. All this was in the Colonel’s mind. He had scarcely -known what was the touch of a woman’s hand, at least in this way, during -the course of his long, calm domestic life. He had been very fond of his -wife, of course, and very tender, as well as he knew how, during her -illness, though entirely unconscious of how much he demanded from her -even in the course of that illness. But this was utterly different, -apart from everything he had ever known. Friendship—that friendship -between man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> and woman which has been the subject of so much sentimental -controversy. Somebody whom Miss Lance had quoted to him, some great man -in Oxford, had said it was the only real friendship; many others, -amongst whom Colonel Kingsward himself had figured when at any moment so -ridiculous an argument had crossed his path, denounced it as a mere -unfounded fiction to conceal other sentiments. Dolts! It was the Oxford -great man who was in the right of it. The only friendship!—with -sweetness in it which no man could give, a more entire confidence, a -more complete sympathy. He knew that he could say things to Laura—Miss -Lance—which he could say to no man, and that a look from her eyes would -do more to strengthen him than oceans of kind words from lips which -would address him as “old fellow.” He had her image before him all the -time as he went up in the train; it went with him into the decorous -dulness of his office, and when he left his work an hour earlier than -usual his steps were as light as a young man’s. He had not <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span>felt so much -exhilaration of spirit since——; but he could scarcely go back to a -date on which his bosom’s lord had sat so lightly on his throne. Truth -to tell, Colonel Kingsward had fallen on evil days. Even the course of -his ordinary existence, when he had gone through life with his pretty -wife by his side, dining out constantly, going everywhere, though -enjoyable in its way, and with the satisfaction of keeping up to the -right mark, had not been exciting. She no doubt told for a great deal in -his happiness, but there were no risks, no excitements, and not as much -as the smart of an occasional quarrel between them. He had known what to -expect of her in every emergency; there was nothing novel to be looked -for, no unaccustomed flavour in anything she was likely to do or say. He -did not make this comparison consciously, for indeed there was no -comparison at all between his late wife (he called her so already in his -mind) and Miss Lance—not the slightest comparison! The latter was a far -more piquant thing—a friend—and the most delightful friend, surely, -that ever man had!</p> - -<p>He found her in a little drawing-room on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> the first floor of what looked -very much like an ordinary London lodging-house; but within it had -changed its character completely, and had become, though in a different, -more subtle way than that of the drawing-room in Oxford, the bower of -Laura, a special habitation marked with her very name, like the -notepaper on her table. He could not for the first moment avoid a -bewildering idea that it was the same room in which he had seen her in -Oxford transported thither. There seemed the same pictures on the walls, -the same writing-table, or at least one arranged in precisely the same -way, the same chairs placed two together for conversation. What a -wonderful creature she was, thus to put the stamp of her own being upon -everything she touched. Once more he had to wait for a minute or two -before she came, but she made no apology for her delay. She came in with -her hand extended, with an air of sympathy yet satisfaction at the sight -of him which went to Colonel Kingsward’s heart. If she had been sorry -only it would have displeased him, as showing a mind occupied wholly -with Charlie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> but the delicate mingling of pleasure with concern was -exactly what the Colonel felt to be most fit.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “How kind of you to come so soon, -to pay such prompt attention to my wish.”</p> - -<p>“Considering that it was my own wish,” he said, “and what I desired -most, I should say how good of you to come, but I can’t venture to hope -that it was entirely for me.”</p> - -<p>“It was very much for you, Colonel Kingsward. You know what blame I take -to myself for all that has happened. And I think, perhaps, I may have it -in my power to make some inquiries that would not suggest themselves. -But we must talk of this after. In the meantime, I can’t but think first -of you. What an ordeal for you—what weary work! But what a pull over us -you men have! You keep your great spirit and command over yourself -through everything, while, whatever little trouble we may have, it shows -immediately. Oh,” said Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a calm strong -man is a sight which it elevates one only to see.”</p> - -<p>“You give me far too much credit. One<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> is obliged to keep a good face to -the world. I don’t approve of people who wash their dirty linen in -public.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t try to make yourself little with all this commonplace reasoning. -You need not explain yourself to me, dear Colonel Kingsward. I flatter -myself that I have the gift of understanding, if nothing else.”</p> - -<p>“A great many things else,” he said; “and indeed my keeping up in this -emergency has been greatly helped by your great friendship and moral -support. I don’t know what you have done to this room,” he added, -changing the theme quickly, “did you bring it with you? It is not a mere -room in London—it is your room. I should have known it among a -thousand.”</p> - -<p>“What a delightful compliment,” she said. “I am so glad you think so, -for it is one of the things I pride myself on. I think I can always make -even a lodging-house look a bit like home.”</p> - -<p>“It looks like you,” he repeated. “I don’t notice such matters much, but -no one could help seeing. And I hope you are to be here for some time, -and that if I can be of any use<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Colonel Kingsward, don’t hold out such flattering hopes. You of -use! Of course, to a lone woman in town you would be far more than of -use—you would simply be a tower of strength. But I do not come here to -make use of you. I come—”</p> - -<p>“You could not give me greater pleasure than by making use of me. I am -not going much into society, my house is not open—my girls are too -young to take the responsibilities of a season upon themselves; but -anything that a single individual can do to be of service—”</p> - -<p>“Your dear girls—how I should like to see them, to be able to take them -about a little, to make up to those poor children as far as a stranger -could! But I can scarcely hope that you would trust them to me after the -trouble I have helped to bring on you all. Dear Colonel Kingsward, your -chivalrous offer will make all the difference in my life. If you will -give me your arm sometimes, on a rare occasion—”</p> - -<p>“As often as you please—and the oftener the more it will please me,” he -cried, in tones full of warmth and eagerness. Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> Lance raised her -grateful eyes to him full of unspeakable things. She made no further -reply except by one of those light touches upon his arm less than -momentary, if that were possible, like the brush of a wing, or an -ethereal contact of ideas.</p> - -<p>And then she said gravely, “Now about that poor, dear boy; we must find -him, oh, we must find him. I have thought of several places where he may -have been seen. Do you know that I met him once by chance in town last -year? It was at the Academy, where I was with some artist friends. I -introduced him to them, and you know there is great freedom among them, -and they have a great charm for young men. I think some of them may have -seen him. I have put myself in communication with them.”</p> - -<p>“I would not for a moment,” said the Colonel, somewhat stiffly, “consent -to burden you with inquiries of this kind!”</p> - -<p>“You do not think,” she said, sweetly, “that I would do anything, or say -anything to compromise him or you?”</p> - -<p>The Colonel looked at her with the strangest sudden irritation. “I was -not thinking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> either of him or myself. Why should you receive men, who -must be entirely out of your way, for our sakes?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, with a soft laugh, “you are afraid that I may compromise -myself.” She rose with an unspoken impulse, which made him rise also, in -spite of himself, with a feeling of unutterable downfall, and the sense -of being dismissed. “Don’t be afraid for me, Colonel Kingsward, I beg. I -shall not compromise anyone.” Then she turned with a sudden illumination -of a smile. “Come back and see me to-morrow, and you shall hear what I -have found out.”</p> - -<p>And he went away humbly, relieved yet mortified, not holding his head as -high as when he came, but already longing for to-morrow, when he might -come back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Colonel Kingsward</span> had been flattered, he had been pleased. He had felt -himself for a moment one of the exceptional men in whom women find an -irresistible attraction, and then he had been put down and dismissed -with the calmest decision, with a peremptoriness which nobody in his -life had ever used to him. All these sweetnesses, and then to be, as it -were, huddled out of doors the moment he said a word which was not -satisfactory to that imperial person! He could not get it out of his -mind during the evening nor all the night through, during which it -occurred to him whenever he woke, as a prevailing thought does. And he -had been right, too. To send for men, any kind of men, artists<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> whom she -herself described as having so much freedom in their ways, and have -interviews with them, was a thing to which he had a good right to -object. That is, her friend had a right to object to it—her friend who -took the deepest interest in her and all that she was doing. That it was -for Charlie’s advantage made really no difference. This gave a beautiful -and admirable motive, but then all her motives were beautiful and -admirable, and it must be necessary in some cases to defend her against -the movements of her own good heart. Evidently she did not sufficiently -think of what the world would say, nor, indeed, of what was essentially -right; for that a woman of her attractions, still young, living -independently in rooms of her own, should receive artists -indiscriminately, nay, send for them, admit them to sit perhaps for an -hour with her, with no chaperon or companion, was a thing that could not -be borne. This annoyance almost drove Charlie out of Colonel Kingsward’s -head. He felt that when he went to her next day he must, with all the -precautions possible, speak his mind upon this subject.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> A woman with -such attractions, really a young woman, alone; nobody could have more -need of guarding against evil tongues. And artists were proverbially an -unregulated, free-and-easy race, with long hair and defective linen, not -men to be privileged with access under any circumstances to such a -woman. Unquestionably he must deliver his soul on that subject for her -own sake.</p> - -<p>He thought about it all the morning, how to do it best. It relieved his -mind about Charlie. Charlie! Charlie was only a young fellow after all, -taking his own way, as they all did, never thinking of the anxiety he -gave his family. And no doubt he would turn up of his own accord when he -was tired of it. That she should depart from the traditions which -naturally are the safeguards of ladies for the sake of a silly boy, who -took so little trouble about the peace of mind of his family, was -monstrous. It was a thing which he could not permit to be.</p> - -<p>When he went into his private room at his office, Colonel Kingsward -found a card upon his table which increased the uneasiness in his mind, -though he could not have told why.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> He took it up with great surprise -and anger. “Mr. Aubrey Leigh.” He supposed it must have been a card left -long ago, when Aubrey Leigh was Bee’s suitor, and had come repeatedly, -endeavouring to shake her father’s determination. He looked at it -contemptuously, and then pitched it into the fire.</p> - -<p>What a strange perversity there is in these inanimate things! It seemed -as if some malicious imp must have replaced that card there on that very -morning to disturb him.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward did not remember how it was that the name, the sacred -name, of Miss Lance was associated with that of Aubrey Leigh. He had -been much surprised, as well as angry, at the manner in which Bee -repeated that name, when she heard it first, with a vindictive jealousy -(these words came instinctively to his mind) which was not -comprehensible. He had refused indignantly to allow that she had ever -heard the name before. Nevertheless, her cry awakened a vague -association in his mind. Something or other, he could not recollect -what, of connection, of suggestion, was in the sound. He threw Aubrey’s -card into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> fire, and endeavoured to dismiss all thought on the -subject. But it was a difficult thing to do. It is to be feared that -during those morning hours the work which Colonel Kingsward usually -executed with so much exactitude, never permitting, as he himself -stated, private matters—even such as the death of his wife or the -disappearance of his son—to interfere with it, was carried through with -many interruptions and pauses for thought, and at the earliest possible -moment was laid aside for that other engagement which had nothing to do -either with the office or the Service, though it was, he flattered -himself, a duty, and one of the most lofty kind.</p> - -<p>To save a noble creature, if possible, from the over generosity of her -own heart; to convince her that such proceedings were inappropriate, -inconsistent with her dignity, as well as apt to give occasion for the -adversary to blaspheme—this was the mission which inspired him. If he -thought of a natural turning towards himself, the friend of friends, in -respect to whom the precautions he enforced were unnecessary, in -consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> of these remonstrances, he kept it carefully in the -background of his thoughts. It was a duty. This beautiful, noble woman, -all frankness and candour, had taken the part of an angel in -endeavouring to help him in his trouble. Could he permit her to sully -even the tip of a wing of that generous effort. Certainly not! On the -contrary, it became doubly his duty to protect her in every way.</p> - -<p>This time Miss Lance was in her drawing-room, seated in one of the pair -of chairs which were arranged for intimate conversation. She did not -rise, but held out her hand to him, with a soft impulse towards the -other—in which Colonel Kingsward accordingly seated himself, with a -solemnity upon his brow which she had no difficulty in interpreting, -quick-witted as she was. She did not loose a shade upon that forehead, a -note of additional gravity in his voice. She knew as well as he did the -duty which he had come to perform. And she was a woman—not only -quick-witted and full of a definite aim, but one who took real pleasure -in her own dexterity, and played her <i>rôle</i> with genuine enjoyment. She -allowed him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> to open the conversation with much dignified earnestness, -and even to begin, “My dear Miss Lance,” his countenance charged with -warning before she cut the ground from under his feet in the lightest, -yet most complete way.</p> - -<p>“I know you are going to say something very serious when you adopt that -tone, so please let me discharge my mind first. Mrs. Revel kindly came -to me after you left yesterday, and she has made every inquiry—indeed, -as she compelled me to go back with her to dinner, I saw for myself——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Revel?” said the Colonel.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you know he was married? Oh, yes, to a great friend of mine, a -dear little woman. It is in their house I meet my artists, whom I told -you of. Tuesday is her night, and they were all there. I was able to -make my investigations without any betrayal. But I am very, very sorry -to say, dear Colonel Kingsward, equally without any effect.”</p> - -<p>“Without any effect,” Colonel Kingsward repeated, confused. He was not -so quick-witted as she was, and it took him some time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> to make his way -through these mazes. Revel, the painter, was a name, indeed, that he had -heard vaguely, but his wife, so suddenly introduced, and her “night,” -and the people described as my artists, wound him in webs of -bewilderment through which it was very difficult to guide his steps. It -became apparent to him, however, after a moment, that whatever those -things might mean, the ground had been cut from under his feet. “Does -Mrs. Revel know?” he added after a moment, in his bewilderment.</p> - -<p>“Know—our poor dear boy? Oh, yes; I took him there—in my foolish -desire to do the best I could for him, and thinking that to see other -circles outside of his own was good for a young man. I couldn’t take him -the round of the studios, you know—could I? But I took him to the -Revels. She is a charming little woman, a woman whom I am very fond of, -and—more extraordinary still, don’t you think, Colonel Kingsward?—who -is fond of me.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel was not up to the mark in this emergency. He did not give -the little compliment which is expected after such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> speech. He sat -dumb, a dull, middle-aged blush rising over his face. He had no longer -anything to say; instead of the serious, even impassioned remonstrance -which he was about to address to her, he could only murmur a faint -assent, a question without meaning. And in place of the generous, -imprudent creature, following her own hasty impulses, disregarding the -opinion of the world, whom he had expected to find, here was female -dignity in person, regulated by all the nicest laws of propriety. He was -struck dumb—the ground was cut from beneath his feet.</p> - -<p>“This is only an interruption on my part. You were going to say -something to me? And something serious? I prize so much everything you -say that I must not lose it. Pray say it now, dear Colonel Kingsward. -Have I done something you don’t like? I am ready to accept even -blame—though you know what women are in that way, always standing out -that they are right—from you.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked at her, helpless, still without a word to say. -There was surely a laughing demon in her eyes which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> saw through and -through him and knew the trouble in his mind; but her face was serious, -appealing, a little raised towards him, waiting for his words as if her -fate hung upon them. The colour rose over his middle-aged countenance to -the very hair which was beginning to show traces of white over his high -forehead.</p> - -<p>“Blame!” he stammered, scarcely knowing what he said, “I hope you don’t -think me quite a fool.”</p> - -<p>“What,” she cried, picking him up as it were on the end of her lance, -holding him out to the scorn—if not of the world, yet of himself. “Do -you think so little of a woman, Colonel Kingsward, that you would not -take the trouble to find fault with her? Ah! Don’t be so hard! You would -not be a fool if you did that—you should find that I would take it with -gratitude, accept it, be guided by it. Believe me, I am worthy, if you -think me in the wrong, to be told so—I am, indeed I am!”</p> - -<p>Were these tears in her fine eyes? She made them look as if they were, -and filled him with a compunction and a shame of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> own superficial -judgment impossible to put into words.</p> - -<p>“I—think you wrong!” he said, stammering and faltering. “I would as -soon think that—heaven was wrong. I—blame you! Dear Miss Laura, how, -how can you imagine such a thing? I should be a miserable idiot indeed -if——”</p> - -<p>“Come,” she said, “I begin to think you didn’t mean—now that you have -called me by my name.”</p> - -<p>“I beg you a thousand pardons. I—I—It was a slip of the tongue. It -was—from the signature to your letters—which is somehow so like -you——”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said. “It pleases me very much that you should think so—more -like me than Lance. Lance! What a name! My mother made a mésalliance. I -don’t give up my father, poor dear, though he has saddled me with such a -family—but Laura is me, whereas Lance is only—an accident.”</p> - -<p>“An accident that may be removed,” he said, involuntarily. It was a -thing that might be said to any unmarried woman, a conventional sort of -half compliment, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> custom would have permitted him to put in even -stronger terms—but to her! When he had said it horror seized his soul.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, gently shaking her head. “No. At my age one does not -recover from an accident like that; one must bear the scar all one’s -days. And you really had nothing to find fault with me about?”</p> - -<p>“How monstrous!” he cried, “to entertain such a thought.” Then, for he -was really uneasy in his sense of guilt, he plunged into a new snare. -“My little daughter, Betty,” he said, “is coming to town to-day to visit -some friends in Portman Square. I wonder if I might bring her to see -you.”</p> - -<p>“Your daughter!” cried Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a thing I did -not venture to ask—the very first desire of my heart. Your daughter! I -would go anywhere to see her. If you will be so nice, so sweet, so kind -as to bring her, Colonel Kingsward!”</p> - -<p>“I shall, indeed, to-morrow. It will do her good to see you. At her -susceptible age the very sight of such a woman as you—”</p> - -<p>“No compliments,” she cried, “if I am not to be blamed I must not be -praised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> either—and I deserve it much less. Is she the eldest?” There -was a gleam under her half-dropped eyelids which the Colonel was vaguely -aware of but did not understand.</p> - -<p>“The second,” he said. “My eldest girl is Bee, in many respects a -stronger character than her sister, but on the other hand—”</p> - -<p>“I know,” said Miss Lance, “a little wilful, fond of her own way and her -own opinion. Oh, that is a good fault in a girl! When they are a little -chastened they turn out the finest women. But I understand what a man -must feel for this little sweet thing who has not begun to have a will -of her own.”</p> - -<p>It was not perhaps a very perfect characterisation of Betty, but still -it flattered him to see how she entered into his thoughts. “I think you -understand everything,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not with any intention, but solely to deliver himself from the -dilemma in which he found himself—the inconceivable error he had made, -imagining that it was necessary to censure, however gently, and warn -against too much freedom of action, a woman so absolutely above -reproach, and so full of ladylike dignity as Miss Lance—that Colonel -Kingsward had named the name of Betty, his little daughter, just arrived -in that immaculate stronghold of the correct and respectable Portman -Square. He was a little uneasy about it when he thought of it -afterwards. He was not sure that he desired even Betty to be aware of -his intimacy with Miss Lance. He felt that her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> youthful presence would -change, in some degree, the character of his relations with the -enchantress who was stealing his wits away. The kind of conversation -that had arisen so naturally between them, the sentiment, the -confidences, the singular strain of mutual understanding which he felt, -with mingled pride and bashfulness—bashfulness sat strangely upon the -much-experienced Colonel, yet such was his feeling—to exist between -Laura and himself, must inevitably sustain certain modifications under -the sharp eyes of the child. She would not understand that subtle but -strong link of friendship. He would require to be more distant, to treat -his exquisite friend more like an ordinary acquaintance while under the -inspection of Betty, even though he was perfectly assured that Betty -knew nothing about such matters. And what, then, would Laura say? -Confident as she was in her own perfect honour and candour, would she -understand the subdued manner, the more formal address which would be -necessary in the presence of the child? It was true that she understood -everything without a word<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> said; but then her own entire innocence of -any motive but those of heavenly kindness and friendship might induce -her to laugh at his precautions. Was it, perhaps, because he felt his -motives to be not unmingled that the Colonel felt this? Anyhow, the -introduction of Betty, whom he had snatched at in his haste to save him -from the consequences of his own folly, would be a trouble to the -intercourse which, as it was, was so consolatory and so sweet.</p> - -<p>It must be added that Miss Lance, before he left her, had been very -consolatory to him on the subject of Charlie, which, though always lying -at the bottom of his thoughts, had begun in the midst of these new -developments to weigh upon him less, perhaps, than it was natural it -should have done. She had suggested that Charlie had friends in -Scotland, that he had most probably gone there to avoid for a time his -father’s wrath, that in all probability he was enjoying himself, and -very well cared for, putting off from day to day the necessity of -writing.</p> - -<p>“He never was, I suppose, much of a correspondent?” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>“No,” Colonel Kingsward had replied, doubtfully; for indeed there never -had been anything at all to call correspondence between him and his son. -Charlie had written to his mother, occasionally to his sisters, but to -his father, save when he wanted money, scarcely at all.</p> - -<p>“Then this is what has happened,” said Laura; “he has gone off to be as -far out of the way as possible. He is fishing in Loch Tay—or he is -playing golf somewhere—you know his habits.”</p> - -<p>“And so it seems do you,” said the Colonel, a little jealous of his son.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know how a boy chatters of everything he does and likes.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward nodded his head gloomily. He did not know how boys -chattered—no boy had ever chattered to him; but he accepted with a -moderate satisfaction the fact that she, Laura, from whom he felt that -he himself could have no secret, had taken, and did take, the trouble of -turning the heart even—of a boy—outside in.</p> - -<p>“Depend upon it,” said Miss Lance, “that is where he has gone, and he -has not meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> to make you anxious. Perhaps he thinks you have never -discovered that he had left Oxford, and he has meant to write day by -day. Don’t you know how one does that? It is a little difficult to -begin, and one says, ‘To-morrow,’ and then ‘To-morrow’; and the time -flies on. Dear Colonel Kingsward, you will find that all this time he is -quite happy on Loch Tay.” She held out her hand to emphasise these -words, and the Colonel, though all unaccustomed to such signs of -enthusiasm, kissed that hand which held out comfort to him. It was a -beautiful hand, so soft, like velvet, so yielding and flexible in his, -and yet so firm in its delicate pressure. He went away with his head -slightly turned, and the blood coursing through his veins. But when he -thought of little Betty he dropped down, down into a blank of decorum -and commonplace. Before Betty he certainly could not kiss any lady’s -hand. He would have to shake hands with Laura as he did with old Mrs. -Lyon in Portman Square, who, indeed, was a much older friend. This -thought gave him a little feeling of contrariety and uneasiness in the -contemplation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> of his promise to take his little girl to George Street, -Hanover Square.</p> - -<p>And next morning when he went into his office, Colonel Kingsward’s -annoyance and indignation could not be expressed when he found once more -upon his writing-table, placed in a conspicuous position so that he -could not overlook it, the card of Mr. Aubrey Leigh. Who had fished it -out of the waste paper basket and placed it there? He rang his bell -hastily to overwhelm his attendant with angry reproof. He could not have -told himself, why it made him so angry to see that card. It looked like -some vulgar interference with his most private affairs.</p> - -<p>“Where did you find this card?” he said, angrily, “and why is it -replaced here? I threw it into the fire—or somewhere, yesterday—and -here it is again as if the man had called to-day.”</p> - -<p>“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday.”</p> - -<p>“What?” cried Colonel Kingsward, in a voice like a trumpet; but the man -stood his ground.</p> - -<p>“The gentleman did call, sir, yesterday. He has called two or three -times; once when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> you were in the country. He seemed very anxious to see -you. I said two o’clock for a general thing, but you have been leaving -the office earlier for a day or two.”</p> - -<p>“You are very impertinent to say anything of the kind, or to give anyone -information of my private movements; see that it never occurs again. And -as for this gentleman,” he held up his card for a moment, looked at it -contemptuously and then pitched it once more into the fireplace, “be so -good as to understand that I will not see him, whether he comes at two -or at any other hour.”</p> - -<p>“Am I to tell him so, sir?” said the man, annoyed.</p> - -<p>“Of course you are to tell him so; and mind you don’t bring me any -message or explanation. I will not see him—that is enough; now you can -go.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I—— say you’re too busy, Colonel, or just going out, or -engaged——?”</p> - -<p>“No!” shouted Colonel Kingsward, with a force of breath which blew the -attendant away like a strong wind. The Colonel returned to his work and -his correspondence with an irritation and annoyance which even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> to -himself seemed beyond the occasion. Bee’s old lover, he supposed, had -taken courage to make another attempt; but nothing would induce him to -change his former decision. He would not hear a word, not a word! A kind -of panic mingled in his hasty impulse of rage. He would not so much as -see the fellow—give him any opportunity of renewing—— Was it his suit -to Bee? Was it something else indefinite behind? Colonel Kingsward did -not very well know, but he was determined on one thing—not to allow the -presence of this intruder, not to hear a word that he had to say.</p> - -<p>And then about Betty—that was annoying too, but he had promised to do -it, and to break his word to Laura was a thing he could not do. -Laura—Miss Laura, if she pleased, though that is not a usual mode of -address—but not Lance—how right she was! The name of Lance did not -suit her at all, and yet how just and sweet all the same. Her mother had -made a mésalliance, but there was no pettiness about her. She held by -her father, though she was aware of his inferiority. And then he thought -of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> as she shook her head gently, and smiled at his awkward -stumbling suggestion that the accident of the name was not irremediable. -“At my age,”—what was her age? The most delightful, the most -fascinating of ages, whatever it was. Not the silly girlhood of Bee and -Betty, but something far more entrancing, far more charming. These -thoughts interfered greatly with his correspondence, and made the mass -of foreign newspapers, and the military intelligence from all over the -world, which it was his business to look over, appear very dull, -uninteresting and confused. He rose hastily after a while, and took his -hat and sallied forth to Portman Square, where he was expected to -luncheon. He was relieved, on the whole, to be thus legitimately out of -the way in case that fellow should have the audacity to call again.</p> - -<p>“I want you to come out with me, Betty,” he said, after that meal, which -was very solemn, serious and prolonged, but very dull and not -appetising. “I want to take you to see a friend—” -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> -“Oh, papa! we are going to—— Mrs. Lyon was going to take me to see -Mr. Revel’s picture before he sends it in.”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow will do, my dear, equally well, if your papa wants you to go -anywhere.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Revel’s picture? He is precisely a friend of the friend I am going -to take you to see.” For a moment Colonel Kingsward wavered thinking how -much more agreeable it would be to have his interview with Laura -undisturbed by the presence of this little chit with her sharp eyes. But -he was a soldier and faithful to his consignee. “If it will do as well -to-morrow, and will not derange Mrs. Lyon’s plans, I should like you to -come now.”</p> - -<p>“Run and get ready, Betty,” cried the old lady, to whom obedience was a -great quality, “and there will still be time to go there, if you are not -very long, when you come back.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel felt as if his foot was upon more solid ground; not that any -doubt of Laura had ever been in his mind—but yet—— He had not -suspected the existence of any link between her and Portman Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span></p> - -<p>“Mr. Revel is a very good painter, I suppose?” he said.</p> - -<p>“A great painter, we all think; and beginning to be really acknowledged -in the art world,” said the old lady, who liked it to be known that she -knew a great deal about pictures, and was herself considered to have -some authority in that interesting sphere.</p> - -<p>“And—hasn’t he a wife? I think I heard someone talking of his wife.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, a dear little woman!” cried Mrs. Lyon. “Her Tuesdays are the most -pleasant parties. We always go when we are able. Ah! here is Betty, like -a little rose. Now, acknowledge you are proud to have a little thing -like that, Colonel, to walk with you through the park on a fine day like -this?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward looked at Betty. She was a pretty little blooming -creature. He did not regard her with any enthusiasm, and yet she was a -creditable creature enough to belong to one. He gave a little nod of -approving indifference. Betty was very much admired at Portman -Square—from Gerald, who kept up an artillery of glances across the big -table, to the old butler, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> called her attention specially to any -dish that was nicer than usual, and carried meringues to her twice, she -was the object of everybody’s regards. Her father did not, naturally, -look at her from the same point of view, but he was sufficiently pleased -with her appearance. He was pleased, too, exhilarated, he could scarcely -tell why, by the fact that Mrs. Lyon knew the painter’s wife and spoke -of her as a “dear little woman,” the very words Laura had used. Did he -require any guarantee that Laura herself was of the same order, knew the -same sort of people as his other friends? Had such a question been put -to him, the Colonel would have knocked the man down who made it, as in -days when duelling was possible he would have called him out—— But -yet—at all events it gave him much satisfaction that the British matron -in the shape of Mrs. Lyon spoke no otherwise of the lady whom for one -terrible moment of delusion he had intended to warn against intercourse, -too little guarded, with such equivocal men as artists. He shuddered -when he thought of that extraordinary aberration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>“Who is it, papa, we are going to see?” said Betty’s little voice by his -side.</p> - -<p>“It is a lady—who has taken a great interest in your brother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, that I should not have asked that the first thing! Have you -any news?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing that I can call news, but I think I may say I have reason to -believe that Charlie has gone up to the north to the Mackinnons. That -does not excuse him for having left us in this anxiety; but the idea, -which did not occur to me till yesterday, has relieved my mind.”</p> - -<p>“To the Mackinnons!” said Betty, doubtfully, “but then I heard——” She -stopped herself suddenly, and added after a moment, “How strange, papa, -if he is there, that none of them should have written.”</p> - -<p>“It is strange; but perhaps when you think of all things, not so very -strange. He probably has not explained the circumstances to them, and -they will think that he has written; they would not feel it -necessary—why should they?—to let us know of his arrival. That, as a -matter of course, they would expect him to have done. I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> think, on -the whole, it is at all strange; on his part inexcusable, but not to be -expected from them.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa!” cried Betty.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” he said, almost crossly. “I don’t mind saying,” he added, -“that even for him there may be excuses—if such folly can ever be -excused. He never writes to me in a general way, and it would not be a -pleasant letter to write; and no doubt he has put it off from day to -day, intending always to do it to-morrow—and every day would naturally -make it more difficult.” Thus he went on repeating unconsciously all the -suggestions that had been made to him. “Remember, Betty,” he said, “as -soon as you see that you have done anything wrong, always make a clean -breast of it at once; the longer you put it off the more difficult you -will find it to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” said little Betty, with great doubt in her tone. She did -not know what to think, for she had in her blotting book at Portman -Square a letter lately received from one of these same Mackinnons in -which not a word was said of Charlie. Why should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> not Helen have -mentioned him had he been there? And yet, if papa thought so, and if it -relieved his mind to think so, what was Betty to set up a different -opinion? Her mind was still full of this thought when she found herself -following her father up the narrow stairs into the little drawing-room. -There she was met by a lady, who rose and came forward to her, holding -out two beautiful hands. “Such hands!” Betty said afterwards. Her own -were plump, reddish articles, small enough and not badly shaped, but -scarcely free from the scars and smirches of gardening, wild-flower -collecting, pony saddling, all the unnecessary pieces of work that a -country girl’s, like a country boy’s, are employed for. She had at the -moment a hopeless passion for white hands. And these drew her close, -while the beautiful face stooped over her and gave her a soft lingering -kiss. Was it a beautiful face? At least it was very, very handsome—fine -features, fine eyes, an imposing benignity, like a grand duchess at the -very least.</p> - -<p>“So this is little Betty,” the lady said, to whom she was presented by -that title, “just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> out of last century, with her grandmother’s name, and -the newest version of her grandmother’s hat. How pretty! Oh, it is your -hat, you know, not you, that I am admiring. Like a little rose!”</p> - -<p>Betty had no prejudices aroused in her mind by this lady’s name, for -Colonel Kingsward did not think it necessary to pronounce it. He said, -“My little Betty,” introducing the girl, but he did not think it needful -to make any explanations to her. And she thus fell, all unprotected, -under the charm. Laura talked to her for full five minutes without -taking any notice of the Colonel, and drew from her all she wanted to -see, and the places to which she was going, making a complete conquest -of the little girl. It was only when Colonel Kingsward’s patience was -quite exhausted, and he was about to jump up and propose somewhat -sullenly to leave his daughter with her new friend, that Miss Lance -turned to him suddenly with an exclamation of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear, Colonel Kingsward? She was going to see Arthur Revel’s -picture this afternoon. And so was I! Will you come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> too? He is a great -friend of mine, as I told you, and he knew dear Charlie, and, of course, -he would be proud and delighted to see you. Shall we take Betty back to -Portman Square to pick up her carriage and her old lady, and will you go -humbly on foot with me? We shall meet them, and Mrs. Revel shall give us -tea.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, do!” Betty cried.</p> - -<p>It was not perhaps what he would have liked best, but he yielded with a -very good grace. He had not, perhaps, been so proud of little Betty by -his side as the Lyons had expected, but Laura by his side was a -different matter. He could not help remarking how people looked at her -as they went along, and his mind was full of pride in the handsome, -commanding figure, almost as tall as himself, and walking like a queen. -Yet it made his head turn round a little when he saw Miss Lance seated -by Mrs. Lyon’s side in the studio, talking intimately to her of the -whole Kingsward family, while Betty clung to her new friend as if she -had known her all her life. Old Mrs. Lyon was still more startled, and -her head went round too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> “What a handsome woman!” she said, in Colonel -Kingsward’s ear. “What a delightful woman! Who is she?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Lance,” he said, rather stupidly, feeling how little information -these words conveyed. Miss Lance? Who was Miss Lance? If he had said -Laura it might have been a different matter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> all these things were going on, Bee was left at Kingswarden alone. -That is to say, she was so far from being alone that her solitude was -absolute. She had all the children and was very busy among them. She had -the two boys home for the Easter holidays; the house was full of the -ordinary noise, mirth and confusion natural to a large young family -under no more severe discipline than that exercised by a young elder -sister. The big boys, were in their boyish way, gentlemen, and deferred -to Bee more or less—which set a good example to the younger ones; but -she was enveloped in a torrent of talk, fun, games and jest, which raged -round her from before she got up in the morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> till at least the -twilight, when the nursery children got tired, and the big boys having -exhausted every method of amusement during the day, began to feel the -burden of nothing to do, and retired into short-lived attempts at -reading, or games of beggar-my-neighbour, or any other simple mode of -possible recreation—descending to the level of imaginary football with -an old hat through the corridor before it was time to go to bed.</p> - -<p>In the evening Bee was thus completely alone, listening to the distant -bumps in the passage, and the voices of the players. The drawing-room -was large, but it was indifferently lighted, which is apt to make a -country drawing-room gloomy in the evening. There was one shaded lamp on -a writing-table, covered at this moment with colour boxes and rough -drawings of the boys, who had been constructing a hut in the grounds, -and wasting much vermillion and Prussian blue on their plans for it; and -near the fireplace, in which the chill of the Spring still required a -little fire, was another lamp, shining silently upon Bee’s white dress -and her hands crossed in her lap. Her face and all its thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> were in -the shade, nobody to share, nobody to care what they were.</p> - -<p>Betty was in town. Her one faithful though not always entirely -sympathetic companion, the aunt—at all times not much more than a piece -of still life—was unwell and had gone to bed; Charlie was lost in the -great depth and silence of the world; Bee was thus alone. She had been -working for the children, making pinafores or some other necessary, as -became her position as sister-mother; for where there are so many -children there is always a great deal to do; but she had grown tired of -the pinafores. If it were not a hard thing to say she was a little tired -of the children too, tired of having to look after them perpetually, of -the nurse’s complaints, and the naughtiness of baby who was spoilt and -unmanageable—tired of the bumping and laughing of the boys, and tired -too of bidding them be quiet, not to rouse the children.</p> - -<p>All these things had suddenly become intolerable to Bee. She had a great -many times expressed her thankfulness that she had so much to do, and no -time to think—and probably to-morrow morning she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> again be of -that opinion; but in the meantime she was very tired of it all—tired of -a position which was too much for her age, and which she was not able to -bear. She was only a speck in the long, empty drawing-room, her white -skirts and her hands crossed in her lap being all that showed -distinctly, betraying the fact that someone was there, but with her face -hidden in the rosy shade, there was nobody to see that tears had stolen -up into Bee’s eyes. Her hands were idle, folded in her lap. She was -tired of being dutiful and a good girl, as the best of girls are -sometimes. It seemed to her for the moment a dreary world in which she -was placed, merely to take care of the children, not for any pleasure of -her own. She felt that she could not endure for another moment the -bumping in the passage, and the distant voices of the boys. Probably if -they went on there would be a querulous message from Aunt Helen, or -pipings from the nursery of children woke up, and a furious descent of -nurse, more than insinuating that Miss Bee did not care whether baby’s -sleep was broken or not. But even with this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> certainty before her, Bee -did not feel that she had energy to get up from her chair and interfere; -it was too much. She was too solitary, left alone to bear all the -burden.</p> - -<p>Then the habitual thought of Charlie returned to her mind. Poor Charlie! -Where was he, still more alone than she. Perhaps hidden away in the -silence of the seas, or tossing in a storm, going away, away where no -one who cared for him would ever see him more. The tears which had come -vaguely to her eyes dropped, making a mark upon her dress, legitimatised -by this thought. Bee would have been ashamed had they fallen for -herself; but for Charlie—Charlie lost!—none of his family knowing -where he was—she might indeed be allowed to cry. Where was he? Where -was he? If he had been here he would have been sitting with her, making -things more possible. Bee knew very well in her heart that if Charlie -had been with her he would not have been much help to her, that he would -have been grumbling over his own hard fate, and calling upon her to pity -him; but the absent, if they are sometimes wronged, have, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> the other -hand, the privilege of being remembered in their best aspect. Then Bee’s -thoughts glided on from Charlie to someone else whom she had for a long -time refused to think of, or tried to refuse to think of. She was so -solitary to-night, with all her doors open to recollections, that he had -stolen in before she knew, and now there was quite a shower of round -blots upon her white dress. Aubrey—oh, Aubrey! who had betrayed her -trust so, who had done her such cruel wrong!—but yet, but yet——</p> - -<p>She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant with the evening post. -Kingswarden was near enough to town to have an evening post, which is a -privilege not always desirable. But any incident was a good thing for -poor Bee. She drew the pinafore, at which she had been working, hastily -over her knee to hide the spots of moisture, and dashed the tears from -her eyes with a rapid hand. In the shade of the lamp not even the most -keen eyes could see that she had been crying. She even paused as she -took the letter to say, “Will you please tell the boys not to make so -much noise?” There were three letters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> on the tray—one for her father, -one for her aunt, one Betty’s usual daily rigmarole of little news and -nonsense which she never failed to send when she was away. Betty’s -letter was very welcome to her sister. But as Bee read it her face began -to burn. It became more and more crimson, so that the rose shade of the -lamp was overpowered by a deeper and hotter colour. Betty to turn upon -her, to take up the other side, to cast herself under that dreadful new -banner of Fate! Bee’s breath came quickly, her heart beat with anger and -trouble. She got up from her chair and began to walk quickly about the -room, a sudden passion sweeping away all the forlorn sentiment of her -previous thoughts. Betty! in addition to all the rest. Bee felt like the -forlorn <i>chatelaine</i> of a besieged castle alone to defend the walls -against the march of a destroying invader. The danger which had been far -off was coming—it was coming! And the castle had no garrison at all—if -it were not perhaps those dreadful boys making noise enough to bring -down the house, who were precisely the partisans least to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> depended -upon, who would probably throw down their arms without striking a blow. -And Bee was alone, the captain deserted of all her forces to defend the -sacred hearth and the little children. The little children! Bee stamped -her foot upon the floor in an appeal, not to heaven, but to all the -powers of Indignation, Fury, War, War! She would defend those walls to -her last gasp. She would not give way, she would fight it out step by -step, to keep the invader from the children. The nursery should be her -citadel. Oh, she knew what would happen, she cried to herself -inconsequently! Baby, who was spoilt, would be twisted into rigid shape, -the little girls would be subdued like little mice—the boys—</p> - -<p>At this moment the old hat which served as a football came with a thump -from the corridor into the hall, followed by a louder shout than ever -from Arthur and Rex. Bee rushed forth upon them flinging the door open, -with her blue eyes blazing.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to bring down the house?” she said, in a sudden outburst. -“Do you mean to break the vases and the mirror and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> wake up the whole -nursery and bring Aunt Helen down upon us? For goodness sake try to -behave like reasonable creatures, and don’t drive me out of my senses!” -cried Bee.</p> - -<p>The boys were so startled by this onslaught that Rex, with a final kick -sent the wretched old hat flying to the end of the passage which led to -the servants’ hall, as if it were that harmless object that was to -blame—while Arthur covered the retreat sulkily by a complaint that -there was nothing to do in this beastly old hole, and that a fellow -couldn’t read books all the day long. Bee was so inspired and thrilling -with the passion in her, that she went further than any properly -constituted female creature knowing her own position ought to do.</p> - -<p>“You have a great deal more to do than I have,” she said, “far, far more -to do and to amuse yourselves with. Why should you expect so much more -than I do, because you are boys and I am a girl? Is it fair? You’re -always talking of things being fair. It isn’t fair that you should -disturb the whole house, the little babies, and everyone for your -pleasure; and I’m not so very much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> older than you are, and what -pleasure have I?”</p> - -<p>The boys were very much cast down by this fiery remonstrance. There had -been a squall as of several babies from the upper regions, and they had -already been warned of the consequence of their horseplay. But Bee’s -representation touched them in their tenderest point. Was it fair? Well, -no, perhaps it was not quite fair. They went back after her, humbled, -into the drawing-room, and besought her to join them in a game. After -they had finally retired, having finished the evening to their own -partial content, Bee took out again Betty’s letter and read it with less -excitement than at first—or at least with less demonstration of -excitement; this was what it said—</p> - -<p>“Bee, such a delightful woman, a friend of her papa’s! So handsome, so -nice, so clever, so well dressed, everything you can think except young, -which of course she is not—nor anything silly. Papa told me to get -ready to come out with him to see an old friend of his and I wasn’t at -all willing, didn’t like it, I thought it must be some old image like -old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> Mrs. Mackinnon or Nancy Eversfield, don’t you know. Mrs. Lyon had -settled to take me out to see some pictures, and Gerald was coming, and -we were to have a turn in the park after, and I had put on my new frock -and was looking forward to it, when papa came in with this order: ‘Get -on your things and come with me, I want to take you to see an old -friend.’ Of course I had to go, for Mrs. Lyon will never allow me to -shirk anything. But I was not in a very good humour, though they called -me as fresh as a rose and all that—to please papa; as if he cared how -we look! He took me to George Street, Hanover Square, a horrid little -lodging, such as people come to when they come up from the country. And -I had to look as serious and as steady as possible for the sake of the -old lady; when there rose up from the chair, oh, such a different -person, tall, but as slight as you are, with such a handsome face and -such a manner. She might have been—let us say a nice, sweet aunt—but -aunt is not a name that means anything delightful; and mother I must not -say, for there is only one mother in the whole world; oh, but something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> -I cannot give a name, so understanding, so kind, so <i>nice</i>, for that -means everything. She kissed me, and then she began to talk to me as if -she knew everyone of us and was very fond of us all. And then about -Charlie, whom she seemed to know very well. She called him dear Charlie, -and I wonder if it is she who has persuaded papa that he is with the -Mackinnons, in Scotland. But I know he is not with the -Mackinnons—however, I will tell you about this after.</p> - -<p>“Dear Bee, what will you say when I tell you that this delightful woman -is Miss Lance? You will say I have no heart, or no spirit, and am not -sticking to you through thick and thin as I ought; but you must hear -first what I have got to say. Had I known it was Miss Lance I should -have shut myself close up, and whatever she had done or however nice she -had been, I should have had nothing to say to her. If she had been an -angel under that name I should have remembered what you had said, and I -should not have seen any good in her. But I never heard what her name -was till we were all in Mr. Revel’s studio, quite a long time after.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> -Papa did as he always does, introduced me to her, but not her to me. He -said: “My daughter Betty,” as if I must have known by instinct who she -was. And, dear Bee, though I acknowledge you have every reason not to -believe it, she is delightful, she is, she is! She may have done wrong. -I can’t tell, of course; but I don’t believe she ever meant it, or to -harm you, or Charlie, or anyone. Everybody is delighted with her. Mrs. -Lyon, who you know is very particular, says she has the manners of a -duchess—and that she is such a handsome, distinguished-looking woman. -She is coming to dine here next Saturday. The only one who does not seem -to be quite charmed with her is Gerald, who is prejudiced like you.</p> - -<p>“Do try to get over your prejudice, Bee, dear—she is, she is, indeed -delightful! You only want to know her. By the way, about the Mackinnons: -papa has got it firmly into his head that Charlie is there; he says his -mind is quite relieved about him, and that the more he thinks of it, the -more he is certain it is so; now I know that it is not so. I got a -letter from Helen Mackinnon the day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> I came here, and there is not a -word about Charlie—and she would have been certain to have mentioned -him had he been there. I tried to say this to papa, but his head was so -full of the other idea that he did not hear me at first, and I couldn’t -go on. I whispered to Miss Lance in the studio, and asked her what I -should do? She was so troubled and distressed about Charlie that the -tears came into her eyes, but, after thinking a moment, she said, ‘Oh, -dear child, don’t say anything. Your young friend might have been in a -hurry, she might not have thought it necessary to speak of your brother. -Oh, don’t let us worry him now! Bad news always comes soon enough, and, -of course, he will find it out if it is so.’ Do you think she was right? -But, oh Bee, dear Bee, I am afraid you will not think anything she says -is right; and yet she is <i>delightful</i>. If only you knew her! Write -directly, and tell me all you think.”</p> - -<p>Bee was not excited on this second reading. She did not spring to her -feet, nor stamp on the floor, or feel inclined to call upon all the -infernal gods. But her heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> sank down as if it would never rise again, -and a great pain took possession of her. Who was this witch, this -magician, that everyone who belonged to Bee should be drawn into her -toils—even Betty. What could she want with Betty, who was only a little -girl, who was her sister’s natural second and support? Bee sat a long -time with her head in her hands, letting the fire go out, feeling cold -and solitary and miserable, and frightened to death.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the afternoon of the next day, Bee was again alone. The old aunt had -come down for lunch, but gone up to her room again to rest after that -meal. It was a little chilly outside. The children, of course, wrapped -up in their warm things, and in the virtue of the English nursery, which -shrinks from no east wind, were out for their various walks. The big -boys, attended by such of the little boys as could be trusted with these -athletes, were taking violent exercise somewhere, and Bee sat by the -fire, alone. It is not a place for a girl of twenty. The little -pinafore, half made, was on the table beside her. She had a book in her -hand. Perhaps had she been a young wife looking for the return of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> -young husband in the evening, with all the air of the bigger world about -him and an abundance of news, and plans, and life, a pretty enough -picture might have been made of that cosy fireside retirement.</p> - -<p>But even this ideal has ceased to be satisfactory to the present -generation. And Bee’s spirits and heart were very low. She had -despatched a fiery letter to Betty, and with this all her anger had -faded away. She had no courage to do anything. She seemed to have come -to an end of all possibilities. She had no longer anyone to fall back -upon as a supporter and sympathiser—not even Betty. Even this closest -link of nature seemed to have been broken by that enemy.</p> - -<p>To have an enemy is not a very common experience in modern life. People -may do each other small harms and annoyances, but to most of us the -strenuous appeals and damnations of the Psalmist are quite beyond -experience. But Bee had come back to the primitive state. She had an -enemy who had succeeded in taking from her everything she cared for. -Aubrey her betrothed, Charlie, her father, her sister, one after the -other in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> quick succession. It was not yet a year and a half since she -first heard this woman’s name, and in that time all these losses had -happened. She was not even sure that her mother’s death was not the work -of the same subtle foe; indeed, she brought herself to believe that it -was at least accelerated by all the trouble and contention brought into -the family by her own misery and rebellion—all the work of that woman! -Why, why, had Bee been singled out for this fate? A little girl in an -English house, like other girls—no worse, no better. Why should she -alone in all England have this bitterness of an enemy to make her -desolate and break her heart?</p> - -<p>While she was thus turning over drearily those dismal thoughts, there -was a messenger approaching to point more sharply still the record of -these disasters and their cause. Bee had laid down her book in her lap; -her thoughts had strayed completely from it and gone back to her own -troubles, when the door of the drawing-room opened quietly and a servant -announced “Mrs. Leigh.” Mrs. Leigh! It is not an uncommon name. A Mrs. -Lee lived in the village, a Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> Grantham Lea was the clergyman’s wife -in the next parish. Bee drew her breath quickly and composed her looks, -but thought of no visitor that could make her heavy heart beat. Not even -when the lady came in, a more than middle-aged matron, of solid form and -good colour, dressed with the subdued fashionableness appropriate to her -age. It was not Mrs. Lee from the village, nor Mrs. Grantham Lea, -nor—— Yet Bee had seen her before. She rose up a little startled and -made a step or two forward.</p> - -<p>“You do not know me, Miss Kingsward? I cannot wonder at it, since we met -but once, and that in circumstances—— Don’t start nor fly, though I -see you have recognised me.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I did not think of flying. Will you—will you—sit down.”</p> - -<p>“You need not be afraid of me, my poor child,” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>Aubrey’s mother seated herself and looked with a kind yet troubled look -at the girl, who still stood up in the attitude in which she had risen -from her chair. “I scarcely saw you the other time,” she said. “It was -in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> garden. You did not give me a good reception. I should like -much, sometime or other, if you would tell me why. I have never made out -why. But don’t be afraid; it is not on that subject I have come to you -now.”</p> - -<p>Bee seated herself. She kept her blue eyes, which seemed expanded and -larger than usual, but had none of the former indignant blaze in them, -fixed on the old lady’s face.</p> - -<p>“Your father is not here, the servant tells me—”</p> - -<p>“No—he is in town,” she answered, faltering, almost too much absorbed -by anticipation to reply.</p> - -<p>“And you are alone—nobody with you to stand by you?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, catching her breath, “I don’t know why you -should ask me such questions, or—or be sorry for me. I don’t need -anybody to be sorry for me.”</p> - -<p>“Poor little girl! We needn’t go into that question. I am sorry for any -girl who is motherless, who has to take her mother’s place. I would much -rather have spoken to your father had he been here.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<p>“After all,” said Bee, “my father could say nothing. It is I who must -decide for myself.”</p> - -<p>She said this with an involuntary betrayal of her consciousness that -there could be but one subject between them, and it was not in the power -of Aubrey Leigh’s mother, however strongly aware she was of another -theme on which she had come to speak, not to note how different was -Bee’s reception of her from the other time, when the girl had fled from -her presence and would not even hear what she had to say. Bee’s eyes -were large and humid and full of an anxiety which was almost wistful. -She had the air of refusing to hear with her lips, but eagerly expecting -with her whole heart what was about to be said. And she looked so young, -so solitary, in her mother’s chair, with a mother’s work lying about, -the head of this silent house—that the heart of the elder woman was -deeply touched. If little Betty had been like a rose, Bee was almost as -white as the cluster of fragrant white narcissus that stood on the -table. Poor little girl, so subdued and changed from the little -passionate creature<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> who would not hear a word, and whose indignation -was stronger than even the zeal of the mother who had come to plead her -son’s cause!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh drew a little nearer and took Bee’s hand. The girl did not -resist, but kept her eyes upon her steadily, watching, her mind in a -great turmoil, not knowing what to expect.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said the old lady, “don’t be alarmed. I have not come to -speak about Aubrey. I cannot help hoping that one day you will do him -justice; but, in the meantime, it is something else that has brought me -here. Miss Kingsward—your brother—”</p> - -<p>Bee’s hand, in this lady’s clasp, betrayed her in spite of herself. It -became limp and uninterested when she was assured that Aubrey was not in -question; and then, at her brother’s name, was snatched suddenly away.</p> - -<p>“My brother?” she cried, “Charlie!” Then, subduing herself, “What do you -know about him? Oh,” clasping her hands as new light seemed to break -upon her, “you have come to tell me some bad news?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<p>“I hope not. My son found him some time ago, disheartened and unhappy -about leaving Oxford. He persuaded him to come and share his rooms. He -has been with him more or less all the time, which I hope may be a -comfort to you. And then he fell ill. My dear Aubrey has tried to see -your father, but in vain, and poor Charlie is not anxious, I fear, to -see his father. Yes, he has been ill, but not so seriously that we need -fear anything serious. He has shaken off the complaint, but he wants -rousing—he wants someone whom he loves. Aubrey sent for me a fortnight -ago. He has been well taken care of, there is nothing really wrong. But -we cannot persuade him to rouse himself. It is illness that is at the -bottom of it all. He would not have left you without news of him, he -would not shrink from his father if he were not ill. Bee, I will confess -to you that it is Aubrey who has sent me; but don’t be afraid, it is for -Charlie’s sake—only for Charlie’s sake. He thinks if you would but come -to him—if you would have the courage to come—to your brother, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“He—he thinks? Not Charlie—you don’t <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span>mean Charlie?” Bee cried.</p> - -<p>“Charlie does not seem to wish for anything. We cannot rouse him. We -think that the sight of someone he loves——”</p> - -<p>Bee was full of agitation. Her lips quivered; her hands trembled. “Oh, -me!” she said; “I am no one. It is not for his sister a boy cares. I do -not think I should do him any good. Oh, Charlie, Charlie! all this time -that we have been blaming him so, thinking him so cruel, he has been -lying ill! If I could do him any good!” she cried, wringing her hands.</p> - -<p>“The sight of you would do him good. It is not that he wants a nurse—I -have seen to that; but no nurse could rouse him as the sight of some of -his own people would. Do not question, my dear, but come—oh, come! He -thinks he is cut off from everybody, that his father will never see him, -that you must all have turned against him. Words will not convince him, -but to see you, that would do so. He would feel that he was not -forsaken.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, forsaken! How could he think it? He must know that we have been -breaking our hearts. It was he who forsook us all.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span></p> - -<p>Bee had risen again, and stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, too much -shaken and agitated to keep still. Though she had thought herself so -independent, she had in reality never broken the strained band of -domestic subjugation. She had never so much as gone, though it was -little more than an hour’s journey, to London on her own authority. The -thought of taking such a step startled her. And that she should do this -on the word and in the company of Aubrey’s mother—Aubrey, for whom she -had once been ready to abandon everything, from whom she had been -violently separated, whom she had cast off, flung away from her without -hearing a word he had to say! How could she put herself in his way -again—go with his mother, accept his services? Bee had acted quickly on -the impulse of passion in all that had happened to her before. But she -had not known the conflict, the rending asunder of opposite emotions. In -the whirl of her thoughts her lover, whom she had cast off, came between -her and the brother whom he had succoured. It was to Aubrey’s house, to -his very dwelling where he was, that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> must go if she went to -Charlie. And Charlie wanted her, or at least needed her, lying weak and -despairing, waiting for a sign from home. It was difficult to realise -her brother so, or to believe, indeed, that he could want her very much, -that there was any yearning in his heart towards his own flesh and -blood. But Mrs. Leigh thought so, and how could she refuse? How could -she refuse? The problem was too much for her. She looked into Mrs. -Leigh’s face with an appeal for help.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” her companion said, leaving a calm and cool hand upon Bee’s -arm, which trembled with nervous excitement, “If you are afraid of -meeting Aubrey, compose yourself. Aubrey would rather go to the end of -the world than give you any pain, or put himself in your way. We are -laying no trap for you—I should not have come if the case had not been -urgent. Never would I have come had it been a question of my son; I -would not beguile you even for his sake. It is for your brother, Bee; -not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey!”</p> - -<p>Not for Aubrey! Was that any comfort,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> was there any strength in that -assurance? At all events, these were the words that rang through Bee’s -head, as she made her hurried preparations. She had almost repeated them -aloud in the hasty explanations she made to Moss upstairs, who was now -at the head of the nursery, and to the housekeeper below. To neither of -these functionaries did it seem of any solemn importance that Bee should -go away for a day or two. There was no objection on their part to being -left at the head of affairs. And then Bee felt herself carried along by -the whirl of strange excitement and feeling which rather than the less -etherial methods of an express train seemed to sweep her through the air -of the darkening spring night by Mrs. Leigh’s side. A few hours before -she had felt herself the most helpless of dependent creatures, abandoned -by all, incapable of doing anything. And now, what was she doing? -Rushing into the heart of the conflict, assuming an individual part in -it, acting on her own responsibility. She could scarcely believe it was -herself who sat there by Mrs. Leigh’s side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<p>But not for Aubrey, not for Aubrey! This kept ringing in her ears, like -the tolling of a bell, through all the other sounds. She sat in one -corner of the carriage, and listened to Mrs. Leigh’s explanations, and -to the clang of the engine and rush of the train, all mingled together -in bewildering confusion. But the other voice filled all space, echoing -through everything. Bee felt herself trembling on the edge of a crisis, -such as her life had never known. All the world seemed to be set against -her, her enemy, perhaps her father, and all the habitual authorities of -her young and subject life, now suddenly rising into rebellion. She -would have to do and say things which she would not have ventured so -much as to think of a little time ago; but whatever she might have to -encounter there was to be no renewal to Bee of her own story and -meaning. It was not for Aubrey that she was called or wanted—for the -succour of others, for sisterly help, for charity and kindness; but not -for her own love or life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was to a house in one of the streets of Mayfair that Mrs. Leigh -conveyed her young companion; one of those small expensive places where -persons within the circle of what is called the world in London contrive -to live with as little comfort and the greatest expenditure possible. It -is dark and often dingy in Mayfair; nowhere is it more difficult to keep -furniture, or even human apparel, clean; the rooms are small and the -streets shabby; but it is one of the right places in which to live, not -so perfect as it was once, indeed, but still furnishing an unimpeachable -address.</p> - -<p>It had half put on the aspect of the season by this time; some of the -balconies were full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> of flowers, and the air of resuscitation which -comes to certain quarters of London after Easter, as if, indeed, they -too had risen from the dead, was vaguely visible. To be sure, little of -this was apparent in the dim lamplight when the two ladies arrived at -the door. Bee was hurried upstairs through the narrow passage, though -she had been very keenly aware that someone in the lower room had -momentarily lifted the blind to look out as they arrived—someone who -did not appear, who made no sound, who had nothing to do with her or her -life.</p> - -<p>The rooms, which are usually the drawing-rooms of such a house, were -turned evidently into the apartments of the sufferer. In the back room -which they entered first was a nurse who greeted the ladies in dumb -show, and whose white head-dress and apron had the strangest effect in -the semi-darkness. She said, half by gesture, half with whispered words -more visible than audible, “He is up—better—impatient—good -sign—discontented with everything. Is this the lady?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh answered in the same way, “His sister—shall I go with -her?—you?—alone?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>“By herself,” said the nurse, laconic; and almost inaudible as this -conversation was, it occasioned a stirring and movement in the inner -room.</p> - -<p>“What a noise you make,” cried a querulous, unsteady voice, “Who’s -there—who’s there?”</p> - -<p>The nurse took Bee’s hat from her head, with a noiseless swift movement, -and relieved her of the little cloak she was wearing. She took her by -the arm and pushed her softly forward. “Nothing to worry. Soothe him,” -she breathed, holding up a curtain that Bee might pass. The room was but -badly lighted, a single lamp on a table almost extinguished by the -shade, a fire burning though the night was warm, and one of the long -windows open, letting in the atmosphere and sounds of the London street. -Bee stole in, an uncertain shadow into the shaded room, less eager than -frightened and overawed by this sudden entrance into the presence of -sickness and misery. She was not accustomed to associate such things -with her brother. It did not seem anyone with whom she was acquainted -that she was about to see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” the little cry and movement she made, falling down on her -knees beside him, raised a pale, unhappy face, half covered with the -down of an irregular fledgling beard from the pillow.</p> - -<p>“Hallo!” he said, and then in a tone of disappointment and disdain, -“You!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, Charlie dear! You have been ill and we never knew.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know now? They knew I never wanted you to know,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie—who ought to know but your own people? We have been -wretched, thinking all sorts of dreadful things—but not this.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” he said, “my own people might be trusted never to think the -right thing. Now you do know you may as well take yourself off. I don’t -want you—or anybody,” he added, with an impatient sigh.</p> - -<p>“Charlie—oh, please let me stay with you. Who should be with you but -your sister? And I know—a great deal about nursing. Mamma——”</p> - -<p>“I say—hold your tongue, can’t you? Who wants you to talk—of anything -of that sort?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<p>Bee heard a slight stir in the curtains, and looking back hastily as she -dried her streaming eyes saw the laconic nurse making signs to her. The -sight of the stranger was more effectual even than her signs, and -restored Bee’s self-command at once.</p> - -<p>“Why did they bring you here?” said Charlie. “I didn’t want you; they -know what I want, well enough.”</p> - -<p>“What is it you want, oh, Charlie dear? Papa—and all of us—will do -anything in the world you want.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” he said, and his weakened and irregular voice ran through the -gamut from a high feeble tone of irritation to the quaver of that -self-pity which is so strong in all youthful trouble. “Yes, he would be -pleased to get me out of the way, and be done with me now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie! You know how wrong that is. Papa has been—miserable—”</p> - -<p>Charlie uttered a feeble laugh. He put his hand upon his chin, stroking -down the irregular tufts of hair; even in his low state the poor boy had -a certain pride in what he believed to be his beard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<p>“Not much,” he said. “I daresay you’ve made a fuss—Betty and you. The -governor will crack up Arthur for the F.O. and let me drop like a -stone.”</p> - -<p>“No, Charlie, no. He has no such thought—he has taken such trouble not -to let it be known. He would not advertise or anything.”</p> - -<p>“Advertise!” A sudden hot flush came over the gaunt face. “For me!” It -did not seem that such a thought had ever occurred to the young man. -“Like the fellows in the newspapers that steal their master’s -money—’All is arranged and you can return to your situation.’ By -George!”</p> - -<p>There was again a faint rustle in the curtains. Bee sprang up with her -natural impatience, and went straight to the spot whence this sound had -come.</p> - -<p>“If I am not to speak to my brother alone and in freedom, I will not -speak to him at all,” she said.</p> - -<p>The laconic nurse remonstrated violently with her lips and eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t excite him. Don’t disturb him. He’ll not sleep all night,” she -managed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> convey, with much arching of the eyebrows and mouth, then -disappeared silently out of the bedroom behind.</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” said Charlie, sharply. He moved on his sofa, and turned -his head round with difficulty. “Are there more of you to come?”</p> - -<p>There seemed a kind of hope and expectation in the question, but when -Bee answered with despondency, “There’s only me, Charlie,” he broke out -harshly:</p> - -<p>“I don’t want you—I want none of you; I told them so. You can go and -tell my father, as soon as they let me get out I’m going off to New -Zealand or somewhere—the furthest-off place I can get to.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!” cried Bee, taking every word as the sincerest utterance -of a fixed intention, “what could you do there?”</p> - -<p>“Die, I suppose,” he said, with again that quaver of self-compassion in -his voice, “or go to the dogs, which will be easy enough. You may say, -why didn’t I die here and be done with it? I don’t know—I’m sure I -wanted to. It was that doctor fellow, and that woman that talks with her -eyebrows, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> that confounded cad, Leigh—they wouldn’t let me. And -I’ve got so weak; if you don’t go away this moment I’ll cry like a -dashed baby!” with a more piteous quaver than ever in the remnant of his -once manly voice.</p> - -<p>All that Bee could do was to throw her arms round his neck and draw his -head upon her shoulder, which he resisted fiercely for a moment, then -yielded to in the abandonment of his weakness. Poor Charlie felt, -perhaps, a momentary sweetness in the relaxation of all the bonds of -self-control, and all the well-meaning attempts to keep him from -injuring himself by emotion; the unexpected outburst did him good, -partly because it was a breach of all the discipline of the sick room. -Presently he came to himself and pushed Bee away.</p> - -<p>“What do you come bothering about?” he said; “you ought to have left me -alone. I’ve made my bed, and I’ve got to lie on it. I don’t suppose that -anyone has taken the trouble to—ask about me?” he added, after a little -while, in what was intended for a careless tone. -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> -“Oh, Charlie, everyone who has known; but papa would let nobody know: -except at Oxford. We—went to Oxford——”</p> - -<p>He got up on his pillow with his eyes shining out of their hollow -sockets, his long limbs coming to the ground with a faint thump. Poor -Charlie was young enough to have grown during his illness, and those -gaunt limbs seemed unreasonably long.</p> - -<p>“You went to Oxford!” he said, “and you saw—”</p> - -<p>“Dear Charlie, they will say I am exciting you—doing you harm——”</p> - -<p>“You saw?” he cried, bringing down his fist upon the table with a blow -that made the very floor shake.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Bee, trembling, “we saw—or rather papa saw——”</p> - -<p>He pushed up the shade of the lamp with his long bony fingers, and fixed -his eyes, bright with fever, on her face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, don’t look at me so!—the lady whom you used to talk to me -about—whom I saw in the academy——”</p> - -<p>“Yes?”—he grasped her hand across the table with a momentary hot -pressure.</p> - -<p>“She came and saw papa in the hotel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> She told him about you, and that -you had—oh, Charlie, and she so old—as old as——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue!” he cried, violently, and then with a long-drawn -breath, “What more? She told him—and he was rude, I suppose. Confound -him! Confound—confound them all!”</p> - -<p>“I will not say another word unless you are quiet,” said Bee, her spirit -rising; “put up your feet on the sofa and be quiet, and remember all the -risk you are running—or I will not say another word.”</p> - -<p>He obeyed her with murmurs of complaint, but no longer with the languid -gloom of his first accost. Hope seemed to have come into his heart. He -subdued himself, lay back among his pillows, obeyed her in all she -stipulated. The light from underneath the raised shade played on his -face and gave it a tinge of colour, though it showed more clearly the -emaciation of the outlines and the aspect of neglect, rather than, as -poor Charlie hoped, of enhanced manly dignity, conveyed by the irregular -sick man’s growth of the infant beard.</p> - -<p>“Papa was not rude,” said Bee, “he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> never rude; he is a gentleman. -Worse than that—”</p> - -<p>“Worse—than what?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot understand you at all, you and—the rest,” cried the girl; -“one after another you give in to her, you admire her, you do what she -tells you—that woman who has harmed me all she can, and you all she -can, and now—Charlie!” Bee stopped with astonishment and indignation. -Her brother had raised himself up again, and aimed a furious but futile -blow at her in the air. It did not touch her, but the indignity was no -less on that account.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he cried, again bringing down that hand which could not reach -her, on the table, “How dare you speak of one you’re not worthy to name? -Ah! I might have known she wouldn’t desert me. It is she who has kept -the way open, and subdued my father, and——” An ineffable look of -happiness came upon the worn and gaunt countenance, his eyes softened, -his voice fell. “I might have known!” he said to himself, “I might have -known!”</p> - -<p>And what could Bee say? Though she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> did not believe in—though she hated -and feared with a child’s intensity of terror the woman who had so often -crossed her path—she could not contradict her brother’s faith, though -she considered it an infatuation, a folly beyond belief; it seemed, -after all, in a manner true that this woman had not deserted him. She -had subdued his father’s displeasure somehow, made everything easier. -Bee looked at him, the victim of those wiles, yet nevertheless indebted -to them, with the same exasperation which her father’s subjugation had -caused her. What could she say, what could she do, to reveal to them -that enchantress in her true colours? But Bee knew that she could do -nothing, and there began to rise in her heart a dreadful question. Was -it so sure that she herself was right? Was this woman, indeed, an evil -Fate, or was she, was she——? And the first story of all, the story of -Aubrey, was it perhaps true?</p> - -<p>The nurse came in noiselessly, hurrying, while Bee’s mind ran through -those thoughts—evidently with the conviction that she would find the -patient worse. But Charlie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> was not worse. He turned his face towards -his attendant, still with something of that dreamy rapture in it.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may speak out,” he said; “I don’t mind noises to-night. Supper? -Yes, I’ll take some supper. Bring me a beefsteak or something -substantial. I’m going to get well at once.”</p> - -<p>Nurse nodded at Bee, with much uplifting of her eyelids. “Put no faith -in you,” she said, working the machinery of her lips; “was wrong; done -him no end of good. Beefsteak; not exactly; but soon, soon, if you’re -good.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bee</span> saw no more of Charlie that night. When she came out of his room, -where there was a certain meaning in her presence, she seemed to pass -into the region of dreams. She was taken upstairs to refresh herself and -rest, into the smaller of two bedrooms which were over Charlie’s room, -the other of which was occupied by Mrs. Leigh. And she was taken -downstairs to dine with that lady <i>tête-a-tête</i> at the small shining -table. There was something about the little house altogether, a certain -conciseness, an absence of drapery, and of the small elegant litter -which is so general nowadays, which gave it a masculine character—or, -at least, Bee, not accustomed to æsthetic young men, accustomed rather -to big boys and their scorn of the decorative<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> arts, thought so with a -curious flutter of her being. This perhaps was partly because the -ornamental part of the house was devoted to Charlie, and the little -dining-room below seemed the sole room to live in. It had one or two -portraits hung on the walls, pictures almost too much for its small -dimensions. The still smaller room behind was clothed with books, and -had for its only ornament a small portrait of Mrs. Leigh over the -mantel-piece. Whose rooms were these? Who had furnished them so gravely, -and left behind an impression of serious character which almost chilled -the heart of Bee? He was nowhere visible, nor any trace of him. No -allusion was made as to an absent master of the house, and yet it bore -an air so individual that Bee’s sensitive being was moved by it, with -all the might of something stranger than imagination. She stood -trembling among the books, looking at the mother’s portrait over the -mantel-piece, feeling as if the very mantel-shelf on which she rested -her arm was warm with the touch of his. But not a word was said, not an -allusion made to Aubrey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span></p> - -<p>What had she to do with Aubrey? Nothing—less than with any other man in -the world—any stranger to whom she could speak with freedom, -interchanging the common coin of ordinary intercourse. He was the only -man in the world whom she must not talk of, must not see—the only one -of whose presence it was necessary to obliterate every sign, and never -to utter the name where she was. Poor Bee! Yet she felt him near, his -presence suggested by everything, his name always latent in the air. She -slept and waked in that strange atmosphere as in a dream. In Aubrey’s -house, yet with Aubrey obliterated—the one person in existence with -whom she had nothing, nothing to do.</p> - -<p>It was late before she was allowed to see her brother next day, and Bee, -in the meantime, left to her own devices, had not known what to do. She -had taken pen and paper two or three times to let her father know that -Charlie was found, but her mind revolted, somehow, from making that -intimation. What would happen when he knew? He would come here -immediately; he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> probably attempt to remove Charlie; he would -certainly order Bee away at once from a place so unsuitable for her. It -was unsuitable for her, and yet—She scarcely saw even Mrs. Leigh after -breakfast, but was left to herself, with the door open into that -sanctuary which was Aubrey’s, with all his books and the newspapers laid -out upon the table. Bee sat in the dining-room and looked into that -other secluded place. In the light of day she dared not go into it. It -seemed like thrusting herself into his presence who had no thought of -her, who did not want her. Oh, not for Aubrey! Aubrey would not for the -world disturb her, or bring any embarrassment into her mind. Aubrey -would rather disappear from his own house, as if he had never existed, -than remind her that he did exist, and perhaps sometimes thought of her -still. Did he ever think of her? Bee knew that it would be wrong and -unlike Aubrey if he kept in these rooms the poor little photograph of -her almost childish face which he had once prized so much. It would have -been indelicate, unlike a gentleman; and yet she made a hasty and -furtive search everywhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> to see if, perhaps, it might be somewhere, in -some book or little frame. She would have been angry had she found it, -and indignant; yet she felt a certain desolate sense of being altogether -out of the question, steal into her heart, when she did not find it—in -the inconsistencies of which the heart is full.</p> - -<p>It was mid-day when she was called upstairs, to find Charlie established -in the room which should have been the drawing-room, and round which she -threw another wistful look as she came into it in full daylight. Oh, not -a woman’s room in any way, with none of those little photograph frames -about which strew a woman’s table—not one, and consequently none of -Bee. She took this in at the first glance, as she made the three or four -little steps between the door and Charlie’s couch. He was more -hollow-eyed and worn in the daylight than he had been even on the night -before, his appearance entirely changed from that of the commonplace -young Oxford man to an eager, anxious being, with all the cares of a -troubled soul concentrated in his eyes. Mrs. Leigh sat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> near him, and -the nurse was busy with cushions and pillows arranging his couch.</p> - -<p>“My dear, you will be thankful to hear that the doctor gives a very good -report to-day. He says that, though he would not have sanctioned it, my -remedy has done wonders. You are my remedy, Bee. I am proud of so -successful an idea—though, to be sure, it was a very simple one. Now -you must go on and complete the cure, and I give you <i>carte blanche</i>. -Ask anyone here, anyone you please, so long as it is not too much for -Charlie. He may see one or two people if nurse sanctions it. I am going -out myself for the day. I shall not return till late in the afternoon, -and you are mistress in the meantime—absolute mistress,” said Mrs. -Leigh, kissing her. Bee felt that Aubrey’s mother would not even meet -her eyes lest she should throw too much meaning into these words. Oh, -there was no meaning in them, except so far as Charlie was concerned.</p> - -<p>And then she was left alone with her brother, the most natural, the only -suitable arrangement. Nurse gave the last pat to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> cushions, the last -twist to the coverlet, which was over his gaunt limbs, appealed to him -the last time in dumb show whether he wanted anything, and then -withdrew. It was most natural that his sister, whose appearance had done -him so much good, should be left with him as his nurse; but she was -frightened, and Charlie self-absorbed, and it was some time before -either found a word to say. At last he said, “Bee!” calling her -attention, and then was silent again for some time, speaking no more.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Charlie!” There was a flutter in Bee’s voice as in her heart.</p> - -<p>“I say, I wasn’t, perhaps, very nice to you last night; I couldn’t bear -to be brought back; but they say I’m twice as well since you came. So I -am. I’ve got something to keep me up. Bee, look here. Am I dreadful to -look at? I know I haven’t an ounce of flesh left on my bones, but some -don’t mind that; and then, my beard. I’ve heard it said that a beard -that never was shaved was—was—an embellishment, don’t you know. Do you -think I’m dreadful to look at, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie,” said the girl, from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> depths of her heart, “what does -it matter how you look? The more ill you look the more need you have for -your own people about you, who never would think twice of that.”</p> - -<p>Charlie’s gaunt countenance was distorted with a grin of rage and -annoyance. “I wish you’d shut up about my own people. The governor, -perhaps, with his grand air, or Betty, as sharp as a needle—as if I -wanted them!—or to be told that they would put up with me.”</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” said Bee, trembling, “I don’t want to vex you, you are a -little—but couldn’t you have a barber to come, and perhaps he could -take it off.”</p> - -<p>There came a flash of fire out of Charlie’s eyes; he put up his hand to -his face, as if to protect that beard in which he at least believed—“I -might have known,” he said, “that you were the last person! A fellow’s -sister is always like that: just as we never think anything of a girl’s -looks in our own families. Well, you’ve given your opinion on that -subject. And you think that people who care for me wouldn’t think twice -of that?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Bee, clasping her hands, “how should they? But only feel -for you far, far more.”</p> - -<p>Charlie took down his hand from his young beard. He looked at her with -his hollow eyes full of anxiety, yet with a certain complacence. -“Interesting?”—he said, “is that what you meant to say?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” cried Bee, her eyes full of pity, “for they can see what you -have gone through, and how much you have been suffering,—if there was -any need of making you more interesting to us.”</p> - -<p>Charlie stroked down his little tufts of wool for some time without -speaking, and then he said in a caressing tone unusual to him, “I want -you to do me a favour, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Anything—anything, whatever you wish, Charlie.”</p> - -<p>“There is just one thing I wish, and one person I want to see. Sit down -and write a note—you need not do more than say where I am,” said -Charlie, speaking quickly. “Say I am here, and have been very ill, but -that the hope she’d come, and to hear that she had forgiven me, was like -new life. Well!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> what is the meaning of your ‘anything, anything,’ if -you break down at the first thing I ask you? Look here, Bee, if you wish -me to live and get well you’ll do what I say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, how can I?—how can I?—when you know what I -feel—about——”</p> - -<p>“What you feel—about? Who cares what you feel? You think perhaps it was -you that did me all that good last night. That’s all conceit, like the -nonsense in novels, where a woman near your bed when you’re ill makes -all the difference. Girls,” said Charlie, “are puffed up with that folly -and believe anything. You know I didn’t want you. It was what you told -me about <i>her</i> that did me good. And your humbug, sitting there crying, -‘anything, anything!’ Well, here’s something! You need not write a -regular letter, if you don’t like it. Put where I am—Charlie Kingsward -very ill; will you come and see him? A telegram would do, and it would -be quicker; send a telegram,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie!”</p> - -<p>“Give me the paper and pencil—I’m shaky, but I can do that much -myself—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, I’ll do it rather than vex you; but I don’t know where to send -it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can tell you that—Avondale, near the Parks, Oxford.”</p> - -<p>“She is not there now—she is in London,” said Bee, in a low tone.</p> - -<p>“In London?” Again the long, gaunt limbs came to the ground with a -thump. “Bee, if you could get me a hansom perhaps I could go.”</p> - -<p>The nurse at this moment came in noiselessly, and Charlie shrank before -her. She put him back on the sofa with a swift movement. “If you go on -like this I’ll take the young lady away,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not go on—I’ll be as meek as Moses; but, nurse, tell her she -mustn’t contradict a man in my state. She must do what I say.”</p> - -<p>Nurse turned her back upon the patient, and made the usual grimaces; -“Humour him,” her lips and eyebrows said.</p> - -<p>“Charlie, papa knows the address, and Betty—and I ought, oh, I ought to -let them know at once that you are here.”</p> - -<p>“Betty!” he said, with a grimace, “what does that little thing know?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<p>“She knows—better than you think I do; and papa—— Papa is never happy -but when he is with that lady. He goes to see her every day; she writes -to him and he writes to her; they go out together,” cried Bee, thinking -of that invitation to Portman Square which had seemed the last insult -which she could be called on to bear.</p> - -<p>Charlie smiled—the same smile of ineffable self-complacence and -confidence which had replaced in a moment the gloom of the previous -night; and then he grew grave. He was not such a fool, he said to -himself, as to be jealous of his own father; but still he grudged that -anyone but himself should have her company. He remembered what it was to -go to see her every day, to write to her, to have her letters, to be -privileged to give her his arm now and then, to escort her here or -there. If it had been another fellow! But a man’s father—the governor! -He was not a rival. Charlie imagined to himself the conversations with -him for their subject, and how, perhaps for the first time, the governor -would learn to do him justice, seeing him through Laura’s eyes. It was -true that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> had rejected him, had almost laughed at him, had sent him -away so completely broken down and miserable that he had not cared what -became of him. But hope had sprung within him, all the more wildly from -that downfall. It was like her to go to the old gentleman (it was thus -he considered his father) to explain everything, to set him right. She -would not have done so if her heart had not relented—her heart was so -kind. She must have felt what it was to drive a man to despair—and now -she was working for him, soothing down the governor, bringing everything -back.</p> - -<p>“Eh?” he said, vaguely, some time after; he had in the meantime heard -Bee’s voice going on vaguely addressing somebody, in the air, “are you -speaking to me?”</p> - -<p>“There is no one else to speak to,” cried Bee, almost angrily. And then -she said, “Charlie—how can you ask her to come here?”</p> - -<p>“Why not here? She’ll go anywhere to do a kind thing.”</p> - -<p>“But not to this house—not here, not here!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>“Why not, I should like to know—what’s here?” Then Charlie stared at -her for a moment with his hollow eyes, and broke into a low, feeble -laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” he said, “I know what you’ve got in your head—because of that -confounded cad, Aubrey Leigh? That is just why she will come, to show -what a lie all that was—as if she ever would have looked twice at a -fellow like Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“He seems to have saved your life,” said Bee, confused, not knowing what -to think.</p> - -<p>“You mean he gave me house-room when I was ill, and sent for a doctor. -Why, any shop-keeper would have done that. And now,” said Charlie, with -a grin, “he shall be fully paid back.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Betty Kingsward</span> lived in what was to her a whirl of pleasure at Portman -Square, where everybody was fond of her, and all manner of -entertainments were devised for her pleasure. And her correspondence was -not usually of an exciting character. Her morning letters, when she had -any, were placed by her plate on the breakfast-table. If any came by -other posts, she got them when she had a spare moment to look for them, -and she had scarcely a spare moment at this very lively and very happy -moment of her young career. Besides, that particular evening when Bee’s -note arrived was a very important one to Betty. It was the evening on -which Miss Lance was to dine with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> Lyons. And it was not a mere -quiet family dinner, but a party—a thing which in her newness and -inexperience still excited the little girl, who was not to say properly -“out,” in consequence of her mourning; still wearing black ribbons with -her white frocks, and only allowed to accept invitations which were -“quiet.” A dinner of twenty people is not exactly an entertainment for a -girl of her years, but Betty’s excitement in the <i>debût</i> of Miss Lance -was so great that no ball could have occupied her more. There was an -unusual interest about it in the whole house, even Mrs. Lyon’s maid, the -most staid of confidential persons, had begged Betty to point out to her -over the baluster “the lady, Miss Betty, that is coming with your papa.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she’s not coming with papa,” Betty had cried, with a laugh at -Hobbs’ mistake, “she is only a great, great friend, Hobbs. You will -easily know her, for there is nobody else so handsome.”</p> - -<p>“Handsome is as handsome does,” said the woman, and she patted Betty on -the shoulder under pretence of arranging her ribbon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span></p> - -<p>Betty had not the least idea why Hobbs looked at her with such -compassionate eyes.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, did come into the room, to Betty’s surprise, -closely followed by Colonel Kingsward, as if they had arrived together. -She was like a picture, in her black satin and lace, dressed not too -young but rather too <i>old</i> for her age, as Mrs. Lyon pointed out, who -was as much excited about her new guest as Betty herself; and the -unknown lady had the greatest possible success in a party which -consisted chiefly, as Betty did not remark, of old friends of Colonel -Kingsward, with whom she had been acquainted all her life. Betty did not -remark it, but Gerald Lyon did, who was more than ever her comrade and -companion in this elderly company.</p> - -<p>“Why all these old fogies?” he had asked irreverently, as the gentlemen -with stars on their coats and the ladies in diamonds came in.</p> - -<p>Betty perceived that it was an unusually solemn party, but thought no -more of it. It was the evening of the first levee, and that, perhaps, -was the reason why the old gentlemen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> wore their orders. Old gentlemen! -They were the flower of the British army. Generals This and That, heads -of departments; impossible to imagine more grand people—in the flower -of their age, like Colonel Kingsward. But eighteen has its own ideas -very clearly marked on that subject. Betty and Gerald stood by, lighting -up one corner with a blaze of undeniable youth, to see them come in. The -young pair were like flowers in comparison with the substantial size and -well worn complexions of their seniors, and they were the only little -nobodies, the sole representatives of undistinguished and ordinary -humanity round the table. They were not by any means daunted by that. On -the contrary, they felt themselves, as it were, soaring over the heads -of all those limited persons who had attained, spurning the level -heights of realisation. They did not in the least know what was to -become of them in life, but naturally they made light of the others who -did know, who had done all they were likely to do, and had no more to -look to. The dignity of accomplished success filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> the young ones with -impulses of laughter; their inferiority gave them an elevation over all -the grizzled heads; they felt themselves, nobodies, to be almost -ludicrously, dizzily above the heads of the rest. Only one of the -company seemed to see this, however; to cast them an occasional look, -even to make them the confidants of an occasional smile, a raising of -the eyebrows, a sort of unspoken comment on the fine company, which made -Betty still more lively in her criticisms. But this made almost a -quarrel between the two.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish we were nearer to Miss Lance, to hear what she thinks of it -all,” Betty said.</p> - -<p>“I can’t think what you see in that woman,” cried Gerald. “I, for one, -have no desire to know her opinion.”</p> - -<p>Betty turned her little shoulder upon him with a glance of flame, that -almost set the young man on fire.</p> - -<p>“You prejudiced, cynical, uncharitable, malicious, odious boy!” And they -did not say another word to each other for five minutes by the clock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, there was no doubt, had a distinguished success. -She captivated the gentlemen who were next to her at table, and, what -was perhaps more difficult, she made a favourable impression upon the -ladies in the drawing-room. Her aspect there, indeed, was of the most -attractive kind. She drew Betty’s arm within her own, and said with a -laugh, “You and I are the girls, little Betty, among all these grand -married ladies;” and then she added, “Isn’t it a little absurd that we -shouldn’t have some title to ourselves, we old maids?—for Miss means -eighteen, and it’s hard that it should mean forty-two. Fancy the -disappointment of hearing this juvenile title and then finding that it -means a middle-aged woman.”</p> - -<p>She laughed so freely that some of the other ladies laughed too. The -attention of all was directed towards the new comer, which Betty thought -very natural, she was so much the handsomest of them all.</p> - -<p>“You mean the disappointment of a gentleman?” said one of the guests.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, of ladies too. Don’t you think women are just as fond of youth -as men are,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> and as much disgusted with an elderly face veiling itself -in false pretences? Oh, more! We think more of beauty than the men do,” -said Miss Lance, raising her fine head as if to expose its features to -the fire of all the glances bent upon her.</p> - -<p>There was a little chorus of cries, “Oh, no, no,” and arguments against -so novel a view.</p> - -<p>But Miss Lance did not quail; her own beauty was done full justice to. -She was so placed that more than one mirror in the old-fashioned room -reflected her graceful and not unstudied pose.</p> - -<p>“I know it isn’t a usual view,” she said, “but if you’ll think of it a -little you’ll find it’s true. The common thing is to talk about women -being jealous of each other. If we are it is because we are always the -first to find out a beautiful face—and usually we much exaggerate its -power.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” said Mrs. Lyon in her quavering voice, “I almost think -Miss Lance is right? Mr. Lyon instantly says ‘Humph!’ when I point out a -pretty person to him. And Gerald tells me, ‘You think every girl pretty, -aunt.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span><span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“That is because there is one little girl that he thinks the most pretty -of all,” said Miss Lance, with a sort of soft maternal coo in Betty’s -ear.</p> - -<p>The subject was taken up and tossed about from one to another, while she -who had originated it drew back a little, listening with an air of much -attention, turning her head to each speaker, an attitude which was most -effective. It will probably be thought the greatest waste of effort for -a woman thus to exhibit what the newspapers call her personal advantages -to a group of her own sex; but Miss Lance was a very clever woman, and -she knew what she was about. After a time, when the first fervour of the -argument was over, she returned to her first theme as to the appropriate -title that ought to be invented for old maids.</p> - -<p>“I have thought of it a great deal,” she said. “I should have called -myself Mrs. Laura Lance, to discriminate—but for the American custom of -calling all married ladies so, which is absurd.”</p> - -<p>“I have a friend in New York who writes to me as Mrs. Mary Lyon,” said -the mistress of the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, which is ridiculous, you know; for you are not Mrs. Mary Lyon, -dear lady. You are Mrs. Francis Lyon, if it is necessary to have a -Christian name, for Lyon is your husband’s name, not yours. You are Mrs. -Mary Howard by rights—if in such a matter there are any rights.”</p> - -<p>“What!” cried old Mr. Lyon, coming in after the long array of gentlemen, -“are you going to divorce my wife from me, or give her another name, or -what are you going to do? We thought it was we only who could change the -ladies’ names, Kingsward, eh?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had placed himself immediately in front of Miss Lance, -and Betty, looking on all unsuspicious, saw a glance pass between -them—or rather, she saw Miss Lance look up into her father’s face. -Betty did not know in the least what that look meant, but it gave her a -little shock as if she had touched an electric battery. It meant -something more than to Betty’s consciousness had ever been put into -words. She turned her eyes away for a moment to escape the curious -thrill that ran through her, and in that moment met Gerald Lyon’s eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> -full of something malicious, mocking, disagreeable, which made Betty -very angry. But she could not explain to herself what all these looks -meant.</p> - -<p>This curious sensation somehow spoiled the rest of the evening for -Betty. Everybody it seemed to her after this meant something—something -more than they said. They looked at her father, they looked at Miss -Lance, they looked even at Betty’s little self, embracing all three, -sometimes in one comprehensive glance. And all kinds of significant -little speeches were made as the company went away. “I am so glad to -have seen her,” one lady said in an undertone to Mrs. Lyon. “One -regrets, of course, but one is thankful it is no worse.” “I think,” said -another, “it will do very well—I think it will do very well; thank you -for the opportunity.” And “Charming, my dear Mrs. Lyon, charming,” said -another. They all spoke low and in the most confidential tone. What was -it they were all so interested about?</p> - -<p>The last of the party to go were Miss Lance and Colonel Kingsward. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> -seemed to go away together as they had seemed to come together.</p> - -<p>“Your father is so kind as to see me home,” Miss Lance said, by way of -explanation. “I am not a grand lady with a carriage. I am old enough to -walk home by myself, and I always do it, but as Colonel Kingsward is so -kind, of course I like company best.”</p> - -<p>She too had a private word with Mrs. Lyon, at the head of the stairs. -Betty did not want to listen, but she heard by instinct the repeated -“Thank you, thank you! How can I ever express how much I thank you?” -Betty was so bewildered that she could not think. She paid no attention -to her father, who put his hands on her shoulders when he said -“Good-night,” and said, “Betty, I’ll see you to-morrow.” Oh, of course, -she should see him to-morrow—or not, as circumstances might ordain. -What did it matter? She was not anxious to see her father to-morrow, it -could not be of the least importance whether they met or not; but what -Betty would really have liked would have been to find out what all these -little whisperings could mean.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Lyon came up to her when the last, to wit, Colonel Kingsward -following Miss Lance, had disappeared, and put her arms round the little -girl. “You are looking a little tired,” she said, “just this last hour. -I did not think they would stay so late. It is all Miss Lance, I -believe, setting us on to argue with her metaphysics. Well, everybody -likes her very much, which will please you, my dear, as you are so fond -of her. And now, Betty, you must run off to bed. There’s hardly time for -your beauty sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Lyon,” said Betty, very curious, “was it to meet Miss Lance that -all those grand people came?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you call grand people. They are all great friends of -ours and also of your father’s, and I think you know them every one. And -they all know each other.”</p> - -<p>“Except Miss Lance,” said Gerald, who was always disagreeable—always, -when anyone mentioned Miss Lance’s name.</p> - -<p>“I know <i>her</i>, certainly, and better than any of them! And there is -nobody so delightful,” Betty cried, with fervour, partly because she -believed what she said, and partly to be disagreeable in her turn to -him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span></p> - -<p>“And so they all seemed to think,” said old Mr. Lyon, “though I’m not so -fond of new people as the rest of you. Lay hands suddenly on no man is -what I say.”</p> - -<p>“And I say the same as my uncle,” said Gerald, “and it’s still more true -of a woman than a man.”</p> - -<p>“You are such an experienced person,” said the old lady; “they know so -much better than we do, Betty. But never you mind, for your friend has -made an excellent impression upon all these people—the most -tremendously respectable people,” Mrs. Lyon said, “none of your artists -and light-minded persons! Make yourself comfortable with that thought, -and good night, my little Betty. You must not stay up so late another -night.”</p> - -<p>What nonsense that was of staying up late, when it was not yet twelve -o’clock! But Betty went off to her room with a little confusion and -bewilderment of mind, happy on the whole, but feeling as if she had -something to think about when she should be alone. What was it she had -to think about? She could not think what it was when she sat down alone -to study her problem. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> was no problem, and what the departing -guests had said to Mrs. Lyon was quite simple, and referred to something -that was their own business, that had nothing to do with Betty. How -could it have anything to do with Betty?</p> - -<p>Around the corner of the Park, Bee, too, was sitting alone and thinking -at the same time, and the two sets of thoughts, neither very clear, -revolved round the same circle. But neither of the sisters knew, -concerning this problem, whereabouts the other was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">And</span> yet all this time there lay upon Betty’s table, concealed under the -pretty laced handkerchiefs which she had pulled out of their sachet to -choose one for the party, Bee’s little tremulous letter, expressing a -state of mind more agitated than that of Betty, and full of wonderings -and trouble. It was found there by the maid who put things in order next -morning, when she called the young visitor.</p> - -<p>“Here’s a letter that came last night, and you have never opened it,” -said the maid, half reproachfully. She, at least, she was anxious to -note, had not been to blame.</p> - -<p>Betty took it with great <i>sang froid</i>. She saw by the writing it was -only Bee’s—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> Bee’s news was never imperative. There could not be -much to disclose to her of the state of affairs at Kingswarden that was -new, since the night before last.</p> - -<p>But the result was that Betty went downstairs in her hat and gloves, and -that Mr. Lyon and Gerald, who were both sitting down to that substantial -breakfast which is the first symbol of good health and a good conscience -in England, had much ado to detain her long enough to share that meal.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lyon did not come downstairs in the morning, so that they used the -argument of helplessness, professing themselves unable to pour out their -own tea.</p> - -<p>“And what business can Betty have of such importance that she must run -out without her breakfast?” said the old gentleman.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is news I have heard which I must take at once to papa!”</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen looked at each other, and Mr. Lyon shook his big, old -head.</p> - -<p>“I would not trouble your papa, my dear, with anything you may have -heard. Depend upon it, he will let you know anything he wishes you to -know—in his own time.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<p>“But it is news—news,” said Betty; “news about Charlie!”</p> - -<p>Then she remembered that very little had been said even to the Lyons -about Charlie, and stopped with embarrassment, and her friends could not -but believe that this was a hasty expedient to conceal from them that -she had heard something—some flying rumour which had set her little -impetuous being on fire. When she had escaped from their sympathetic -looks and Gerald’s magnanimous proposal to accompany her—without so -much as an egg to fortify him for the labours of the day!—Betty set -out, crossing the Park in the early glory of the morning, which feels at -nine o’clock what six o’clock feels in the country, to carry the news to -her father.</p> - -<p>Charlie found, and ill; and demanding to see Miss Lance, his health and -recovery depending upon whether he should see her or not! Betty’s first -instinct had been to hasten at once to George Street, Hanover Square, -but then she remembered that papa presumably was the one who was most -anxious about Charlie and had the best right to know, and it was perhaps -better not to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> explain to the friends in Portman Square why Miss Lance -should go to Charlie. Indeed, when she had set out, a great many -questions occurred to Betty, circulating through her lively little mind -without any possibility of an answer to them. Why should Charlie be so -anxious to see Miss Lance? Why had he been so long there, ill, and -nobody come to tell his people of it? And what was Bee doing in Curzon -Street, in Aubrey Leigh’s house, which was the last house in the world -where she had any right to be? But she walked so fast, and the sunny air -with all its movement and lightness so carried her on and filled her -with pleasant sounds and images, that these thoughts, blowing like the -wind through her little intelligence, had not much effect on Betty -now—though there was incipient trouble in them, as even she could see.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was seated at his breakfast when his little girl burst -in upon him in all the freshness of the morning. Her youth and her -bloom, and her white frock, notwithstanding its black accoutrements, -made a great show in the dark-coloured,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> solemn, official-looking room, -with its Turkey carpets and morocco chairs. The Colonel was evidently -startled by the sight of her. He said, “Well?” in that tone of -self-defence, and almost defiance, with which a man prepares for being -called upon to give an account of himself; as if anything so absurd -could be possible as that Betty, little Betty, could call upon her -father to give an account of himself! But then it is very true that when -there is something to be accounted for, the strongest feel how -“conscience doth make cowards of us all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, breathless, “Papa—Charlie! Bee has found Charlie, and -he’s been very ill—typhoid fever; he’s getting better, and he’s in -London, and she’s with him; and he wants but to see Miss Lance. Oh, -papa, that’s what I came about chiefly—he wants to see Miss Lance.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward’s face changed many times during this breathless -deliverance. He said first, “He’s at Mackinnon’s, I know;” then, “In -London!” with no pleasure at all in his tone; and finally, “Miss Lance!” -angrily, his face covered with a dark glow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span></p> - -<p>“What is all this?” he cried, when she stopped for want of breath. -“Charlie—in town? You must be out of your senses. Why, he is in -Scotland. I heard from—, eh? Well, I don’t know that I had any letter, -but—. And ill—and Bee with him? What is the meaning of all this? Are -you both mad, or in a conspiracy to make yourselves disagreeable to me?”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Betty, very ready to take up the challenge; but on the -whole the news was too important to justify a combat of self-defence. -She produced Bee’s note out of its envelope, and placed it before him, -running on with a report of it while the Colonel groped for his eyeglass -and arranged it upon his nose.</p> - -<p>“A lady came and fetched her,” cried Betty, hurriedly, to forestall the -reading, “and brought her up to town and took her to him—oh, so -bad—where he had been for weeks; and she told him you had been to -Oxford, and something about Miss Lance; and he wants to see Miss Lance, -and calls and calls for her, and won’t be satisfied. Oh, papa!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had arranged his <i>pince-nez</i> very carefully; he had -taken up Bee’s note, and went over it word by word while Betty made her -breathless report. When he came to the first mention of Miss Lance he -struck his hand upon the table like any other man in a passion, making -all the cups and plates ring.</p> - -<p>“The little fool!” he said, “the little fool! What right had she to -bring in that name? It was this that called forth Betty’s exclamation, -but no more was said by either till he read it out to the end. Then he -flung the letter from him, and getting up, paced about the room in rage -and dismay.</p> - -<p>“A long illness,” said the Colonel, “was perhaps the best thing that -could have happened to him to sweep all that had passed before out of -his mind; and here does this infernal little idiot, this little demon -full of spite and malice, get at the boy at his worst moment and bring -everything back. What right had she, the spiteful, envious little fool, -to bring in the name of a lady—of a lady to whom you all owe the -greatest respect?”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Betty, overwhelmed, “Bee couldn’t have meant any harm.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was out of himself and he uttered words which -terrified his daughter, and which need not be recorded against him—for -he certainly did not in cold blood wish Bee to fall under any celestial -malediction. He stormed about the room, saying much that Betty could not -understand; that it was just the thing of all others that should not -have happened, and the time of all others; that if it had been a little -later, or even a little earlier, it would not have mattered; that it was -enough to overturn every arrangement, increase every difficulty. He was -not at all a man to give way to his feelings so. His children, indeed, -until very lately, had never seen him excited at all, and it was an -astonishment beyond description to little Betty to be a spectator of -this scene. Indeed, Colonel Kingsward awoke presently to a sense of the -self-exposure he had been making, and calmed down, or, at least, -controlled himself, upon which Betty ventured to ask him very humbly -what he thought she had better do.</p> - -<p>“May I go to Miss Lance and tell her? She is not angry now, nor unhappy -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> him like—like <i>us</i>,” said Betty, putting the best face upon it -with instinctive capacity, “and she might know what to do. She is so -very kind and understanding, don’t you know, papa?—and she would know -what to do.”</p> - -<p>For the first time Colonel Kingsward gave his agitated little visitor a -smile. “You seem to have some understanding, too, for a little girl,” he -said, “and it looks as if you would be worthy of my confidence, Betty. -When I see you this afternoon I shall, perhaps, have something to tell -you that——”</p> - -<p>There came over Colonel Kingsward’s fine countenance a smile, a -consciousness, which filled Betty with amaze. She had seen her father -look handsome, commanding, very serious. She had seen him wear an air -which the girls in their profanity had been used in their mother’s happy -days to call that of the <i>père noble</i>. She had seen him angry, even in a -passion, as to-day. She had heard him, alas! blaspheme, which had been -very terrible to Betty. But she had never, she acknowledged to herself, -seen him look <i>silly</i> before. Silly, in a girl’s phraseology, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> what -he looked now, with that fatuity which is almost solely to be attributed -to one cause; but of this Betty was not aware. It came over his -countenance, and for a moment Colonel Kingsward let himself go on the -flood of complacent consciousness, which healed all his wounds. Then he -suddenly braced himself up and turned to Betty again.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” he said, in his most fatherly tone, for it seemed to the man -in this crisis of his life that even little Betty’s support was -something to hold by, “my dear child, your instinct is right. Go to Miss -Lance and tell her how things are. Don’t take this odious letter, -however,” he said, seizing Bee’s note and tearing it across with -indignant vehemence, “with all its prejudices and assumptions. Tell her -in your own words; and where they are—and—— Where are they, by the -way?” he said, groping for the fragments of the letter in his -waste-paper basket. “I hope you noted the address.”</p> - -<p>He had not then, it was evident, noted the address, nor the name of Mrs. -Leigh, nor in whose house Charlie was. Betty’s heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> beat high with the -question whether she should call his attention to these additional -facts, but her courage failed her. He had cooled down, he was himself -again: and after a moment he added, “I will write a little note which -you can take,” with once more the smile that Betty thought silly -floating across his face. She was standing close by the writing-table, -and Betty was not aware that there was any harm in the natural glimpse -which her keen eyes took, before she was conscious of it, of the note he -was writing. It was not like a common note. It did not begin “Dear Miss -Lance,” as would have been natural. In short, it had no beginning at -all, nor any signature—or rather it was signed only with his initial -“F.” How very extraordinary that papa should sign “F.” and should not -put any beginning to his letter. A kind of wondering consternation -enveloped the little girl. But still she did not in the least understand -what it meant.</p> - -<p>Betty walked away along Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and by the edge of the -Park to George Street, Hanover Square. It is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> according to the -present fashion that a girl should shrink from walking along through -those busy London streets, where nobody is in search of adventures, at -least at that hour of the morning. Her white morning frock and her black -ribbons, and her early bloom, like the morning, though delightful to -behold, did not make all the passers by stand and stare as the movements -of a pretty girl used to do, if we are to credit the novels, in the -beginning of the century. People, perhaps, have too much to do nowadays -to give to that not unusual sight the attention which the dandies and -the macaroni bestowed upon it, and Betty was so evidently bent on her -own little business, whatever it was, that nothing naturally occurred to -detain her.</p> - -<p>It was so unusual for her to have a grave piece of business in hand that -she was a little elated by it, even though so sorry for Charlie who was -so ill, and for Bee who was so perturbed about everything. Betty herself -was not perturbed; she was full of the pleasure of the morning and the -long, interesting walk, and the sense of her own importance as a -messenger. If there did occasionally float<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> across her mind the idea -that her father’s demeanour was strange, or that it was odd that he -should have signed his note to Miss Lance with an F., it was merely a -momentary idea and she did not question it or detain it. And poor -Charlie! Ill—not able to get out this fine weather; but he was getting -better, so that there was really nothing to be troubled about.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance was up, but had not yet appeared when Betty was shown into -her little drawing-room. She was not an early riser. It was one of her -vices, she frankly allowed. Betty had to wait, and had time to admire -all her friend’s knick-knacks, of which there were many, before she came -in, which she did at last, with her arms put out to take Betty -maternally to her bosom. She looked in the girl’s face with a very -intent glance before she took her into this embrace.</p> - -<p>“My little Betty, so early,” she said, and kissed the girl, and then -looked at her again, as if in expectation of something; but as Betty -could not think of anything that Miss Lance would be expecting from her, -she remained unconscious of any special meaning in this look.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, I am early,” she said; “it is because I have something to tell -you, and something to ask of you, too.”</p> - -<p>“Tell, my dear little girl, and ask. You may be sure I shall be at your -service. But what is this in your hand—a note for me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a note for you, but may I tell you first what it is about?” -Betty went on quickly with her story, though Miss Lance, without waiting -for it, took the note and opened it. “Miss Lance, Charlie is found; he -has been very ill, and he wants to see you.”</p> - -<p>“To see me?” Miss Lance looked with eyes of sympathy, yet great -innocence, as if at an impossible proposal, at the breathless girl so -anxious to get it out. “But, Betty, if he is with your friends, the -Mackinnons, in Scotland—?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Lance, I told you he was not there, don’t you remember? He has -never been anywhere all this time. He has had typhoid fever, and on -Thursday Bee was sent for, and found him still ill, but mending. And -when he heard you were in town he would give her no peace till she wrote -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> asked you to come and see him. And she did not know your address so -she wrote to me. I went to tell papa first, and then I came on here. Oh, -will you come and see Charlie? Bee said he wanted to get into a hansom -and come to you as soon as he heard you were here.”</p> - -<p>“What induced them to talk of me, and why did she tell him I was here?” -Miss Lance cried, with a momentary cloud upon her face, such as Betty -had never seen there before. She sat down suddenly in a chair, with a -pat of her foot upon the carpet, which was almost a stamp of impatience, -and then she read Colonel Kingsward’s note for the second time, with her -brows drawn together and a blackness about her eyes which filled Betty -with alarm and dismay. She looked up, however, next minute with her -countenance cleared. “Your father says I am to use my own discretion,” -she said, with a half laugh; “that is not much help to me, is it, in -deciding what is best to do? So he has been ill—and not in Scotland at -all?”</p> - -<p>“I told you he was not in Scotland,” cried Betty, a little impatient in -her turn. “Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> Miss Lance, he has been ill, he is still ill, and won’t -you come and see him when he wants you so? Oh, come and see him, please! -He looks so ill and wretched, Bee says, and weak, and cannot get back -his strength; and he thinks if he could see you——”</p> - -<p>“Poor boy—silly boy!” said Miss Lance; “why does he think it will do -him good to see me? I doubt if it would do him any good; and your father -says I am to use my discretion. I would do anything for any of you, -Betty, but perhaps I should do him harm instead of good. Have you got -your sister’s letter?”</p> - -<p>“I left it with papa—that is, he threw it into the waste paper basket,” -said the too truthful Betty, growing red.</p> - -<p>“I understand,” said Miss Lance, “it was not a letter to show me. Bee -has her prejudices, and perhaps she is right. I cannot expect that all -the family should be as nice to me as you. Have they taken him to -Kingswarden? Or where is he, poor boy?”</p> - -<p>“He is at No. 1000, Curzon Street,” Betty said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<p>“What!” said Miss Lance. “Where?” Her brow curved over her eyes, her -face grew dark as if the light had gone out of the morning, and she -spoke the two monosyllables in a sharp imperative tone, so that they -seemed to cut like a knife.</p> - -<p>“At No. 1000; Curzon Street,” Betty repeated with great alarm, not -knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance rose quickly, as if there had been something that stung her -in the innocent words. She looked as if she were about to pace the room -from end to end, as Colonel Kingsward did when he was disturbed. But -either she did not mean this, or she restrained herself, for what she -did was to walk to her writing-table and put Colonel Kingsward’s note -away in a drawer, and then she went to the window and looked out, and -said it was a fine morning but dusty for walking—and then she returned -to her chair and sat down again and looked at Betty. She was pale, and -there were lines in her face that had not been there before. Her eyes -were almost piteous as she looked at the surprised girl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>“I am in a very strait place,” she said, “and I don’t know what to do.” -Something like moisture seemed to come up into her eyes. “This is always -how it happens to me,” she said, “just at the moment, just at the -moment! What am I to do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bee</span> had passed the whole day with Charlie, the Friday of the dinner -party at Portman Square. She had resisted as long as she could writing -the letter which had brought so much excitement to Betty, and the -passion with which he had insisted upon this—the struggle between them, -the vehemence with which he had declared that he cared for nothing in -the world but to see Laura once again, to thank her for having pleaded -for him with his father, to ask her forgiveness for his follies—had -been bad for Charlie, who lay for the rest of the day upon the sofa, -tossing from him one after the other the novels that were provided for -his amusement, declaring them to be “rot” or “rubbish,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> growling at his -sister when she continued to speak to him, and reducing poor Bee to that -state of wounded imbecility which is the lot of those who endeavour to -please an unpleasable invalid, with the conviction that all the time -they are doing more harm than good.</p> - -<p>Bee was not maladroit by nature, and she had the warmest desire to be -serviceable to her brother, but it appeared that she always did the -wrong thing, not only in the eyes of Charlie, but in those of the nurse, -who came in from time to time with swift movements, bringing -subordination and quiet where there had been nothing but irritation and -resistance. And in this house, where she had been brought entirely for -the service of Charlie, Bee did not know what to do. She was afraid to -leave the rooms that had been given up to him lest she should meet -someone on the stairs, or be seen only to be avoided, as if her presence -there was that of a ghost or an enemy. Poor Bee—wearing out the long -hours of the spring afternoon with poor attempts to be useful to the -invalid, to watch his looks—which he resented by frequent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> adjurations -not to watch him as a cat watches a mouse—to anticipate his -wishes—which immediately became the last thing in the world he wanted -as soon as she found out the drink or got the paper for which he was -looking, heard or thought she heard steps coming to the street door, -subdued voices in the hall, comings and goings half stealthily, noises -subdued lest she should hear. What did it matter whether she heard or -not? Why should the master of the house be banished that she, so -ineffectual as she had proved, should be brought to her brother’s side? -She had not done, and could not do, any good to Charlie. All that she -had done had been to remind him of Miss Lance, to be the medium of -calling that disastrous person, who had done all the harm, back into -Charlie’s life—nay, of bringing her back to this house, the inmates of -which she had already harmed to the utmost of her power.</p> - -<p>That was all that had been done by Bee, and now her presence kept at a -distance the one individual in the world who had the best right to be -here. He came almost secretly, she felt sure, to the door in the dusk -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> inquire after his patient, or to get his letters; or stole in, -subduing his step, that she might not be disturbed.</p> - -<p>Poor Bee! It was very bitter to her to think that Aubrey Leigh should -leave his own house because she was there. Sometimes she wondered -whether it was some remnant of old, almost-extinguished feeling in his -breast which had made him think that the sight of Bee would do Charlie -good—the sight of Bee, for which her brother did not care at all, not -at all; which was an annoyance and a fatigue to him, except when she had -betrayed what was the last thing in the world she should have betrayed, -the possibility of seeing again that woman who had harmed them all. If -Aubrey had thought so, with some remnant of the old romance, how -mistaken he had been! And it was intolerable for the girl to think that -for the sake of this unsuccessful experiment he had been sent away from -his own house. She placed herself in the corner of the room in which -Charlie (to whom she was supposed to do good and bring pleasure) could -see her least, and bitterness filled her heart. There were times<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> in -which she thought of stealing away, leaving a word for Mrs. Leigh to the -effect that she was doing Charlie no good, and that Betty, who would -come to-morrow, might perhaps be of more use—and returning forlorn to -Kingswarden to renew the life, where perhaps nobody wanted her very -much, but where, at least, there were so many things which she and no -one else was there to do.</p> - -<p>She was still in this depressed state when Mrs. Leigh (who had evidently -gone away that the brother and sister might be alone and happy together) -came back, looking into Charlie’s room to ask how he was on her way -upstairs to dress for dinner.</p> - -<p>“Better,” the nurse said, with her eyebrows. “Peevish—young lady -mustn’t cross him—must be humoured—things not gone quite so well -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“You will tell me about it at dinner,” said Mrs. Leigh, and Bee went -downstairs with a heavy heart to be questioned. Aubrey’s mother looked -cheerful enough; she did not seem to be unhappy about his absence or to -dislike the society of the girl who had driven him away. And she was -very considerate even in her questions about the patient.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<p>“We must expect these fluctuations,” she said; “you must not be cast -down if you are not quite so triumphantly successful to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Leigh, I am deceiving you. I have never been successful at -all. He did not want me—he doesn’t care for me, and to stay here is -dreadful, upsetting the house—doing no good.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, this is a strange statement to make, and you must not expect -me to believe you in the face of facts. He was much better after seeing -you last night.”</p> - -<p>“Doing no good,” said Bee, shaking her head, “but harm, oh, real harm! -It was not I that did him good, it was telling him of someone, of a -lady. Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how am I to tell you?”</p> - -<p>“My dear child, anything that you yourself know can surely be told to -me. We were afraid that something about a woman was at the bottom of it, -but then that is always the thing that is said, and typhoid, you know, -means bad drains and not a troubled mind—though the one may make you -susceptible to the other. Don’t be so distressed, my dear. It seems more -to your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> inexperience than it is in reality. He will get over that.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh,” said Bee, very pale, “he has made me write to ask her to -come and see him here.”</p> - -<p>It was now Mrs. Leigh’s turn to change colour. She grew red, looking -astonished in the girl’s despairing face.</p> - -<p>“A woman to come and see him, here! But your brother would never insult -the house and you—— I am talking nonsense,” she said, suddenly -stopping herself, “and misconstruing him altogether. It is some lady who -has jilted him—or something of that kind.”</p> - -<p>Bee had not understood what Mrs. Leigh’s first idea was, and she did not -see any cause for relief in the second.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what she did to him, or what she has done to them all,” -the girl said, mournfully. “They are all the same. Papa, even, who does -not care very much for ladies, generally—— But Charlie, poor Charlie! -Oh, I believe he is in love with her still, though she is twice as old -as he is and has almost broken his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs. Leigh, “this must be something very different to -what we thought. We thought he had got into some very dreadful trouble -about a—an altogether inferior person. But as it seems to be a lady, -and one that is known to the family, and who can be asked to come -here—if you can tell me a little more clearly what the story is, I -shall be more able to give you my advice.”</p> - -<p>Bee looked at her questioner helpless, half distracted, not knowing how -to speak, and yet the story must be told. She had written that fatal -invitation, and it could not be concealed who this possible visitor was. -She began with a great deal of hesitation to talk of the lady whom -Charlie had raved about at Oxford, and how he was to work to please her; -and how he did not work, but failed in every way, and fled from Oxford; -and how her father went to inquire into the story; and how the lady had -come to Colonel Kingsward at the hotel, to explain to him, to excuse -Charlie, to beg his father to forgive him.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear, she can’t be so very bad,” said Mrs. Leigh, soothingly. -“You must not judge her hardly; if she thought she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> been to blame in -the matter, that was really the right thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“And since then,” resumed Bee, “I think papa has thought of nobody else; -he writes to her and tells her everything. He goes to see her; he -forgets about Charlie and all of us; he has taken Betty there, and Betty -adores her too. And to-night,” cried Bee, the angry tears coming into -her eyes, “she is dining in Portman Square, dining with the Lyons as a -great friend of ours—in Portman Square.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh drew Bee to her and gave her a kiss of consolation. I think -it was partly that the girl in her misery should not see the smile, -which Mrs. Leigh, thinking that she now saw through this not uncommon -mystery, could not otherwise conceal.</p> - -<p>“My poor child,” she said, “my dear girl! This is hard upon you since -you dislike her so much, but I am afraid it is quite natural, and a -thing that could not have been guarded against. And then you must -consider that your father may probably be a better judge than yourself. -I don’t see any harm this lady has done, except that perhaps it is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> -quite good taste to make herself so agreeable both to the father and -son; but perhaps in Charlie’s case that was not her fault. And I see no -reason, my dear—really and sincerely as your friend, Bee—why you -should be so prejudiced against a poor woman whose only fault is that -everybody else likes her. Now isn’t it a little unreasonable when you -think of it calmly yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Leigh!” Bee cried. The situation was so intolerable, the -passion of injury and misconception so strong in her that she could only -gasp in insupportable anger and dismay.</p> - -<p>“Bee! Bee! this feeling is natural but you must not let it carry you -away. Have you seen her? Let me come in when she is here and give my -opinion.”</p> - -<p>“I have seen her three times,” said Bee, solemnly, “once at the Baths, -and once at the Academy, and once at Oxford;” and then once more -excitement mastered the girl. “Oh, when you know who she is! Don’t -smile, don’t smile, but listen! She is Miss Lance.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Lance!” Mrs. Leigh repeated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> the name with surprise, looking into -Bee’s face. “You must compose yourself,” she said, “you must compose -yourself. Miss——? My dear, you have got over excited, you have mixed -things up.”</p> - -<p>“No, I am not over-excited! I am telling you only the truth. It is Miss -Lance, and they all believe in her as if she were an angel, and she is -coming here.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh was very much startled, but yet she would not believe her -ears. She had heard Charlie delirious in his fever not so long ago. Her -mind gave a little leap to the alarming thought that there might be -madness in the family, and that Bee had been seized like her brother. -That what she said was actual fact seemed to her too impossible to be -true. She soothed the excited girl with all her power. “Whoever it is, -my dear, you shall not take any harm. There is nothing to be frightened -about. I will take care of you, whoever it is.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think you believe me,” said Bee. “I am not out of my mind, as -you think. It is Miss Lance—Miss Laura Lance—the same, the very same, -that—and I have written, and she will be coming here.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>“This is very strange,” said Mrs. Leigh. “It does not seem possible to -believe it. The same—who came between Aubrey and you? Oh, I never meant -to name him, I was never to name him; but how can I help it? Laura, who -was the trouble of his house—who would not leave him—who went to your -father? And now your father! I cannot understand it. I cannot believe -that it is true.”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Bee. “But, Mrs. Leigh, you forget that no one cared -then, except myself; they have forgotten all that now, they have -forgotten what happened. It was only my business, it was not their -business. All that has gone from papa; he remembers nothing about it. -And she is a witch, she is a magician, she is a devil—oh, please -forgive me, forgive me—I don’t know what I am saying. It has all been -growing, one thing after another—first me—and then Charlie—and then -papa—and then Betty. And now, after bringing him almost to death and -destruction, here is Charlie, in this house, calling for her, raging -with me till I wrote to call her—me!” cried Bee, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> sort of -indignant eloquence. “Me! Could it go further than that? Could anything -be more than that? Me!—and in this house.”</p> - -<p>“My dear child,” said Mrs. Leigh, “I don’t wonder, I don’t wonder—it is -like something in a tragedy. Oh, Bee! Forgive me for what is first in my -thoughts. Was she the reason, the only reason, for your breach with my -poor Aubrey? For at first you stood by him—and then you turned upon -him.”</p> - -<p>“Do not ask me any more questions, please. I am not able to answer -anything. Isn’t it enough that all these things have happened through -this woman, and that she is coming here?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh made no further question. She saw that the girl’s excitement -was almost beyond her control, and that her young mind was strained to -its utmost. She said, half to herself, “I must think. I cannot tell in a -moment what to do. I must send for Aubrey. It is his duty and mine to -let it go no further. You must try to compose yourself, my dear, and -trust us. Oh, Bee,” there were tears in her eyes as she came up to the -girl and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> kissed her, “if you could but have trusted us—in all things! -I don’t think you ever would have repented.”</p> - -<p>But Bee did not make any response. Her hands were cold and her head hot. -She was wrapt in a strange passion and confusion of human chaos and -bewilderment—everything gone wrong—all the elements of life twisted -the perverse way; nothing open, nothing clear. She was incapable of any -simple, unmingled feeling in that confusion and medley of everything -going wrong.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, a little disappointed, went into the inner room, the little -library, to write a letter—no doubt to consult or summon her son—from -which she was interrupted a few minutes later by a faint call, and Bee’s -white face in the doorway.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Leigh, papa will come to-morrow, and he will take us away; at -least he will take me away. I—I shan’t be any longer in anyone’s way. -Oh, don’t keep him apart from you—don’t send anyone out of the house -because of me!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a great deal of commotion next morning in the house in -Mayfair.</p> - -<p>Bee was startled by having a tray brought to her bedroom with her -breakfast when she was almost ready to go downstairs. “Mrs. Leigh -thought, Miss, as you had been so tired last night, you might like to -rest a little longer,” said the maid; and Bee divined with a sharp pang -through all the trouble and confusion of her mind that she was not -wanted—that probably Aubrey was coming to consult with his mother what -was to be done. It may be imagined with what scrupulousness she kept -within her room, her pride all up in arms though her heart she thought -was broken. Though the precaution was so natural, though it was taken at -what was supposed to be her desire, at what was really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> her desire—the -only one she would have expressed—yet she resented it, in the -contradiction and ferment of her being. If Mrs. Leigh supposed that she -wanted to see Aubrey! He was nothing to her, he had no part in her life. -When she had been brought here, against her will, it had been expressly -explained that it was not for Aubrey, that he would rather go away to -the end of the world than disturb her. And she had herself appealed to -his mother—her last action on the previous night—to bring him back, -not to banish him on account of the girl who was nothing to him, and -whose part it was, not his, to go away. All this, however, did not make -it seem less keen a wound to Bee that she should be, so to speak, -imprisoned in her own room, because Aubrey was expected downstairs. She -had never, she declared to herself vehemently, felt at ease under the -roof that was his; nothing but Charlie’s supposed want of her would have -induced her to subject herself to the chances of meeting him, and the -still more appalling chance of being supposed to wish to meet him. And -now this insult of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> imprisonment in her bedroom, lest she should by any -chance come under his observation, offend his eye!—Bee was -contradictory enough at all times, a rosebud set about with wilful -thorns; but everything was in tumult about her, and all her conditions -nothing but contradictions now.</p> - -<p>Thus it happened that while Betty was setting out with much excitement, -but that all pleasurable, walking lightly among undiscovered dangers, -Bee was suddenly arrested, as she felt, imprisoned in the little room -looking out upon roofs and backs of houses, thrust aside into a corner -that she might not be seen or her presence known—imperceptibly the -force of the description grew as she went on piling up agony upon agony. -It was some time before, in the commotion of her feelings, she could -bring herself to swallow her tea, and then she walked about the room, -gazed out of the window from which, as it was at the back of the house, -she saw nothing, and found the position more and more intolerable every -minute. A prisoner! she who had been brought here against her will, on -pretence that her presence might save her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> brother’s life, or something -equally grandiose and impossible—save her brother’s life, bring him -back from despair by the sight of some one that he loved. These were the -sort of words that Mrs. Leigh had said. As if it mattered to Charlie one -way or the other what Bee might think or do! As if he were to be -consoled by her, or stimulated, or brought back to life! She had -affected him involuntarily, undesirably, by her betrayal of the vicinity -of that woman, that witch, who had warped his heart and being. But as -for influencing in her own person her brother’s mind or life, Bee knew -she was as little capable as baby, the little tyrant of the nursery. Oh! -how foolish she had been to come at all, to yield to what was said, the -flattering suggestion that she could do so much, when she knew all along -in her inmost consciousness that she could do nothing! The only thing -for her to do now was to go back to the dull life of which in her -impatient foolishness she had grown so weary, the dull life in which she -was indeed of some use after all, where it was clearly her duty to get -the upper hand of baby, to preserve the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> discipline of the nursery, to -train the little ones, and keep the big boys in order. These were the -elder sister’s duties, with which nobody could interfere—not any -ridiculous, sentimental, exaggerated idea, as Charlie had said, of what -a woman’s ministrations could do. “Oh, woman, in our hours of ease!” -that sort of foolish, foolish, intolerable, ludicrous kind of thing, -which it used to be considered right to say, though people knew better -now. Bee felt bitterly that to say of her that she was a ministering -angel would be irony, contumely, the sort of thing people said when they -laughed at women and their old-fashioned sham pretences. She had never -made any such pretence. She had said from the beginning that Charlie -would care for none of her ministrations. She had been brought here -against her judgment, against her will, and now she was shut up as in a -prison in order that Aubrey might not be embarrassed by the sight of -her! As if she had wished to see Aubrey! As if it had not been on the -assurance that she was not to see Aubrey that she had been beguiled -here!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>When a message came to her that she was to go to her brother, Bee did -not know what to do. It seemed to her that Aubrey might be lurking -somewhere on the stairs, that he might be behind Charlie’s sofa, or -lying in wait on the other side of the curtain, notwithstanding her -offence at the quite contradictory idea that she was imprisoned in her -room to be kept out of his way. These two things were entirely contrary -from each other, yet it was quite possible to entertain and be disturbed -by both in the tumult and confusion of a perverse young mind. She -stepped out of her room as if she were about to fall into an ambush, -notwithstanding that she had been thrilling in every irritated nerve -with the idea of being imprisoned there.</p> - -<p>Charlie had insisted on getting up much earlier than usual. He had not -waited for the doctor’s visit. He was better; well, he said, stimulated -into nervous strength and capability, though his gaunt limbs tottered -under him and his thin hand trembled. When he got into his sitting-room -he flung away all his cushions and wrappings as soon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> as his nurse left -him and went to the mirror over the mantel-piece and gazed at himself in -the glass, smoothing down and stroking into their right place those -irregular soft tufts growing here and there upon his chin, which he -thought were the beginnings of a beard.</p> - -<p>Would she think it was a beard, that sign of manhood? They were too -downy, fluffy, unenergetic, a foolish kind of growth, like a colt’s, -some long, some short, yet Charlie could not help being proud of them. -He felt that they would come to something in time, and remembered that -he had often heard it said that a beard which never had been shaved -became the finest—in time. Would she think so? or would she laugh and -tell him that this would not do, that he must get himself shaved?</p> - -<p>He would not mind that she should laugh. She might do anything, all she -did was delightful to poor Charlie, and there would be a compliment even -in being told that he must get shaved. Charlie had stroked his upper lip -occasionally with a razor, but it had never been necessary to suggest to -him that he should get shaved before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<p>He had to be put back upon his sofa when nurse re-appeared, but he only -remained there for the time, promising no permanent obedience. When -Laura came he certainly should not receive her there.</p> - -<p>“When did your letter go? When would Betty receive it?” he said, when -Bee, breathless and pale, at last, under nurse’s escort, was brought -downstairs.</p> - -<p>“She must have got it last night. But there was a dinner party,” said -Bee, after a pause, “last night at Portman Square.”</p> - -<p>“What do I care for their dinner parties? I suppose the postman would go -all the same.”</p> - -<p>“But Betty could not do anything till this morning.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Charlie, “I suppose not. She would be too much taken up with -her ridiculous dress and what she was to wear”—the knowledge of a young -man who had sisters, pierced through even his indignation—“or with some -nonsense about Gerald Lyon—that fellow! And to think,” he said, in an -outburst of high, moral indignation “that one’s fate should be at the -mercy of a little thing like Betty, or what she might say or do!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<p>“Betty is not so much younger than we are; to be sure,” said Bee, with -reflective sadness, “she has never had anything to make her think of all -the troubles that are in the world.”</p> - -<p>Charlie turned upon her with scorn.</p> - -<p>“And what have you had to make you think, and what do you suppose you -know? A girl, always protected by everybody, kept out of the battle, -never allowed to feel the air on your cheek! I must tell you, Bee, that -your setting yourself up for knowing things is the most ridiculous -exhibition in the world.”</p> - -<p>Bee’s wounded soul could not find any words. She kept out of the battle! -She setting up for knowing things! And what was his knowledge in -comparison with hers? He had but been deluded like the rest by a woman -whom Bee had always seen through, and never, never put any faith in; -whereas she had lost what was most dear, all her individual hopes and -prospects, and been obliged to sacrifice what she knew would be the only -love of her life.</p> - -<p>She looked at Charlie with eyes that were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> full of unutterable things. -He was reckless with hope and expectation, self-deceived, thinking that -all was coming right again; whereas Bee knew that things would never -more be right with her. And yet he presumed to say that she knew -nothing, and that to think she had suffered was a mere pretence! “How -little, how little,” Bee thought, “other people know.”</p> - -<p>The house seemed full that morning of sounds and commotions, unlike -ordinary times. There were sounds of ringing bells, of doors opened and -shut, of voices downstairs. Once both Charlie and Bee held their breath, -thinking the moment had come, for a carriage stopped at the door, there -was the sound of a noisy summons, and then steps coming upstairs.</p> - -<p>Alas! it was nothing but the doctor, who came in, ushered by nurse, but -not until she had held a private conference with him, keeping them both -in the most tremendous suspense in the bedroom. It is true this was a -thing which happened every morning, but they had both forgotten that in -the tension of highly-wrought feeling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<p>And when the doctor came he shook his head. “There has been too much -going on here,” he said. “You have been doing too much or talking too -much. Miss Kingsward, you helped us greatly with our patient yesterday, -but I am afraid you have been going too far, you have hurried him too -much. We dare not press recovery at railway speed after so serious an -illness as this.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have not wished to do so,” said Bee. “It is some friends that we -are expecting.”</p> - -<p>“Friends? I never said he was to see friends,” the doctor said.</p> - -<p>“Come doctor,” said Charlie, “you must not be too hard upon me. -It’s—it’s my father and sister that are coming.”</p> - -<p>“Your father and sister are different, but not too much even of them. -Recollect, nurse, what I say, not too much even of the nearest and -dearest. The machinery has been too much out of gear to come round all -in a moment. And, Miss Kingsward, you are pale, too. You had better go -out a little and take the air. There must not be too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> much conversation, -not too much reading either. I must have quiet, perfect quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Am I to do nothing but think?” said Charlie. “Is that the best thing -for a fellow to do that has missed his schools and lost his time?”</p> - -<p>“Be thankful that you are at a time of life when the loss of a few weeks -doesn’t matter, and don’t think,” said the doctor, “or we shall have to -stop even the father and sister, and send you to bed again. Be -reasonable, be reasonable. A few days’ quiet and you will be out of my -hands.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, then you have given up seeing anyone else,” said Bee, with -a cry of relief as the doctor, attended by the nurse, went downstairs.</p> - -<p>“I have done nothing of the kind,” he cried, jumping up from the sofa -and going to the window. “And you had better tell that woman to go out -for a walk and that you will look after me. Do you think when Laura -comes that I will not see her if fifty doctors were to interfere? But if -you want to save me a little you will send that woman out of the way. It -is the worry and being contradicted that does me harm.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p>“How can I, Charlie—oh, how can I, in the face of what the doctor -said?”</p> - -<p>He turned back upon her flaming with feverish rage and excitement.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t I’ll go out. I’ll have a cab called, and get away from -this prison,” he cried. “I don’t care what happens to me, but I shall -see her if I die for it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Bee to herself, trembling, “she will not come. Oh! -perhaps she will not come!” But she felt that this was a very forlorn -hope, and when the nurse came back the poor girl, faltering and ill at -ease, obeyed the peremptory signs and frowns of Charlie, once more -established on the sofa and seeming to take no part in the negotiation.</p> - -<p>“Nurse, I have been thinking,” said Bee, with that talent for the -circumstantial which women have, even when acting against their will, -“that you have far more need of a walk and a little fresh air than I -have, who have only been here for a day, and that if you will tell me -exactly what to do, I could take care of him while you go out a little.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t think of leaving him,” said nurse, with her eyebrows working -as usual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> and a mocking smile about her lips. “Too much talk; doctor not -pleased.”</p> - -<p>“But if I promise not to talk? I shall not talk. You don’t want to talk, -do you, Charlie?”</p> - -<p>Charlie launched a missile at her in his ingratitude, over his shoulder. -“Not with you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You hear?” cried Bee, now intent upon gaining her point, and terrified -lest other visitors might arrive before this matter were decided; “we -shall not talk, and I will do all you tell me. Oh, only tell me what I -am to do.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing to do,” said the nurse, “not for the next hour; nothing, but -keep him quiet. Well, if you think you can undertake that, just for half -an hour—”</p> - -<p>“I will—I will—for as long as you please,” cried Bee. It was better, -indeed, if there must be this interview with Laura, that there should be -as few spectators as possible. She hurried the woman away with -eagerness, though she had been alarmed at the first suggestion. But when -she was alone with him, and nobody to stand by her, thinking at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> every -sound she heard that this was the dreaded arrival, Bee crept close to -him with a sudden panic of terror and dismay.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Charlie, don’t listen to her, don’t believe her; oh, don’t be led -astray by her again! I have done what you told me, but I oughtn’t to -have done it. Oh, Charlie, stand fast, whatever she says, and don’t be -led astray by her again.”</p> - -<p>The only sign of Charlie’s gratitude that Bee received was to be hastily -pushed away by his shoulder. “You little fool, what do you know about -it?” her brother said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">But</span> the nurse went out for her walk and came in again and nothing -happened, and Charlie had his invalid dinner, which in his excitement he -could not eat, and Bee was called downstairs to luncheon, and yet nobody -came. The luncheon was a terrible ordeal for Bee. She attempted to eat, -with an eye on the window, to watch for the arrival of the visitors, and -an ear upon the subdued sounds of the house, through which she seemed to -hear the distant step, the distant voice of someone whose presence was -not acknowledged. She repeated with eagerness her little speech of the -night before. “Something must have detained papa,” she said, “I cannot -understand it, but he is sure to come, and he will take me away.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t want you to be taken away, my dear,” said Mrs. Leigh. “I should -not let you go if I could help it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I must, I must,” said Bee, trembling and agitated. She could -not eat anything, any more than Charlie, and when the nurse came -downstairs, indignantly carrying the tray from which scarcely anything -had been taken, Bee could make no reply to her remonstrances. “The young -lady had better not come upstairs again,” said nurse; “she has done him -more harm than good, he will have a relapse if we don’t mind. It is as -much as my character is worth.” She talked like other people when there -was no patient present, and she was genuinely afraid.</p> - -<p>“What are we to do?” said Mrs. Leigh. “If this lady comes he ought not -to see her! But perhaps she will not come.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I have hoped,” said Bee, “but if she doesn’t come he will -go out, he will get to her somehow; he will kill himself with -struggling——”</p> - -<p>At the suggestion of going out the nurse gave a shriek and thrust her -tray into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> servant’s hands who was waiting. “He will have to kill me -first,” she said, rushing away.</p> - -<p>And immediately upon this scene came Betty, fresh and shining in her -white frock, with a smile like a little sunbeam, who announced at once -that Miss Lance was coming.</p> - -<p>“How is Charlie?” said Betty. “Oh, Mrs. Leigh, how good you have been! -Papa is coming himself to thank you. What a trouble it must have been to -have him ill here all the time. Mrs. Lyon, whom I am staying with, -thinks it so wonderful of you—so kind, so kind! And Bee, <i>she</i> is -coming, though it is rather a hard thing for her to do. She says you -will not like to see her, Mrs. Leigh, and that it will be an intrusion -upon you; but I said when you had been so good to poor Charlie all -along, you would not be angry that she should come who is such a -friend.”</p> - -<p>“Any friend, of course, of Colonel Kingsward’s——” Mrs. Leigh said -stiffly, while little Betty stared. She thought they all looked very -strange; the old lady so stiff, and Bee turning red and turning white, -and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> general air as if something had gone wrong.</p> - -<p>“Is Charlie worse?” she said, with an anxious look.</p> - -<p>And then Bee was suddenly called upstairs. “Can’t manage him any -longer,” the nurse said on the landing. “I wash my hands of it. Your -fault if he has a relapse.”</p> - -<p>“Who is that?” said Charlie, from within, “Who is it? I will see her! -Nobody shall interfere, no one—doctor, or nurse, or—the devil himself. -Bee!”</p> - -<p>“It is only Betty,” said Bee, upon which Charlie ceased his raging and -flung himself again on his sofa.</p> - -<p>“You want to torment me; you want to wear me out; you want to kill me,” -he said, with tears of keen disappointment in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Charlie,” said Bee, “she is coming. Betty is here to say so; she is -coming in about an hour or so. If you will eat your dinner and lie quite -quiet and compose yourself you will be allowed to see her, and nurse -will not object.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Kingsward, don’t answer for me. It is as much as his life is -worth.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<p>“But not unless you eat your dinner and keep perfectly quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Give us that old dinner,” said Charlie, with a loud, unsteady laugh, -and the tray was brought back and he performed his duty upon the -half-cold dishes with an expedition and exuberance that gave nurse new -apprehensions.</p> - -<p>“He’ll have indigestion,” she said, “if he gobbles like that,” speaking -once more inaudibly over Charlie’s shoulder. But afterwards all was -quiet till the fated moment came.</p> - -<p>I do not think if these girls had known the feelings that were within -Miss Lance’s breast that they would have been able to retain their -respective feelings towards her—Betty of adoration or Bee of hostility. -She had lived a life of adventure, and she had come already on various -occasions to the very eve of such a settled condition of life as would -have made further adventure unnecessary and impossible—but something -had always come in the way. Something so often comes in the way of such -a career. The stolid people who are incapable of any skilful -combinations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> go on and prosper, while those who have wasted so much -cleverness or much wit, so much trouble—and disturbed the lives of -others and risked their own—fail just at the moment of success. I am -sometimes very sorry for the poor adventurers. Miss Lance went to Curzon -Street with all her wits painfully about her, knowing that she was about -to stand for her life. It seemed the most extraordinary spite of fate -that this should have happened in the house of Aubrey Leigh. She would -have had in any case a disagreeable moment enough between Charlie -Kingsward and his father, but it was too much to have the other brought -in. The man whom she had so wronged, the family (for she knew that his -mother was there also) who knew all about her, who could tell -everything, and stop her on the very threshold of the new life—that new -life in which there would be no equivocal circumstances, nothing that -she could be reproached with, only duty and kindness. So often she -seemed to have been just within sight of that halcyon spot where she -would need to scheme no more, where duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> and every virtuous thing would -be natural and easy. Was the failure to come all over again?</p> - -<p>She was little more than an adventuress, this troubled woman, and yet it -was not without something of the exalted feeling of one who is about to -stand for his life, for emancipation and freedom to do well and all that -is best in existence, that she walked through the streets towards her -fate. Truth alone was possible with the Leighs, who knew everything -about her past, and could not be persuaded or turned from their -certainty by any explanations. But poor Charlie! Bare truth was not -possible with him, whom she had sacrificed lightly to the amusement of -the moment, whom she could never have married or made the instrument of -building up her fortune except in the way which, to do her justice she -had not foreseen, through the access he had given her to his father. How -was she to satisfy that foolish, hot-headed boy?—and how to stop the -mouths of the others in the background?—and how to persuade Colonel -Kingsward that circumstances alone were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> against her—that she herself -was not to blame? She did not conceal from herself any of these -difficulties, but she was too brave a woman to fly before them. She -preferred to walk, and to walk alone, to this trial which awaited her, -in order to subdue her nerves and get the aid of the fresh air and -solitude to steady her being. She was going to stand for her life.</p> - -<p>It seemed a good augury that she was allowed to enter the house without -any interruption from the sitting-room below, where she had the -conviction that her worst opponents were lying in wait. She thought even -that she had been able to distinguish the white cap and shawl of Mrs. -Leigh through the window, but it was Betty who met her in the hall—met -her with a kiss and expression of delight.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so glad you have come,” said Betty, “he is so eager to see -you.” The people in ambush in the ground floor rooms must have heard the -exclamation, but they made no sign. At the door upstairs they were met -by the nurse, excited and laconic, speaking without any sound.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<p>“No worry—don’t contradict. Much as life is worth,” she said, with -emphatic, silent lips. Miss Lance, so composed, so perfect in her -manner, so wound up to everything, laughed a little—she was so -natural!—and nodded her head. And then she went in.</p> - -<p>Charlie on the sofa was of course the chief figure. But he had jumped -up, flinging his wrappings about, and stood in his gaunt and tremulous -length, with his big hollow eyes and his ragged little beard, and his -hands stretched out. “At last!” he said, “at last—— Laura!” stumbling -in his weakness as he advanced to her. Bee was standing up straight -against the window in the furthest corner of the room, not making a -movement. How real, how natural, how completely herself and ready for -any emergency this visitor was! She took Charlie’s hands in hers, -supporting him with that firm hold, and put him back upon his couch.</p> - -<p>“Now,” she said, “the conditions of my visit are these: perfect quiet -and obedience, and no excitement. If you rebel in any way I shall go. I -know what nursing is, and I know what common-sense is—and I came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> here -to help you, not to harm you. Move a toe or finger more than you ought, -and I shall go!”</p> - -<p>“I will not move, not an eyelid if you tell me not. I want to do nothing -but look at you. Laura! oh, Laura! I have been dead, and now I am alive -again,” Charlie said.</p> - -<p>“Ill or well,” said Miss Lance, arranging his cushions with great skill, -“you are a foolish, absurd boy. Partly it belongs to your age and partly -to your temperament. I should not have considered you like your father -at the first glance, but you are like him. Now, perfect quiet. Consider -that your grandmother has come to see you, and that it does not suit the -old lady to have her mind disturbed.”</p> - -<p>He had seized her hand and was kissing it over and over again. Miss -Lance took those caresses very quietly, but after a minute she withdrew -her hand. “Now, tell me all about it,” she said; “you went off in such a -commotion—so angry with me—”</p> - -<p>“Never angry,” he said, “but miserable, oh, more miserable—too -miserable for words. I thought that you had cut me off for ever.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span></p> - -<p>“You were right so far as your foolish ideas of that moment went, but I -hope you have learnt better since, and now tell me what did you do? I -hoped you had gone home, and then that you had gone to Scotland, and -then—. What did you do?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Charlie, “I can’t tell you. I suppose I must have -been ill then. I came up to town, but I don’t know what I did. And I was -brought here, and I’ve been ill ever since, and couldn’t seem to get -better until I heard you had been speaking for me. <i>You</i> speaking for -me, Laura! Thinking of me a little, trying to bring me back to life. -I’ll come back to life, dear, for you—anything, Laura, for you!”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy, it is a pity you should not have a better reason,” she -said. The two girls had not gone away. Betty had retired to the corner -where Bee was, and they stood close together holding each other, ashamed -and scornful beyond expression of Charlie’s abandonment. Even Betty, who -was almost as much in love with Miss Lance as Charlie was, was ashamed -to hear him “going on” in this ridiculous way. What Miss Lance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> felt to -have these words of devotion addressed to her in the presence of two -such listeners I will not say. She was acutely sensible of their -presence, and of what they were thinking, but she did not shrink from -the ordeal. “And you must not call me Laura,” she said, “unless you can -make it Aunt Laura, or Grandmother Laura, which are titles I shouldn’t -object to. Anything else would be ridiculous between you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Laura!” the young man said, raising himself quickly.</p> - -<p>“Say Aunt Laura, my dear, and if you move another inch I will go away!”</p> - -<p>“You are crushing me,” he cried, “you are driving me to despair!”</p> - -<p>“Dear Charlie,” said Miss Lance, “all this, you know, is very great -nonsense—between you and me; I have told you so all along. Now things -have really become too serious to go on. I want to be kind to you, to -help you to get well, and to see as much of you as possible; for you are -a dear boy and I am fond of you. But this can’t be unless you will see -things in their true light and acknowledge the real state of affairs. I -am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> most willing and ready to be your friend, to be a mother to you. But -anything else is ridiculous. Do you hear me, Charlie?—ridiculous! You -don’t want to be laughed at, and you don’t want me to be laughed at, I -suppose?” She took his hands with which he had covered his face and held -them in hers. “Now, no nonsense, Charlie. Be a man! Will you have me for -your friend, always ready to do anything for you, or will you have -nothing to do with me? Come! I might be your mother, I have always told -you so. And look here,” she said, with a tone of genuine passion in her -voice and a half turn of her flexible figure towards the two girls, “I’m -worth having for a mother; whatever you may think in your cruel youth, I -am, I am!” Surely this was to them and not to him. The movement, the -accent, was momentary. Her voice changed again into the softness of a -caress. “Charlie, my dear boy, don’t make me ridiculous, don’t make -people laugh at me. They call me an old witch, trying to entrap a young -man. Will you let people—nay, will you <i>make</i> people call me so?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> make anyone call you—anything but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> what you are!” he cried. -“Nobody would dare,” said the unfortunate fellow, “to do anything but -revere you and admire you so long as I was there.”</p> - -<p>“And then break out laughing the moment your back was turned,” she said. -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What a hold the old hag has got upon him!’ is what they would say. And -it would be quite true. Not that I am an old hag. No, I don’t think I am -that, I am worse. I’m a very well preserved woman of my years. I’ve -taken great care of myself to keep up what are called my personal -advantages. I have never wished—I don’t wish now—to be thought older -than I am, or ugly. I am just old enough—to be your mother, Charlie, if -I had married young, as your mother did——”</p> - -<p>He drew his hands out of her cool and firm grasp, and once more covered -his face with them. “Don’t torture me,” he cried.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear boy, I don’t want to torture you, but you must not make me, -nor yourself—whom I am proud of—ridiculous. I am going probably—for -nothing is certain till it happens,” she said, with a mournful tone in -her voice, slightly shaking her head, “and you may perhaps help to balk -me—I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> probably going to make a match with a reasonable person suited -to my age.”</p> - -<p>Poor Charlie started up, his hands fell from his face, his large -miserable eyes were fixed upon hers. “And you come—you come—to tell me -this!” he cried.</p> - -<p>“It will be partly for you—to show how impossible your folly is—but -most for myself, to secure my own happiness.” She said these words very -slowly, one by one—“To secure my own happiness. Have I not the right to -do that, because a young man, who should have been my son, has taken it -into his foolish head to form other ideas of me? You would rather make -me ridiculous and wretched than consider my dignity, my welfare, my -happiness—and this is what you call love!” she said.</p> - -<p>The girls listened to this conversation with feelings impossible to put -into words, not knowing what to think. One of them loved the woman and -the other hated her; they were equally overwhelmed in their young and -simple ideas. She seemed to be speaking a language new to them, and to -have risen into a region which they had never known.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">She</span> left Charlie’s room, having soothed him and reduced him to quiet in -this inconceivable way, with a smile on her face and the look of one who -was perfectly mistress of the situation. But when she had gone down -half-a-dozen steps and reached the landing, she stood still and leaned -against the wall, clasping her hands tight as if there was something in -them to hold by. She had carried through this part of her ordeal with a -high hand. She had made it look the kindest yet the most decisive -interview in the world, crushing the foolish young heart, without -remorse, yet tenderly, kindly, with such a force of sense and reason as -could not be resisted—and all so naturally, with so much apparent ease, -as if it cost her nothing. But she was after all, merely a woman,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> and -she knew that only half, nay, not half, not the worst half of her trial -was over. She lay back against the wall, having nothing else to rest -upon, and closed her eyes for a moment. The two girls had followed her -instinctively out of Charlie’s room, and stood on the stairs one above -the other, gazing at her. The long lines of her figure seemed to relax, -as if she might have fallen, and in their wonder and ignorance they -might still have stood by and looked on letting her fall, without -knowing what to do. But she did not do so. The corner of the walls -supported her as if they had made a couch for her, and presently she -opened her eyes with a vague smile at Betty, who was foremost. “I was -tired,” she said, and then, “it isn’t easy”—drawing a long breath.</p> - -<p>At this moment the trim figure of Mrs. Leigh’s maid appeared on the -stairs below, so commonplace, so trim, so neat, the little apparition of -ordinary life which glides through every tragedy, lifting its everyday -voice in announcements of dinner, in inquiries about tea, in all the -nothings of routine, in the midst of all tumults of misery and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> passion. -“If you please, madam—my lady would be glad if you would step into the -dining-room,” she said.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance raised herself in a moment from that half-recumbent position -against the wall. She recovered herself, got back her colour and the -brightness of her eyes, and that look of being perfectly natural, at her -ease, unstrained, spontaneous, which she had shown throughout the -interview with Charlie. “Certainly,” she said. There did not seem to be -time for the twinkling of an eyelid between the one mood and the other. -She required no preparation or interval to pull herself together. She -looked at the two sisters as if to call them to follow her, and then -walked quietly downstairs to be tried for her life—like a martyr—oh, -no, for she was not a martyr, but a criminal. She had no confidence of -innocence about her. She knew what indictment was about to be brought -against her, and she knew it was true. This knowledge, however, gives a -certain strength. It gives courage such as the innocent who do not know -what charge may be brought against them or how to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> meet it, do not -possess. She had rehearsed the scene. She knew what she was going to be -accused of, and had thought over, and set in order, all the pleas. She -knew exactly what she had done and what she had not, which was a tower -of strength to her, and she knew that on her power of fighting it out -depended her life. It is difficult altogether to deny our sympathy to a -brave creature fighting for bare life. However guilty he may be, human -nature takes sides with him, hopes in the face of all justice that there -may be a loophole of escape. Even Bee, coming slowly downstairs after -her, already thrown into a curious tumult of feeling by that scene in -Charlie’s room, began to feel her breath quicken with excitement even in -the hostility of her heart.</p> - -<p>There was one thing that Miss Lance had not foreseen, and that burst -upon her at once when the maid opened the door—Colonel Kingsward, -standing with his arm upon the mantel-piece and his countenance as if -turned to stone. The shock which this sight gave her was very difficult -to overcome or conceal, it struck her with a sudden dart as of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> despair; -her impulse was to fling down her arms, to acknowledge herself -vanquished, and to retreat, a defeated and ruined adventuress, but she -was too brave and unalterably by nature too sanguine to do this. She -gave him a nod and a smile, to which he scarcely responded, as she went -towards Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>“How strange,” she said, “when I come to see a new friend to find so old -a friend! I wondered if it could be Mr. Leigh’s house, but I was not -sure—of the number.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I cannot say I am glad to see you, Laura,” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>“No? Perhaps it would have been too much to expect. We were, so to -speak, on different sides. Poor Amy, I know, was never satisfactory to -you, and I don’t wonder. Of course you only thought of me as her -friend.”</p> - -<p>“If that were all!” Mrs. Leigh said.</p> - -<p>“Was there more than that? May I sit down? I have had a long walk, and -rather an exhaustive interview—and I did not expect to be put on my -trial. But it is always best to know what one is accused of.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> I think it -quite natural—quite natural that you should not like me, Mrs. Leigh. I -was Amy’s friend and she was trying to you. She put me in a very false -position which I ought never to have accepted. But yet—I understand -your attitude, and I submit to it with respect—but, pardon -me—sincerely, I don’t know what there was more.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance had taken a chair, a perfectly upright one, on which few -people could have sat gracefully. She made it evident that it was mere -fatigue which made her subside upon it momentarily, and lifted her fine -head and limpid eyes with so candid and respectful an air towards Mrs. -Leigh’s comfortable, unheroic face, that no contrast of the oppressed -and oppressor could have been more marked. If anyone had suffered in the -matter between these two ladies, it certainly was not the one with the -rosy countenance and round, well-filled-out figure; or so, at least, any -impartial observer certainly would have felt.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, for her part, was almost speechless with excitement and -anger. She had intended to keep perfectly calm, but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> look, the tone, -the appearance of this personage altogether, brought before her -overpoweringly many past scenes—scenes in which, to tell the truth, -Miss Lance had not been always in the wrong, in which the other figure, -now altogether disappeared, of Aubrey’s wife was the foremost, an -immovable gentle-mannered fool, with whom all reason and argument were -unavailing, whom everybody had believed to be inspired by the companion -to whom she clung. All Amy’s faults had been bound upon Laura’s -shoulders, but this was not altogether deserved, and Miss Lance did not -shrink from anything that could be said on that subject. It required -more courage to say, “Was there anything more?”</p> - -<p>“More!” cried Mrs. Leigh, choking with the remembrance. “More! My boy’s -house was made unsafe for him, it was made miserable to him, he was -involved in every kind of danger and scandal, and she asks me if there -was more?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Amy,” said Miss Lance, with a little pause on the name, shaking -her head gently in compassion and regret. “Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> Amy put me in a very -false position. I have already said so, I ought not to have accepted it, -I ought not to have promised; but it was so difficult to refuse a -promise to the dying. Let Colonel Kingsward judge. She was very unwise, -but she had been my friend from infancy and clung to me more, much more -than I wished. She exacted a promise from me on her death-bed that I -would never leave her child—which was folly, and, perhaps more than -folly, so far, at least, as I was concerned. You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward,” she added, steadfastly regarding him. He had kept his head -turned away, not looking at her, but this gaze compelled him against his -will to shift his position, to turn towards the appellant who made him -the judge. He still kept his eyes away, but his head turned by an -attraction which he could not withstand. “You may imagine, Colonel -Kingsward—that I was the person who suffered most,” Miss Lance said -after that pause, “compelled to stay in a house where I had never been -welcome, except to poor Amy, who was dead; a sort of guardian, a sort of -nurse,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> and yet with none of their rights, held fast by a promise which -I had given against my will, and which I never ceased to regret. You are -a man, Colonel Kingsward, but you have more understanding of a woman’s -feelings than any I know. My position was a false one, it was cruel—but -I was bound by my word.”</p> - -<p>“No one ought to have given such a promise,” he said, coldly, with -averted eyes.</p> - -<p>“You are always right, I ought not to have done so; but she was dying, -and I was fond of her, poor girl, though she was foolish—it is not -always the wisest people one loves most—fond of her, very fond of her, -and of her poor little child.”</p> - -<p>The tears came to Miss Lance’s eyes. She shook her head a little as if -to shake them from her eyelashes. “Why should I cry? They have been so -long happy, happier far than we——”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh, the prosecutor, the accuser, gave a gulp, a sob; the child -was her grandchild, her only one—and besides anger in a woman is as -prone to tears as sorrow. She gave a stifled cry, “I don’t deny you -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> good to the child; oh, Laura, I could have forgiven you -everything! But not—not——”</p> - -<p>“What?” Miss Lance said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh seized upon Bee by the arm and drew her forward—Aubrey’s -mother wanted words, she wanted eloquence, her arguments had to be -pointed by fact. She took Bee, who had been standing in proud yet -excited spectatorship, and held her by her own side. “Aubrey,” she said, -almost inarticulately, and stopped to recover her breath—“Aubrey—whom -you had driven from his home—found at last this dear girl, this nice, -good girl, who would have made him a new life. But you interfered, you -wrote to her father, you went—I don’t know what you did—and said you -had a claim, a prior claim. If you appeal to Colonel Kingsward, he is -the best judge. You went to him——”</p> - -<p>“Not to me, I was not aware, I never even saw Miss Lance till long -after; forgive me for interrupting you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance turned towards him again with that full look of faith and -confidence. “Always just!” she said. And this time for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> a tremulous -moment their eyes met. He turned his away again hastily, but he had -received that touch; an indefinable wavering came over his aspect of -iron.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I do not deny it—it is quite true. Shall I now -explain before every one who is here? I think,” she added, after a -moment, “that my little Betty, who has nothing particular to do with it, -may run away.”</p> - -<p>“I!” said Betty, clinging to the back of a chair.</p> - -<p>“Go,” said her father, impatiently, “go!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, run away. Charlie must want some one. He will have got -over me a little, and he will want some one. Dear little Betty, run -away!”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance rose from her seat—probably that too was a relief to -her—and, with a smile and a kiss, turned Betty out of the room. She -came back then and sat down again. It gained a little time, and she was -at a crisis harder than she had ever faced before. She had gained a -moment to think, but even now she was not sure what way there was out of -this strait, the most momentous in which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> had ever been. She looked -round her at one after another with a look that seemed as secure and -confident, as easy and natural, as before; but her brain was working at -the most tremendous rate, looking for some clue, some indication. She -looked round as with a pause of conscious power, and then her gaze fixed -itself on Bee. Bee stood near Mrs. Leigh’s chair. She was standing firm -but tremulous, a deeply concerned spectator, but there was on her face -nothing of the eager attention with which a girl would listen to an -explanation about her lover. She was not more interested than she had -been before, not so much so as when Charlie was in question. When Mrs. -Leigh, in her indictment, said, “You interfered,” Bee had made a faint, -almost imperceptible movement of her head. The mind works very quickly -when its fate hangs on the balance of a minute, and now, suddenly, the -culprit arraigned before these terrible judges saw her way.</p> - -<p>“I interfered,” Miss Lance said, slowly, “but not because of any prior -claim;”—she paused again for a moment—“that would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> have been as absurd -as in the case Colonel Kingsward knows of. I interfered—because I had -other reasons for believing that Aubrey Leigh was not the man to marry a -dear, good, nice girl.”</p> - -<p>“You had—other reasons, Laura! Mind what you are saying—you will have -to prove your words,” cried Mrs. Leigh, rising in her wrath, with an -astonished and threatening face.</p> - -<p>“I do not ask his mother to believe me. It is before Colonel Kingsward,” -said Miss Lance, “that I stand or fall.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out! You know it was because she -claimed my son—she, a woman twice his age; and now she pretends—— -Make her speak out! How dare you? You said he had promised to marry -you—that he was bound to you. Colonel Kingsward, make her speak out!”</p> - -<p>“That was what I understood,” he said, looking out of the window, his -head turned half towards the other speakers, but not venturing to look -at them. “I did not see Miss Lance, but that was what I understood.”</p> - -<p>Laura sat firm, as if she were made of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> marble, but almost as pale. Her -nerves were so highly strung that if she had for a moment relaxed their -tension, she would have fallen to the ground. She sat like a rock, -holding herself together with the strong grasp of her clasped hands.</p> - -<p>“You hear, you hear! You are convicted out of your own mouth. Oh, you -are cruel, you are wicked, Laura Lance! If you have anything to say -speak out, speak out!”</p> - -<p>“I will say nothing,” said Miss Lance. “I will leave another, a better -witness, to say it for me. Colonel Kingsward, ask your daughter if it -was because of my prior claim, as his mother calls it, that she broke -off her engagement with Aubrey Leigh.”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward turned, surprised, to his daughter, who, roused by the -sound of her own name, looked up quickly—first at the seemingly -composed and serious woman opposite to her, then at her father. He spoke -to her angrily, abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Do you hear? Answer the question that is put to you. Was it because of -this lady, or any claim of hers, that you—how shall I say it?—a girl -like you had no right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> to decide one way or the other—that you broke -off—that your mind was changed towards Mr. Aubrey Leigh?”</p> - -<p>It appeared to Bee suddenly as if she had become the culprit, and all -eyes were fixed on her. She trembled, looking at them all. What had she -done? She was surely unhappy enough, wretched enough, a clandestine -visitor, keeping Aubrey out of his own house, and what had she to do -with Aubrey? Nothing, nothing! Nor he with her—that her heart should -now be snatched out of her bosom publicly in respect to him.</p> - -<p>“That is long past,” she said, faltering, “it is an old story. Mr. -Aubrey Leigh is—a stranger to me; it is of no consequence—now!”</p> - -<p>“Bee,” her father thundered at her, “answer the question! Was it because -of—this lady that you changed your mind?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward had always the art, somehow, of kindling the blaze of -opposition in the blue eyes which were so like his own. She looked at -him almost fiercely in reply, fully roused.</p> - -<p>“No!” she said, “no! It was not because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> of—that lady. It was -another—reason of my own.”</p> - -<p>“What was your reason?” cried Mrs. Leigh. “Oh, Bee, speak! What was it, -what was it? Tell me, tell me, my dear, what was your reason? that I may -prove to you it was not true.”</p> - -<p>“Had it anything to do with—this lady?” asked Colonel Kingsward once -more.</p> - -<p>“I never spoke to that lady but once,” cried Bee, almost violently. “I -don’t know her; I don’t want to know her. She has nothing to do with it. -It was because of something quite different, something that we -heard—I—and mamma.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lance looked at him with a smile on her face, loosing the grip of -her hands, spreading them out in demonstration of her acquittal. She -rose up slowly, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. She allowed it to -be seen for the first time how she was shaken with emotion.</p> - -<p>“You have heard,” she said, “a witness you trust more than me—if I put -myself into the breach to secure a pause, it was only such a piece of -folly as I have done before. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> hope now that you will let me withdraw. -I am dreadfully tired, I am not fit for any more.”</p> - -<p>She looked with that appeal upon her face, first at one of her judges, -then at the other. “If you are satisfied, let me go.” It seemed as if -she could not say a word more. They made no response, but she did not -wait for that. “I take it for granted,” she added, “that by that child’s -mouth I am cleared,” and then she turned towards the door.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward, with a little start, came from his place by the -mantel-piece and opened it for her, as he would have done for any woman. -She let it appear that this movement was unexpected, and went to her -heart; she paused a moment looking up at him—her eyes swimming in -tears, her mouth quivering.</p> - -<p>“How kind you are!” she said, “even though you don’t believe in me any -more! but I have done all I can. I am very tired, scarcely able to -walk.” He stood rigid, and made no sign, and she, looking at him, softly -shook her head—“Let me see you at least once,” she said, very low, in a -pleading tone, “this evening, some time?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span></p> - -<p>Still he gave no answer, standing like a man of iron, holding the door -open. She gave him another look, and then walked quietly, but with a -slight quiver and half stumble, away. They all stood watching until her -tall figure was seen to pass the window, disappearing in the street, -which is the outer world.</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward—” said Mrs. Leigh.</p> - -<p>He started at the sound of his name, as if he had but just awakened out -of a dream, and began to smooth his hat, which all this time he had held -in his hands.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me, another time. I have some pressing -business to see to now.”</p> - -<p>And he, too, disappeared into that street which led both ways, into the -monotony of London, which is the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Those</span> who were left behind were not very careful of what Colonel -Kingsward did. They were not thinking of his concerns; in the strain of -personal feeling the most generous of human creatures is forced to think -first of their own. Neither of the women who were left in the room had -any time to consider the matter, but if they had they would have made -sure without hesitation that nothing which could happen to Colonel -Kingsward could be half so important as that crisis in which his -daughter was involved.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh turned round upon the girl by her side and seized her hands. -“Bee,” she cried, “now we are alone and we can speak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> freely. Tell me -what it was, there is nobody here to frighten you, to take the words -from your mouth. What was it, what was it that made you turn from -Aubrey? At last, at last, it can be cleared up whatever it was.”</p> - -<p>Bee turned away, trying to disengage her hands. “It is of no -consequence,” she said, “Oh, don’t make me go back to those old, old -things. What does it matter to Mr. Leigh? And as for me——”</p> - -<p>“It matters everything to Aubrey. He will be able to clear himself if -you will give him the chance. How could he clear himself when he was -never allowed to speak, when he did not know? Bee, in justice, in mere -justice! What was it? You said your mother——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I had her then. We heard it together, and she felt it like me. But -we had no time to talk of it after, for she was ill. If you would please -not ask me, Mrs. Leigh! I was very miserable—mother dying, and nowhere, -nowhere in all the world anything to trust to. Don’t, oh! don’t make me -go back upon it! I am not—so very—happy, even now!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<p>The girl would not let herself be drawn into Mrs. Leigh’s arms. She -refused to rest her head upon the warm and ample bosom which was offered -to her. She drew away her hands. It was difficult, very difficult, to -keep from crying. It is always hard for a girl to keep from crying when -her being is so moved. The only chance for her was to keep apart from -all contact, to stand by herself and persuade herself that nobody cared -and that she was alone in the world.</p> - -<p>“Bee, I believe,” said Mrs. Leigh, solemnly, “that you have but to speak -a word and you will be happy. You have not your mother now. You can’t -turn to her and ask her what you should do. But I am sure that she would -say, ‘speak!’ If she were here she would not let you break a man’s heart -and spoil his life for a punctilio. I have always heard she was a good -woman and kind—kind. Bee,” the elder lady laid her hand suddenly on the -girl’s shoulder, making her start, “she would say ‘speak’ if she were -here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, if you were here!” said Bee, through her tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span></p> - -<p>She broke down altogether and became inarticulate, sobbing with her face -buried in her hands. The ordeal of the last two days had been severe. -Charlie and his concerns and the appearance of Miss Lance, and the -conflict only half understood which had been going on round her, had -excited and disturbed her beyond expression, as everybody could see and -understand. But, indeed, these were but secondary elements in the storm -which had overwhelmed Bee, which was chiefly brought back by that sudden -plunge into the atmosphere of Aubrey. The sensation of being in his -house, which she might in other circumstances have shared with him, of -sitting at his table, in his seat, under the roof that habitually -sheltered him—here, where her own life ought to have been passed, but -where the first condition now was that there should be nothing of him -visible. In Aubrey’s house, but not for Aubrey! Aubrey banished, lest -perhaps her eyes might fall upon him by chance, or her ears be offended -by the sound of his voice! Even his mother did not understand how much -this had to do with the passion and trouble of the girl, from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> whose -eyes the innocent name of her mother, sweetest though saddest of -memories, had let forth the salt and boiling tears. If Mrs. Leigh had -been anybody in the world save Aubrey’s mother, Bee would have clung to -her, accepting the tender support and consolation of the elder women’s -arms and her sympathy, but from Aubrey’s mother she felt herself -compelled to keep apart.</p> - -<p>It was not until her almost convulsive sobbing was over that this -question could be re-opened, and in the meantime Betty having heard the -sound of the closing door came rushing downstairs and burst into the -room: perhaps she was not so much disturbed or excited as Mrs. Leigh was -by Bee’s condition. She gave her sister a kiss as she lay on the sofa -where Mrs. Leigh had placed her, and patted her on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“She will be better when she has had it out,” said Betty. “She has -worked herself up into such a state about Miss Lance. And oh, please -tell me what has happened. You are her enemy, too, Mrs. Leigh—oh, how -can you misjudge her so! As if she had been the cause of any harm! I was -sent away,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> said Betty, “and, of course, Bee could not speak—but I -could have told you. Yes, of course, I knew! How could I help knowing, -being her sister? I can’t tell whether she told me, I knew without -telling; and, of course, she must have told me. This is how it was——”</p> - -<p>Bee put forth her hand and caught her sister by the dress, but Betty was -not so easily stopped. She turned round quickly, and took the detaining -hand into her own and patted and caressed it.</p> - -<p>“It is far better to speak out,” she said, “it must be told now, and -though I am young and you call me little Betty, I cannot help hearing, -can I, what people say? Mrs. Leigh, this was how it was. Whatever -happened about dear Miss Lance—whom I shall stick to and believe in -whatever you say,” cried Betty, by way of an interlude, with flashing -eyes, “that had nothing, nothing to do with it. That was a story—like -Charlie’s, I suppose, and Bee no more made a fuss about it than I should -do. It was after, when Bee was standing by Aubrey, like—like Joan of -Arc; yes, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> course I shall call him Aubrey—I should like to have him -for a brother, but that has got nothing to do with it. A lady came to -call upon mamma, and she told a story about someone on the railway who -had met Aubrey on the way home after that scene at Cologne, after he was -engaged to Bee, and was miserable because of papa’s opposition.” Betty -spoke so fast that her words tumbled over each other, so to speak, in -the rush for utterance. “Well, he was seen,” she resumed, pausing for -breath, “putting a young woman with children into one of the sleeping -carriages—a poor young woman that had no money or right to be there. He -put her in, and when they got to London he was seen talking to her, and -giving her money, as if she belonged to him. I don’t see any harm in -that, for he was always kind to poor people. But these ladies did, and I -suppose so did mamma, and Bee blazed up. That is just like her. She -takes fire, she never waits to ask questions, she stops her ears. She -thought it was something dreadful, showing that he had never cared for -her, that he had cared for other people even when he was pretending,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> I -should have done quite different. I should have said, ‘Now, look here, -Aubrey, what does it mean?’—or, rather, I should never have thought -anything but that he was kind. He was always kind—silly, indeed, about -poor people, as so many are.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh had followed Betty’s rapid narrative with as much attention -as she could concentrate upon it, but the speed with which the words -flew forth, the little interruptions, the expressions of Betty’s matured -and wise opinions, bewildered her beyond measure.</p> - -<p>“What does it all mean?” she asked, looking from one to another when the -story was done. “A sleeping carriage on the railway—a woman with -children—as if she belonged to him? How could a woman with children -belong to him?” Then she paused and grew crimson with an old woman’s -painful blush. “Is it vice, horrible vulgar vice, this child is -attributing to my boy?”</p> - -<p>The two girls stared, confused and troubled. Bee got up from the sofa -and put her hands to her head, her eyes fixed upon Mrs. Leigh with an -appalled and horrified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> look. She had not asked herself of what Aubrey -had been accused. She had fled from him before the dreadful thought of -relationships she did not understand, of something which was the last -insult to her, whatever it might be in itself. “Vulgar vice!” The girls -were cowed as if some guilt had been imputed to themselves.</p> - -<p>“You are not like anything I have known, you girls of the period,” cried -the angry mother. “You are acquainted with such things as I at my age -had never heard of. You make accusations! But now—he shall answer for -himself,” she said, flaming with righteous wrath. Mrs. Leigh went to the -bell and rang it so violently that the sound echoed all over the house.</p> - -<p>“Go and ask your master to come here at once, directly; I want him this -moment,” she said, stamping her foot in her impatience. And then there -was a pause. The man went off and was seen from the window to cross the -street on his errand. Then Bee rose, her tears hastily dried up, pushing -back from her forehead her disordered hair.</p> - -<p>“I had better go. If you have sent for Mr. Leigh it will be better that -I should go.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Leigh was almost incapable of speech. She took Bee by the shoulders -and put her back almost violently on the sofa. “You shall stay there,” -she said, in a choked and angry voice.</p> - -<p>What a horrible pause it was! The girls were silent, looking at each -other with wild alarm. Betty, who had blurted out the story, but to whom -the idea of repeating it before Aubrey—before a man—was unspeakable -horror, made a step towards the door. Then she said, “No, I will not run -away,” with tremendous courage. “It is not our fault,” she added, after -a pause. “Bee, if I have got to say it again, give me your hand.”</p> - -<p>“It is I who ought to say it,” said Bee, pale with the horror of what -was to come. “Vulgar vice!” And she to accuse him, and to stand up -before the world and say that was why!</p> - -<p>It seemed a long time, but it was really only a few minutes, before -Aubrey appeared. He came in quickly, breathless with haste and suspense. -He expected, from what his mother had told him, to find Miss Lance and -Colonel Kingsward there. He came into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> the agitated room and found, of -all people in the world, Bee and Betty, terrified, and his mother, -walking about the room sounding, as it were, a metaphorical lash about -their ears, in the frank passion of an elder woman who has the most just -cause of offence and no reason to bate her breath. There was something -humorous in the tragic situation, but to them it was wholly tragic, and -Aubrey, seeing for the first time after so long an interval the girl he -loved, and seeing her in such strange circumstances, was by no means -disposed to see any humorous side.</p> - -<p>“Here, Aubrey!” said his mother, “I have called upon you to hear what -you are accused of. You thought it was Laura Lance, but she has nothing -to do with it. You are accused of travelling from Germany, that time -when you were sent off from Cologne—the time those Kingswards turned -upon you”—(the girls both started, and recovered themselves a little at -the shock of this contemptuous description),—“travelling in sleeping -carriages and I know not what with a woman and children, who were -believed to belong to you! What have you to say?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<p>“That was not what I said, Mrs. Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“What have you to say?” cried Mrs. Leigh, waving her hand to silence -Betty; “the accused has surely the right to speak first.”</p> - -<p>“What have I to say? But to what, mother? What is it? Was I travelling -with a woman and children? I suppose I was travelling—with all the -women and children that were in the same train. But otherwise, of course -you know I was with nobody. What does it mean?”</p> - -<p>Bee got up from the sofa like a ghost, her blue eyes wild, her face -pale. “Oh, let us go, let us go! Do not torment us,” she said. “I will -acknowledge that it was not true. Now that I see him I am sure that it -was not true. I was mad. I was so stung to think—— Mrs. Leigh, do not -kill me! I did him no harm; do not, do not go over it any more!”</p> - -<p>“Go over what?” cried Aubrey. “Bee! She can’t stand, she doesn’t see -where she is going. Mother, what on earth does it matter what was -against me if it is all over? Mother! How dare you torture my poor -girl—?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span></p> - -<p>This was naturally all the thanks Mrs. Leigh got for her efforts to -unravel the mystery, which the reader knows was the most innocent -mystery, and which had never been cleared up or thought of since that -day. It came clear of itself the moment that Aubrey, only to support -her, took Bee into his arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Sorceress walked away very slowly down the street.</p> - -<p>She had the sensation of having fallen from a great height, after the -excitement of having fought bravely to keep her place there, and of -having anticipated every step of a combat still more severe which yet -had not come to pass after her previsions. It had been a fight lasting -for hours, from the moment Betty, all unconscious, had told her of the -house in which Charlie was. That was in the morning, and now it was late -afternoon, and the work of the day, the common work of the day in which -all the innocent common people about had been employed, was rounding -towards its end. It seemed to her a long, long time that she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> been -involved, first in imagination, in severe thought, and then in actual -conflict—in this struggle, fighting for her life. From the beginning -she had made up her mind that she should fail. It was a consciously -losing game that she had fought so gallantly, never giving in; and -indeed she was not unaware, nor was she without a languid satisfaction -in the fact that she had indeed carried off the honours of the field, -that it would not be said that she had been beaten. But what did that -matter? Argument she knew and felt had nothing to do with such affairs. -She had known herself to have lost from the moment she saw Colonel -Kingsward standing there against the mantelpiece in the dining-room. It -had not been possible for her then to give in, to turn and go forth into -the street flinging down her arms. On the contrary, it was her nature to -fight to the last; and she had carried off an apparent victory. She had -marched off with colours flying from the field of battle, leaving every -enemy confounded. But she herself entertained no illusion in the matter. -It was possible no doubt that her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> spell might yet be strong enough upon -her middle-aged captive to make him ignore and pass over everything that -told against her—but, after considering the situation with a keen and -close survey of every likelihood, she dismissed that hope. No, her -chance was lost—again; the battle was over—again. It had been so near -being successful that the shock was greater perhaps than usual; but she -had now been feeling the shock for hours; so that her actual fall was as -much a relief as a pang, and her mind, full of resource, obstinately -sanguine, was becoming ready to pass on to the next chance, and had -already sprung up to think—What now?</p> - -<p>I am sorry that in this story I have always been placed in natural -opposition to this woman, who was certainly a creature full of interest, -full of resource, and indomitable in her way. And she had a theory of -existence, as, it is my opinion, we all must have, making out to -ourselves the most plausible reasons and excuses for all we do. Her -struggle—in which she would not have denied that she had sometimes been -unscrupulous—had always been for a standing-ground<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> on which, if once -attained, she could have been good. She had always promised herself that -she would be good when once she had attained—oh, excellent! kind, just, -true!—a model woman. And what, after all, had been her methods? There -had been little harm in them. Here and there somebody had been injured, -as in the case of Aubrey Leigh, of Charlie Kingsward. To the first she -had indeed done considerable harm, but then she had soothed the life of -Amy, his little foolish wife, to whom she had been more kind than she -had been unkind to him. She had not wanted to be the third person -between that tiresome couple. She had stayed in his house from a kind of -sense of duty, and had Aubrey Leigh indeed asked her to become his -second wife she would, of course, have accepted him for the sake of the -position, but with a grimace. She was not particularly sorry for having -harmed him. It served him right for—well, for being Aubrey Leigh. And -as for Bee Kingsward, she had triumphantly proved, much to her own -surprise it must be said, that it was not she who had done Bee any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> -harm. Then Charlie—poor Charlie, poor boy! He thought, of course, that -he was very miserable and badly used. Great heavens! that a boy should -have the folly to imagine that anything could make him miserable, at -twenty-two—a man, and with all the world before him. Miss Lance at this -moment was not in the least sorry for Charlie. It would do him good. A -young fellow who had nothing in the world to complain of, who had -everything in his favour—it was good for him to be unhappy a little, to -be made to remember that he was only flesh and blood after all.</p> - -<p>Thus she came to the conclusion, as she walked along, that really she -had done no harm to other people. To herself, alas! she was always doing -harm, and every failure made it more and more unlikely that she would -ever succeed. She did not brood over her losses when she was thus -defeated. She turned to the next thing that offered with what would have -been in a better cause a splendid philosophy, but yet in moments like -this she felt that it became every day more improbable that she would -ever succeed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> Instead of the large and liberal sphere in which she -always hoped to be able to fulfil all the duties of life in an imposing -and remarkable way, she would have probably to drop into—what? A -governess’s place, for which she would already be thought too old, some -dreadful position about a school, some miserable place as -housekeeper—she with all her schemes, her hopes of better things, her -power over others. This prospect was always before her, and came back to -her mind at moments when she was at the lowest ebb, for she had no money -at all. She had always been dependent upon somebody. Even now her little -campaign in George Street, Hanover Square, was at the expense of the -friend with whom she had lived in Oxford, and who believed Laura was -concerting measures to establish herself permanently in some -remunerative occupation. These accounts would have to be settled -somehow, and some other expedient be found by which to try again. Well, -one thing done with, another to come on—was not that the course of -life? And there was a certain relief in the thought that it was done -with.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> The suspense was over; there was no longer the conflict between -hope and fear, which wears out the nerves and clouds the clearness of -one’s mental vision. One down, another come on! She said this to herself -with a forlorn laugh in the depths of her being, yet not so very -forlorn. This woman had a kind of pleasure in the new start, even when -she did not know what it was to be. There are a great many things in -which I avow I have the greatest sympathy with her, and find her more -interesting than a great many blameless people. Poetic justice is -generally in books awarded to such persons. But that is, one is aware, -not always the case in life.</p> - -<p>While Miss Lance went on quietly along the long unlovely street, with -those thoughts in her mind, walking more slowly than usual, a little -languid and exhausted after her struggle, but as has been said frankly -and without <i>arriere penseé</i> giving up the battle as lost, and accepting -her defeat—she became suddenly aware of a quick firm footstep behind, -sounding fast and continuous upon the pavement. A woman like this has -all her wits very sharply about her, the ears and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> the sight of a -savage, and an unslumbering habit of observation, or she could never -carry on her career. She heard the step and instinctively noted it -before her mind awoke to any sense of meaning and importance in it. -Then, all at once, as it came just to that distance behind which made it -apparent that this footstep was following someone who went before, it -suddenly slackened without stopping, became slow when it had been fast. -At this, her thoughts flew away like a mist and she became all ears, but -she was too wise to turn round, to display any interest. Perhaps it -might be that he was only going his own way, not intending to follow, -and that he had slackened his pace unconsciously without ulterior -motives when he saw her in front of him—though this Miss Lance scarcely -believed.</p> - -<p>Perhaps—I will not affirm it—she threw a little more of her real -languor and weariness into her attitude and movements when she made this -exciting discovery. She was, in reality, very tired. She had looked so -when she left the house; perhaps she had forgotten her great fatigue a -little in the course of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> her walk, but it now came back again with -double force, which is not unusual in the most matter of fact -circumstances. As her pace grew slower, the footstep behind became -slower also, but always followed on. Miss Lance proceeded steadily, -choosing the quietest streets, pausing now and then at a shop window to -rest. The climax came when she reached a window which had a rail round -it, upon which she leaned heavily, every line of her dress expressing, -with a faculty which her garments specially possessed, an exhaustion -which could scarcely go further. Then she raised her head to look what -the place was. It was full of embroideries and needlework, a woman’s -shop, where she was sure of sympathy. She went in blindly, as if her -very sight were clouded with her fatigue.</p> - -<p>“I am very tired,” she said; “I want some silk for embroidery; but that -is not my chief object. May I sit down a little? I am so very tired.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” cried the mistress of the shop, rushing -round from behind the counter to place a chair for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> and offer a -glass of water. She sat down so as to be visible from the door, but -still with her back to it. The step had stopped, and there was a shadow -across the window—the tall shadow of a man looking in. A smile came -upon Miss Lance’s face—of gratitude and thanks to the kind people—also -perhaps of some internal satisfaction. But she did not act as if she -were conscious of anyone waiting for her. She took the glass of water -with many acknowledgments; she leant back on the chair murmuring, -“Thanks, thanks,” to the exhortations of the shop-woman not to hurry, to -take a good rest. She did not hurry at all. Finally, she was so much -better as to be able to buy her silks, and, declaring herself quite -restored, to go out again into the open air.</p> - -<p>She was met by the shadow that had been visible through the window, and -which, as she knew very well, was Colonel Kingsward, stiff and -embarrassed, yet with great anxiety in his face. “I feared you were -ill,” he said, with a little jerk, the words coming in spite of him. “I -feared you were fainting.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Colonel Kingsward, you!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes—I feared you were fainting. It is—nothing, I hope?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but exhaustion,” she said, with a faint smile. “I was very -tired, but I have rested and I am a little better now.”</p> - -<p>“Will you let me call a cab for you? You don’t seem fit to walk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no cab, thanks! I would much rather walk—the air and the slow -movement does one a little good.”</p> - -<p>She was pale, and her voice was rather faint, and every line of her -dress, as I have said, was tired—tired to death—and yet not -ungracefully tired.</p> - -<p>“I cannot let you go like this alone.” His voice softened every moment; -they went on for a step or two together. “You had better—take my arm, -at least,” he said.</p> - -<p>She took it with a little cry and a sudden clasp. “I think you are not a -mere man, but an archangel of kindness and goodness,” she said, with a -faint laugh that broke down, and tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>And I think for that moment, in the extraordinary revulsion of feeling, -Miss Lance almost believed what she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">What</span> more is there to say? It is better, when one is able to deal poetic -justice all round, to reward the good and punish the evil. Who are the -good and who are the evil? We have not to do with murderers, with -breakers of the law, with enemies of God or man. If Aubrey Leigh had not -been exceedingly imprudent, if Bee had not been hot-headed and -passionate, there would never have been that miserable breach between -them. And the Sorceress, who destroyed for a time the peace of the -Kingsward family, really never at any time meant that family any real -harm. She meant them indeed, to her own consciousness, all the good in -the world, and to promote their welfare in every way by making them her -own. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> as a matter of fact she did so, devoting herself to their -welfare. She made Colonel Kingsward an excellent wife and adopted his -children into her sedulous and unremitting care with a zeal which a -mother could not have surpassed. Her translation from scheming poverty -to abundance, and that graceful modest wealth which is almost the most -beautiful of the conditions of life, was made in a way which was quite -exquisite as a work of art. Nobody could ever have suspected that she -had been once poor. She had all the habits of the best society. There -was nowhere they could go, even into the most exalted regions, where the -new Mrs. Kingsward was not distinguished. She extended the Colonel’s -connections and interest, and made his house popular and delightful; and -she was perfect for his children. Even the county people and near -neighbours, who were the most critical, acknowledged this. The little -girls soon learned to adore their step-mother; the big boys admired and -stood in awe of her, submitting more or less to her influence, though a -little suspicious and sometimes half hostile. As for baby,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> who had been -in a fair way of growing up detestable and a little family tyrant, his -father’s new marriage was the saving of him. He scarcely knew as he grew -up that the former Miss Lance was not his mother, and he was said in the -family to be her idol, but a very well disciplined and well behaved -idol, and the one of the boys who was likely to have the finest career.</p> - -<p>Charlie, poor Charlie, was not so fortunate, at least at first. The -appointment which Colonel Kingsward declared he had been looking out for -all along was got as soon as Charlie was able to accept it, and he left -England when he was little more than convalescent. People said it was -strange that a man with considerable influence, and in the very centre -of affairs, should have sent his eldest son away to the ends of the -earth, to a dangerous climate and a difficult post. But it turned out -very well on the whole, for after a few years of languor and disgust -with the world, there suddenly fell in Charlie’s way an opportunity of -showing that there was, after all, a great deal of English pluck and -courage in him. I do not think it came to anything more than that—but -then that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> at certain moments, has been the foundation and the saving -of the British Empire in various regions of the world. There was not one -of his relations who celebrated Charlie’s success with so much fervour -as his step-mother, who was never tired of talking of it, nor of -declaring that she had always expected as much, and known what was in -him. Dear Charlie, she said, had fulfilled all her expectations, and -made her more glad and proud than words could say. It was a poor return -for this maternal devotion, yet a melancholy fact, that Charlie turned -away in disgust whenever he heard of her, and could not endure her name.</p> - -<p>Bee, whose little troubles have been so much the subject of this story, -accomplished her fate by becoming Mrs. Aubrey Leigh in the natural -course of events. There was no family quarrel kept up to scandalise and -amuse society, but there never was much intercourse nor any great -cordiality between the houses of Kingswarden and Forestleigh. I think, -however, that it was against her father that Bee’s heart revolted most.</p> - -<p class="c"> -THE END.<br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -TILLOTSON AND SON PRINTERS BOLTON<br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress, v. 3 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS, V. 3-3 *** - -***** This file should be named 53182-h.htm or 53182-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/1/8/53182/ - -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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