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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..8b9dc43 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55140 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55140) diff --git a/old/55140-0.txt b/old/55140-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f96e4ba..0000000 --- a/old/55140-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8429 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House in Bloomsbury, 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: A House in Bloomsbury - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 17, 2017 [EBook #55140] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY *** - - - - -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) - - - - - - - - - - - - A House in Bloomsbury - - - - - _A House in Bloomsbury_ - - By - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - New York - International Association of Newspapers and Authors - 1901 - - COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY - DODD, MEAD & COMPANY - - _All rights reserved._ - - - NORTH RIVER BINDERY CO. - PRINTERS AND BINDERS - NEW YORK - - - - - A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY. - - - - -CHAPTER 1. - - -“Father,” said Dora, “I am going upstairs for a little, to see Mrs. -Hesketh, if you have no objection.” - -“And who is Mrs. Hesketh, if I might make so bold as to ask?” Mr. -Mannering said, lifting his eyes from his evening paper. - -“Father! I told you all about her on Sunday--that she’s all alone all -day, and sometimes her husband is so late of getting home. She is so -lonely, poor little thing. And she is such a nice little thing! Married, -but not so big as me.” - -“And who is---- her husband?” Mr. Mannering was about to say, but he -checked himself. No doubt he had heard all about the husband too. He -heard many things without hearing them, being conscious rather of the -pleasant voice of Dora running on than of everything she said. - -This had, no doubt, been the case in respect to the young couple -upstairs, of whose existence he had become dimly sensible by reason of -meeting one or other of them on the stairs. But there was nothing in the -appearance of either which had much attracted him. They appeared to him -a commonplace couple of inferior kind; and perhaps had he been a man -with all his wits keenly about him, he would not have allowed his child -to run wild about the little woman upstairs. But Mr. Mannering did not -keep his wits about him sharpened to any such point. - -Dora was a child, but also she was a lady, proof against any -contamination of acquaintance which concerned only the letters of the -alphabet. Her “h’s” could take care of themselves, and so could her -“r’s". As for anything else, Mr. Mannering’s dreamy yet not unobservant -eyes had taken in the fact that the young woman, who was not a lady, was -an innocent and good little woman; and it had never occurred to him to -be afraid of any chance influence of such a kind for his daughter. He -acquiesced, accordingly, with a little nod of his head, and return of -his mild eyes to his paper. - -These two were the best of companions; but he was not jealous of his -little girl, nor did he desire that she should be for ever in his sight. -He liked to read his paper; sometimes he had a book which interested him -very much. The thought that Dora had a little interest in her life also, -special to herself, pleased him more than if she had been always hanging -upon him for her amusement and occupation. He was not afraid of the -acquaintance she might make, which was a little rash, perhaps, -especially in a man who had known the world, and knew, or ought to have -known, the mischief that can arise from unsuitable associates. - -But there are some people who never learn; indeed, few people learn by -experience, so far as I have ever seen. Dora had been an independent -individuality to her father since she was six years old. He had felt, as -parents often feel with a curious mixture of feelings, half pleasure, -half surprise, half disappointment (as if there could be three halves! -the reader will say; but there are, and many more), that she was not -very much influenced by himself, who was most near to her. If such -things could be weighed in any balance, he was most, it may be said, -influenced by her. She retained her independence. How was it possible -then that, conscious of this, he should be much alarmed by any -problematical influence that could be brought to bear upon her by a -stranger? He was not, indeed, the least afraid. - -Dora ran up the stairs, which were dark at the top, for Mrs. Simcox -could not afford to let her lodgers who paid so low a rent have a light -on their landing; and the landing itself was encumbered by various -articles, between which there was need of wary steering. But this little -girl had lived in these Bloomsbury lodgings all her life, and knew her -way about as well as the children of the house. Matters were -facilitated, too, by the sudden opening of a door, from which the light -and, sad to say, something of the smell of a paraffin lamp shone out, -illuminating the rosy face of a young woman, with a piece of sewing in -her hand, who looked out in bright expectation, but clouded over a -little when she saw who it was. “Oh, Miss Dora!” she said; and added in -an undertone, “I thought it was Alfred home a little sooner than -usual,” with a little sigh. - -“I made such a noise,” said Dora, apologetically. “I couldn’t help it. -Jane will leave so many things about.” - -“Oh, it’s me, Miss Dora. I does my rooms myself; it saves a deal on the -rent. I shouldn’t have left that crockery there, but it saves trouble, -and I’m not that used to housework.” - -“No,” said Dora, seating herself composedly at the table, and resisting, -by a strong exercise of self-control, her impulse to point out that the -lamp could not have been properly cleaned, since it smelt so. “One can -see,” she added, the fact being incontestable, “that you don’t know how -to do many things. And that is a pity, because things then are not so -nice.” - -She seemed to cast a glance of criticism about the room, to poor little -Mrs. Hesketh’s excited fancy, who was ready to cry with vexation. “My -family always kep’ a girl,” she said in a tone of injury subdued. But -she was proud of Dora’s friendship, and would not say any more. - -“So I should have thought,” said Dora, critical, yet accepting the -apology as if, to a certain extent, it accounted for the state of -affairs. - -“And Alfred says,” cried the young wife, “that if we can only hold on -for a year or two, he’ll make a lady of me, and I shall have servants of -my own. But we ain’t come to that yet--oh, not by a long way.” - -“It is not having servants that makes a lady,” said Dora. “We are not -rich.” She said this with an ineffable air of superiority to all such -vulgar details. “I have never had a maid since I was quite a little -thing.” She had always been herself surprised by this fact, and she -expected her hearer to be surprised. “But what does that matter?” she -added. “One is oneself all the same.” - -“Nobody could look at you twice,” said the admiring humble friend. “And -how kind of you to leave your papa and all your pretty books and come up -to sit with me because I’m so lonely! It is hard upon us to have Alfred -kep’ so late every night.” - -“Can’t he help it?” said Dora. “If I were you, I should go out to meet -him. The streets are so beautiful at night.” - -“Oh, Miss Dora!” cried the little woman, shocked. “He wouldn’t have me -go out by myself, not for worlds! Why, somebody might speak to me! But -young girls they don’t think of that. I sometimes wish I could be taken -on among the young ladies in the mantle department, and then we could -walk home together. But then,” she added quickly, “I couldn’t make him -so comfortable, and then----” - -She returned to her work with a smile and a blush. She was always very -full of her work, making little “things,” which Dora vaguely supposed -were for the shop. Their form and fashion threw no light to Dora upon -the state of affairs. - -“When you were in the shop, were you in the mantle department?” she -asked. - -“Oh, no. My figure isn’t good enough,” said Mrs. Hesketh; “you have to -have a very good figure, and look like a lady. Some of the young ladies -have beautiful figures, Miss Dora; and such nice black silks--as nice as -any lady would wish to wear--which naturally sets them off.” - -“And nothing to do?” said Dora, contemptuously. “I should not like -that.” - -“Oh, you! But they have a deal to do. I’ve seen ’em when they were just -dropping down with tiredness. Standing about all day, and putting on -mantles and things, and pretending to walk away careless to set them -off. Poor things! I’d rather a deal stand behind the counter, though -they’ve got the best pay.” - -“Have you been reading anything to-day?” said Dora, whose attention was -beginning to flag. - -Mrs. Hesketh blushed a little. “I’ve scarcely sat down all day till now; -I’ve been having a regular clean-out. You can’t think how the dust gets -into all the corners with the fires and all that. And I’ve just been at -it from morning till night. I tried to read a little bit when I had my -tea. And it’s a beautiful book, Miss Dora, but I was that tired.” - -“It can scarcely take a whole day,” said Dora, looking round her, “to -clean out this one little room.” - -“Oh, but you can’t think what a lot of work there is, when you go into -all the corners. And then I get tired, and it makes me stupid.” - -“Well,” said Dora, with suppressed impatience, “but when you become a -lady, as you say, with servants to do all you want, how will you be -able to take up a proper position if you have never read anything?” - -“Oh, as for that,” said Mrs. Hesketh in a tone of relief, “that can’t be -for a long time yet; and you feel different when you’re old to what you -do when you’re young.” - -“But I am young,” said Dora. She changed the subject, however, more or -less, by her next question. “Are you really fond of sewing?” she said in -an incredulous tone; “or rather, what are you most fond of? What should -you like best to do?” - -“Oh!” said the little wife, with large open eyes and mouth--she fell -off, however, into a sigh and added, “if one ever had what one wished -most!” - -“And why not?” said inexperienced Dora. “At least,” she added, “it’s -pleasant to think, even if you don’t have what you want. What should you -like best?” - -“Oh,” said Mrs. Hesketh again, but this time with a long-drawn breath of -longing consciousness, “I should like that we might have enough to live -upon without working, and Alfred and me always to be together,--that’s -what I should like best.” - -“Money?” cried Dora with irrepressible scorn. - -“Oh, Miss Dora, money! You can’t think how nice it would be just to have -enough to live on. I should never, never wish to be extravagant, or to -spend more than I had; just enough for Alfred to give up the shop, and -not be bound down to those long hours any more!” - -“And how much might that be?” said Dora, with an air of grand yet -indulgent magnificence, as if, though scorning this poor ideal, she -might yet perhaps find it possible to bestow upon her friend the -insignificant happiness for which she sighed. - -“Oh, Miss Dora, when you think how many things are wanted in -housekeeping, and one’s dress, and all that--and probably more than us,” -said Mrs. Hesketh, with a bright blush. She too looked at the girl as if -it might have been within Dora’s power to give the modest gift. “Should -you think it a dreadful lot,” said the young woman, “if I said two -hundred a year?” - -“Two hundred pounds a year?” said Dora reflectively. “I think,” she -added, after a pause, “father has more than twice as much as that.” - -“La!” said Mrs. Hesketh; and then she made a rapid calculation, one of -those efforts of mental arithmetic in which children and simple persons -so often excel. “He must be saving up a lot,” she said admiringly, “for -your fortune. Miss Dora. You’ll be quite an heiress with all that.” - -This was an entirely new idea to Dora, who knew of heiresses only what -is said in novels, where it is so easy to bestow great fortunes. “Oh no, -I shall not be an heiress,” she said; “and I don’t think we save up very -much. Father has always half a dozen pensioners, and he buys books -and--things.” Dora had a feeling that it was something mean and -bourgeois--a word which Mr. Mannering was rather apt to use--to save -up. - -“Oh!” said Mrs. Hesketh again, with her countenance falling. She was not -a selfish or a scheming woman; but she had a romantic imagination, and -it was so easy an exercise of fancy to think of this girl, who had -evidently conceived such a friendship for herself, as “left” rich and -solitary at the death of her delicate father, and adopting her Alfred -and herself as companions and guardians. It was a sudden and passing -inspiration, and the young woman meant no harm, but there was a -visionary disappointment in her voice. - -“But,” said Dora, with the impulse of a higher cultivation, “it is a -much better thing to work than to do nothing. When father is at home for -a few days, unless we go away somewhere, he gets restless; and if he -were always at home he would begin some new study, and work harder than -ever.” - -“Ah, not with folks like us, Miss Dora,” said Mrs. Hesketh. Then she -added: “A woman has always got plenty to do. She has got her house to -look after, and to see to the dinner and things. And when there are -children----” Once more she paused with a blush to think over that happy -prospect. “And we’d have a little garden,” she said, “where Alfred could -potter about, and a little trap that we could drive about in, and take -me to see places, and oh, we’d be as happy as the day was long!” she -cried, clasping her hands. The clock struck as she spoke, and she -hastily put away her sewing and rose up. “You won’t mind, Miss Dora, if -I lay the table and get things ready for supper? Alfred will soon be -coming now.” - -“Oh, I like to see you laying the table,” said Dora, “and I’ll help -you--I can do it very well. I never let Jane touch our nice clean -tablecloths. Don’t you think you want a fresh one?” she said, looking -doubtfully at the somewhat dingy linen. “Father always says clean linen -is the luxury of poor people.” - -“Oh!” said little Mrs. Hesketh. She did not like criticism any more than -the rest of us, nor did she like being identified with “poor people". -Mr. Mannering’s wise yet foolish aphorism (for how did he know how much -it cost to have clean linen in Bloomsbury--or Belgravia either, for that -matter?) referred to persons in his own condition, not in hers; but -naturally she did not think of that. Her pride and her blood were up, -however; and she went with a little hurry and vehemence to a drawer and -took out a clean tablecloth. Sixpence was the cost of washing, and she -could not afford to throw away sixpences, and the other one had only -been used three or four times; but her pride, as I have said, was up. - -“And where are the napkins?” said Dora. “I’ll lay it for you. I really -like to do it: and a nicely-laid table, with the crystal sparkling, and -the silver shining, and the linen so fresh and smooth, is a very pretty -object to look at, father always says.” - -“Oh dear! I must hurry up,” cried Mrs. Hesketh; “I hear Alfred’s step -upon the stairs.” - -Now Dora did not admire Alfred, though she was fond of Alfred’s wife. -He brought a sniff of the shop with him; which was disagreeable to the -girl, and he called her “miss,” which Dora hated. She threw down the -tablecloth hurriedly. “Oh, I’ll leave you then,” she cried, “for I’m -sure he does not like to see me here when he comes in.” - -“Oh, Miss Dora, how can you think such a thing?” cried her friend; but -she was glad of the success of her expedient when her visitor -disappeared. Alfred, indeed, did not come in for half an hour after; but -Mrs. Hesketh was at liberty to make her little domestic arrangements in -her own way. Alfred, like herself, knew that a tablecloth cost sixpence -every time it went to the wash--which Dora, it was evident, did not do. - -Dora found her father reading in exactly the same position as she had -left him; he had not moved except to turn a leaf. He raised his head -when she came in, and said: “I am glad you have come back, Dora. I want -you to get me a book out of that bookcase in the corner. It is on the -third shelf.” - -“And were you so lazy, father, that you would not get up to find it -yourself?” - -“Yes, I was so lazy,” he said, with a laugh. “I get lazier and lazier -every day. Besides, I like to feel that I have some one to do it for me. -I am taking books out of shelves and putting them back again all the day -long.” - -Dora put her arm on her father’s shoulder, as she put down the book on -the table before him. “But you like it, don’t you, father? You are not -tired of it.” - -“Of the Museum?” he said, with a laugh and a look of surprise. “No; I am -not tired of it--any more than I am of my life.” - -This was an enigmatical reply, but Dora did not attempt to fathom it. -“What the little people upstairs want is just to have money enough to -live on, and nothing to do,” she said. - -“The little people? And what are you, Dora? You are not so very big.” - -“I am growing,” said Dora, with confidence; “and I shouldn’t like to -have nothing to do all my life.” - -“There is a great deal to be said for that view of the question,” said -Mr. Mannering. “I am not an enthusiast for mere work, unless there is -something to come out of it. ‘Know what thou canst work at’ does not -apply always, unless you have to earn your living, which is often a very -fortunate necessity. And even that,” he said, with a smile, “has its -drawbacks.” - -“It is surely far better than doing nothing,” cried Dora, with her young -nose in the air. - -“Well, but what does it come to after all? One works to live, and -consumes the fruits of one’s work in the art of living. And what better -is that than if you had never been? The balance would be much the same. -But this is not the sort of argument for little girls, even though they -are growing,” Mr. Mannering said. - -“I think the Museum must have been very stuffy to-day, father,” was the -remark which Dora made. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The Mannerings lived in a house in that district of Bloomsbury which has -so long meant everything that is respectable, mediocre, and dull,--at -least, to that part of the world which inhabits farther West. It is -possible that, regarded from the other side of the compass, Bloomsbury -may be judged more justly as a city of well-sized and well-built houses, -aired and opened up by many spacious breathing-places, set with stately -trees. It is from this point of view that it is regarded by many persons -of humble pretensions, who find large rooms and broad streets where in -other districts they would only have the restricted space of respectable -poverty, the weary little conventionality of the suburban cottage, or -the dingy lodging-house parlours of town. - -Bloomsbury is very much town indeed, surrounded on all sides by the roar -of London; but it has something of the air of an individual place, a -town within a town. - -The pavements are wide, and so are the houses, as in the best quarter of -a large provincial city. The squares have a look of seclusion, of shady -walks, and retired leisure, which there is nothing to rival either in -Belgravia or Mayfair. It is, or was--for it is many years since the -present writer has passed over their broad pavements, or stood under -the large, benignant, and stately shadow of the trees in Russell -Square--a region apart, above fashion, a sober heart and centre of an -older and steadier London, such as is not represented in the Row, and -takes little part in the rabble and rout of fashion, the decent town of -earlier days. - -I do not mean to imply by this that the Mannerings lived in Russell -Square, or had any pretensions to be regarded among the magnates of -Bloomsbury; for they were poor people, quite poor, living the quietest -life; not rich enough even to have a house of their own; mere lodgers, -occupying a second floor in a house which was full of other lodgers, but -where they retained the importance and dignity of having furnished their -own rooms. The house was situated at the corner of a street, and thus -gave them a glimpse of the trees of the Square, a view over the gardens, -as the landlady described it, which was no small matter, especially from -the altitude of the second floor. The small family consisted of a father -and daughter--he, middle-aged, a quiet, worn, and subdued man, employed -all day in the British Museum; and she, a girl very young, yet so much -older than her years that she was the constant and almost only companion -of her father, to whom Dora was as his own soul, the sharer of all his -thoughts, as well as the only brightness in his life. - -She was but fifteen at the time when this chapter of their history -begins, a creature in short frocks and long hair slightly curling on her -shoulders; taller, if we may state such a contradiction in words, than -she was intended to be, or turned out in her womanhood, with long legs, -long neck, long fingers, and something of the look of a soft-eyed, -timid, yet playfully daring colt, flying up and down stairs as if she -had wings on her shoulders, yet walking very sedately by the side of her -father whenever they went out together, almost more steady and serious -than he. - -Mr. Mannering had the appearance of being a man who had always done -well, yet never succeeded in life; a man with a small income, and no -chance of ever bettering himself, as people say, or advancing in the -little hierarchy of the great institution which he served meekly and -diligently in the background, none of its promotions ever reaching him. - -Scarcely any one, certainly none out of that institution, knew that -there had been a period in which this gentle and modest life had almost -been submerged under the bitterest wave, and in which it had almost won -the highest honours possible to a man of such pursuits. This was an old -story, and even Dora knew little of it. He had done so much at that -forgotten and troubled time, that, had he been a rich man like Darwin, -and able to retire and work in quiet the discoveries he had made, and -the experiences he had attained, Robert Mannering’s name might have been -placed in the rolls of fame as high as that of his more fortunate -contemporary. - -But he was poor when he returned from the notable wanderings during the -course of which he had been given up as dead for years, poor and -heartbroken, and desiring nothing but the dimmest corner in which to -live out his broken days, and just enough to live upon to bring up his -little daughter, and to endure his existence, his duty to God and to -Dora forbidding him to make an end of it. - -It would be giving an altogether false idea of the man with whom this -book is to be much occupied, to say that he had continued in this -despairing frame of mind. God and Dora--the little gift of God--had -taken care of that. The little girl had led him back to a way which, if -not brilliant or prosperous, was like a field-path through many humble -flowers, sweet with the air and breath of nature. Sooth to say, it was -no field-path at all, but led chiefly over the pavements of Bloomsbury; -yet the simple metaphor was not untrue. - -Thus he lived, and did his work dutifully day by day. No headship of a -department, no assistant keepership for him; yet much esteem and -consideration among his peers, and a constant reference, whenever -anything in his special sphere was wanted, to his boundless information -and knowledge. Sometimes a foreign inquirer would come eager to seek -him, as the best and highest authority on this subject, to the -consternation of the younger men in other branches, who could not -understand how anybody could believe “old Mannering” to be of -consequence in the place; but generally his life was as obscure as he -wished it to be, yet not any hard or painful drudgery; for he was still -occupied with the pursuit which he had chosen, and which he had followed -all his life; and he was wise enough to recognise and be thankful for -the routine which held his broken existence together, and had set up -again, after his great disaster, his framework as a man. - -Dora knew nothing of any disaster; and this was good for him too, -bringing him back to nature. “A cheerful man I am in life,” he might -have said with Thackeray, who also had good reason for being sad enough. -A man who has for his chief society a buoyant, curious, new spirit, -still trailing clouds of glory from her origin, still only making -acquaintance with things of earth, curious about everything, asking a -thousand penetrating questions, awakening a mood of interest everywhere, -can scarcely be otherwise than cheerful. - -The second floor at the corner of the Square which was inhabited by this -pair consisted of three rooms, all good-sized and airy; the sitting-room -being indeed spacious, larger than any two which could have been found -in a fashionable nook in Mayfair. It was furnished, in a manner very -unexpected by such chance visitors as did not know the character of the -inhabitants, with furniture which would not have been out of place in -Belgravia, or in a fine lady’s drawing-room anywhere, mingled strangely -with certain plain pieces put in for evident use. - -A square and sturdy table occupied the portion of the room which was -nearest to the door, with the clearest utility, serving for the meals -of the father and daughter, while the other part of the room, partially -separated by a stamped leather screen, had an air of subdued luxury, a -little faded, yet unmistakable. The curtains were of heavy brocade, -which had a little lost their colour, or rather gained those shadings -and reflections which an artist loves; but hung with the softness of -their silken fabric, profoundly unlike the landlady’s nice fresh crimson -rep which adorned the windows of the first floor. There was an Italian -inlaid cabinet against the farther wall, which held the carefully -prepared sheets of a herbarium, which Mr. Mannering had collected from -all the ends of the earth, and which was of sufficient value to count -for much in the spare inheritance which he meant for his only child. The -writing-table, at which Dora had learned to make her first pothooks, was -a piece of beautiful _marqueterie_, the oldest and most graceful of its -kind. - -But I need not go round the room and make a catalogue of the furniture. -It settled quite kindly into the second floor in Bloomsbury, with that -grace which the nobler kind of patrician, subdued by fortune, lends to -the humblest circumstances, which he accepts with patience and goodwill. -Mr. Mannering himself had never been a handsome man; and all the colour -and brightness of youth had died out of him, though he was still in the -fulness of middle age. But the ivory tone of his somewhat sharply cut -profile and the premature stoop of his shoulders suited his surroundings -better than a more vigorous personality would have done. - -Dora, in her half-grown size and bigness, with her floating hair and -large movements, seemed to take up a great deal more space than her -father; and it was strange that she did not knock down more frequently -the pretty old-fashioned things, and the old books which lay upon the -little tables, or even those tables themselves, as she whisked about; -but they knew Dora, and she knew them. She had spent a great part of -every day alone with them, as long as she could remember, playing with -those curiosities that lay upon them, while she was a child, in the -long, silent, dreamy hours, when she was never without amusement, though -as constantly alone. - -Since she had grown older, she had taken pleasure in dusting them and -arranging them, admiring the toys of old silver, and the carved ivories -and trifles of all kinds, from the ends of the earth. It was her great -pleasure on the Sunday afternoons, when her father was with her, to open -the drawers of the cabinet and bring out the sheets of the herbarium so -carefully arranged and classified. Her knowledge, perhaps, was not very -scientific, but it was accurate in detail, and in what may be called -locality in the highest degree. She knew what family abode in what -drawer, and all its ramifications. These were more like neighbours to -Dora, lodged in surrounding houses, than specimens in drawers. She knew -all about them, where they came from, and their genealogy, and which -were the grandparents, and which the children; and, still more -interesting, in what jungle or marsh her father had found them, and -which of them came from the African deserts in which he had once been -lost. - -By degrees she had found out much about that wonderful episode in his -life, and had become vaguely aware, which was the greatest discovery of -all, that it contained many things which she had not found out, and -perhaps never would. She knew even how to lead him to talk about it, -which had to be very skilfully done--for he was shy of the subject when -assailed openly, and often shrank from the very name of Africa as if it -stung him; while on other occasions, led on by some train of thought in -his own mind, he would fall into long lines of recollections, and tell -her of the fever attacks, one after another, which had laid him low, and -how the time had gone over him like a dream, so that he never knew till -long after how many months, and even years, he had lost. - -Where was the mother all this time, it may be asked? Dora knew no more -of this part of her history than if she had come into the world without -need of any such medium, like Minerva from her father’s head. - -It is difficult to find out from the veiled being of a little child what -it thinks upon such a subject, or if it is aware at all, when it has -never been used to any other state of affairs, of the strange vacancy in -its own life. Dora never put a single question to her father on this -point; and he had often asked himself whether her mind was dead to all -that side of life which she had never known, or whether some instinct -kept her silent; and had satisfied himself at last that, as she knew -scarcely any other children, the want in her own life had not struck -her imagination. Indeed, the grandchildren of Mrs. Simcox, the landlady, -were almost the only children Dora had ever known familiarly, and they, -like herself, had no mother, they had granny; and Dora had inquired of -her father about her own granny, who was dead long ago. - -“You have only me, my poor little girl,” he had said. But Dora had been -quite satisfied. - -“Janie and Molly have no papa,” she answered, with a little pride. It -was a great superiority, and made up for everything, and she inquired no -more. Nature, Mr. Mannering knew, was by no means so infallible as we -think her. He did not know, however, what is a still more recondite and -profound knowledge, what secret things are in a child’s heart. - -I have known a widowed mother who wondered sadly for years why her -children showed so little interest and asked no questions about their -father; and then found out, from the lips of one grown into full -manhood, what visions had been wrapt about that unknown image, and how -his portrait had been the confidant of many a little secret trouble -hidden even from herself. But Dora had not even a portrait to give -embodiment to any wistful thoughts. Perhaps it was to her not merely -that her mother was dead, but that she had never been. Perhaps--but who -knows the questions that arise in that depth profound, the heart of a -child? - -It was not till Dora was fifteen that she received the great shock, yet -revelation, of discovering the portrait of a lady in her father’s room. - -Was it her mother? She could not tell. It was the portrait of a young -lady, which is not a child’s ideal of a mother. It was hidden away in a -secret drawer of which she had discovered the existence only by a chance -in the course of some unauthorised investigations among Mr. Mannering’s -private properties. - -He had lost something which Dora was intent on surprising him by -finding; and this was what led her to these investigations. It was in a -second Italian cabinet which was in his bedroom, an inferior specimen to -that in the drawing-room, but one more private, about which her -curiosity had never been awakened. He kept handkerchiefs, neckties, -uninteresting items of personal use in it, which Dora was somewhat -carelessly turning over, when by accident the secret spring was touched, -and the drawer flew open. In this there was a miniature case which -presented a very strange spectacle when Dora, a little excited, opened -it. There seemed to be nothing but a blank at first, until, on further -examination, Dora found that the miniature had been turned face -downwards in its case. It may be imagined with what eager curiosity she -continued her investigations. - -The picture, as has been said, was that of a young lady--quite a young -lady, not much older, Dora thought, than herself. Who could this girl -be? Her mother? But that girlish face could not belong to any girl’s -mother. It was not beautiful to Dora’s eyes; but yet full of vivacity -and interest, a face that had much to say if one only knew its language; -with dark, bright eyes, and a tremulous smile about the lips. Who was -it; oh, who was it? Was it that little sister of papa’s who was dead, -whose name had been Dora too? Was it ---- - -Dora did not know what to think, or how to explain the little shock -which was given her by this discovery. She shut up the drawer hastily, -but she had not the heart to turn the portrait again as it had been -turned, face downwards. It seemed too unkind, cruel almost. Why should -her face be turned downwards, that living, smiling face? “I will ask -papa,” Dora said to herself; but she could not tell why it was, any more -than she could explain her other sensations on the subject, that when -the appropriate moment came to do so, she had not the courage to ask -papa. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -There was one remarkable thing in Dora Mannering’s life which I have -omitted to mention, which is, that she was in the habit of receiving -periodically, though at very uncertain intervals, out of that vast but -vague universe surrounding England, which we call generally “abroad,” a -box. No one knew where it came from, or who it came from; at least, no -light was ever thrown to Dora upon that mystery. It was despatched now -from one place, now from another; and not a name, or a card, or a scrap -of paper was ever found to identify the sender. - -This box contained always a store of delights for the recipient, who, -though she was in a manner monarch of all she surveyed, was without many -of the more familiar pleasures of childhood. It had contained toys and -pretty knick-knacks of many quaint foreign kinds when she was quite a -child; but as she grew older, the mind of her unknown friend seemed to -follow her growth with the strangest certainty of what would please -these advancing youthful years. - -The foundation of the box, if that word may be employed, was always a -store of the daintiest underclothing, delicately made, which followed -Dora’s needs and growth, growing longer as she grew taller; so that -underneath her frocks, which were not always lovely, the texture, form, -and colour being chiefly decided by the dressmaker who had “made” for -her as long as she could remember, Dora was clothed like a princess; and -thus accustomed from her childhood to the most delicate and dainty -accessories--fine linen, fine wool, silk stockings, handkerchiefs good -enough for any fine lady. Her father had not, at first, liked to see -these fine things; he had pushed them away when she spread them out to -show him her treasures, and turned his back upon her, bidding her carry -off her trumpery. - -It was so seldom, so very seldom, that Mr. Mannering had an objection to -anything done by Dora, that this little exhibition of temper had an -extraordinary effect; but the interval between one arrival and another -was long enough to sweep any such recollection out of the mind of a -child; and as she grew older, more intelligent to note what he meant, -and, above all, more curious about everything that happened, he had -changed his tone. But he had a look which Dora classified in her own -mind as “the face father puts on when my box comes". - -This is a sort of thing which imprints itself very clearly upon the mind -of the juvenile spectator and critic. Dora knew it as well as she knew -the clothes her father wore, or the unchanging habits of his life, -though she did not for a long time attempt to explain to herself what it -meant. It was a look of intent self-restraint, of a stoical repression. -He submitted to having the different contents of the box exhibited to -him without a smile on his face or the least manifestation of -sympathy--he who sympathised with every sentiment which breathed across -his child’s facile spirit. He wound himself up to submit to the ordeal, -it seemed, with the blank look of an unwilling spectator, who has not a -word of admiration for anything, and, indeed, hates the sight he cannot -refuse to see. - -“Who can send them, father? oh, who can send them? Who is it that -remembers me like this, and that I’m growing, and what I must want, and -everything? I was only a child when the last one came. You must -know--you must know, father! How could any one know about me and not -know you--or care for me?” Dora cried, with a little moisture springing -to her eyes. - -“I have already told you I don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. -Mannering, oh, with such a shut-up face! closing the shutters upon his -eyes and drawing down all the blinds, as Dora said. - -“Well, but suppose you don’t know, you must guess; you must imagine who -it could be. No one could know me, and not know you. I am not a stranger -that you have nothing to do with. You must know who is likely to take so -much thought about your daughter. Why, she knows my little name! There -is ‘Dora’ on my handkerchiefs.” - -He turned away with a short laugh. “You seem to have found out a great -deal for yourself. How do you know it is ‘she’? It might be some old -friend of mine who knew that my only child was Dora--and perhaps that I -was not a man to think of a girl’s wants.” - -“It may be an old friend of yours, father. It must be, for who would -know about me but a friend of yours? But how could it be a man? It -couldn’t be a man! A man could never work ‘Dora’----” - -“You little simpleton! He would go to a shop and order it to be worked. -I daresay it is Wallace, who is out in South America.” - -Such a practical suggestion made Dora pause; but it was not at all an -agreeable idea. “Mr. Wallace! an old, selfish, dried-up ----” Then with a -cry of triumph she added: “But they came long, long before he went to -South America. No--I know one thing--that it is a lady. No one but a -lady could tell what a girl wants. You don’t, father, though you know me -through and through; and how could any other man? But I suppose you have -had friends ladies as well as men?” - -His closed-up lips melted a little. “Not many,” he said; then they shut -up fast again. “It may be,” he said reluctantly, with a face from which -all feeling was shut out, which looked like wood, “a friend--of your -mother’s.” - -“Oh, of mamma’s!” The girl’s countenance lit up; she threw back her head -and her waving hair, conveying to the man who shrank from her look the -impression as of a thing with wings. He had been of opinion that she had -never thought upon this subject, never considered the side of life thus -entirely shut out from her experience, and had wondered even while -rejoicing at her insensibility. But when he saw the light on her face he -shrank, drawing back into himself. “Oh,” cried Dora, “a friend of my -mother’s! Oh, father, she must have died long, long ago, that I never -remember her. Oh, tell me, who can this friend be?” - -He had shut himself up again more closely than ever--not only were there -shutters at all the windows, but they were bolted and barred with iron. -His face was more blank than any piece of wood. “I never knew much of -her friends,” he said. - -“Mother’s friends!” the girl cried, with a half shriek of reproachful -wonder. And then she added quickly: “But think, father, think! You will -remember somebody if you will only try.” - -“Dora,” he said, “you don’t often try my patience, and you had better -not begin now. I should like to throw all that trumpery out of the -window, but I don’t, for I feel I have no right to deprive you of ---- -Your mother’s friends were not mine. I don’t feel inclined to think as -you bid me. The less one thinks the better--on some subjects. I must ask -you to question me no more.” - -“But, father ----” - -“I have said that I will be questioned no more.” - -“It wasn’t a question,” said the girl, almost sullenly; and then she -clasped her hands about his arm with a sudden impulse. “Father, if you -don’t like it, I’ll put them all away. I’ll never think of them nor -touch them again.” - -The wooden look melted away, his features quivered for a moment. He -stooped and kissed her on the forehead. “No,” he said, making an effort -to keep his lips firmly set as before. “No; I have no right to do that. -No; I don’t wish it. Keep them and wear them, and take pleasure in them; -but don’t speak to me on the subject again.” - -This conversation took place on the occasion of a very special novelty -in the mysterious periodical present which she had just received, about -which it was impossible to keep silence. The box--“my box,” as Dora had -got to call it--contained, in addition to everything else, a dress, -which was a thing that had never been sent before. - -It was a white dress, made with great simplicity, as became Dora’s age, -but also in a costly way, a semi-transparent white, the sort of stuff -which could be drawn through a ring, as happens in fairy tales, and was -certainly not to be bought in ordinary English shops. To receive -anything so unexpected, so exciting, so beautiful, and not to speak of -it, to exhibit it to some one, was impossible. Dora had not been able to -restrain herself. She had carried it in her arms out of her room, and -opened it out upon a sofa in the sitting-room for her father’s -inspection. There are some things which we know beforehand will not -please, and yet which we are compelled to do; and this was the -consciousness in Dora’s mind, who, besides her delight in the gift, and -her desire to be able to find out something about the donor, had also, -it must be allowed, a burning desire to make discoveries as to that past -of which she knew so little, which had seized upon her mind from the -moment when she had found the portrait turned upon its face in the -secret drawer of her father’s cabinet. As she withdrew now, again -carrying in her arms the beautiful dress, there was in her mind, -underneath a certain compunction for having disturbed her father, and -sympathy with him so strong that she would actually have been capable of -sacrificing her newly-acquired possessions, a satisfaction -half-mischievous, half-affectionate, in the discoveries which she had -made. They were certainly discoveries; sorry as she was to “upset -father,” there was yet a consciousness in her mind that this time it had -been worth the while. - -The reader may not think any better of Dora for this confession; but -there is something of the elf in most constitutions at fifteen, and she -was not of course at all sensible at that age of the pain that might lie -in souvenirs so ruthlessly stirred up. And she had indeed made something -by them. Never, never again, she promised herself, would she worry -father with questions; but so far as the present occasion went, she -could scarcely be sorry, for had not she learned much--enough to give -her imagination much employment? She carried away her discoveries with -her, as she carried her dress, to realise them in the shelter of her own -room. They seemed to throw a vivid light upon that past in which her own -life was so much involved. She threw the dress upon her bed carelessly, -these other new thoughts having momentarily taken the interest out of -even so exciting a novelty as that; and arranged in shape and sequence -what she had found out. Well, it was not so much, after all. What seemed -most clear in it was that father had not been quite friends with mother, -or at least with mother’s friends. Perhaps these friends had made -mischief between them--perhaps she had cared for them more than for her -husband; but surely that was not possible. And how strange, how strange -it was that he should keep up such a feeling so long! - -As Dora did not remember her mother, it was evident that she must have -been dead many, many years. And yet her father still kept up his dislike -to her friends! It threw a new light even upon him, whom she knew better -than any one. Dora felt that she knew her father thoroughly, every -thought that was in his mind; and yet here it would seem that she did -not know him at all. So good a man, who was never hard with anybody, who -forgave her, Dora, however naughty she might have been, as soon as she -asked pardon; who forgave old Mr. Warrender for contradicting him about -that orchid, the orchid that was called Manneringii, and which father -had discovered, and therefore must know best; who forgave Mrs. Simcox -when she swept the dust from the corners upon the herbarium and spoilt -some of the specimens; and yet who in all these years had never forgiven -the unknown persons, who were mother’s friends, some one of whom must be -nice indeed, or she never would go on remembering Dora, and sending her -such presents. What could he have against this unknown lady,--this -nice, nice woman? And how was it possible that he should have kept it up -in his mind, and never forgiven it, or forgotten all these years? It -made Dora wonder, and feel, though she crushed the feeling firmly, that -perhaps father was not so perfect as she had thought. - -And then there was this lady to think of--her mother’s friend, who had -kept on all this time thinking of Dora. She would not have been more -than a baby when this benefactress saw her last, since Dora did not -remember either mother, or mother’s friend; yet she must recollect just -how old Dora was, must have guessed just about how tall she was, and -kept count how she had grown from one time to another. The beautiful -dress was just almost long enough, almost fitted her in every way. It -gave the girl a keen touch of pleasure to think that she was just a -little taller and slighter than her unknown friend supposed her to -be--but so near; the letting down of a hem, the narrowing of a seam, and -it would be a perfect fit. How foolish father must be to think that Mr. -Wallace, or any other man, would have thought of that! Her mother’s -friend--what a kind friend, what a constant friend, though father did -not like her! - -It overawed Dora a little to think if ever this lady came home, what -would happen? Of course, she would wish to see the girl whom she had -remembered so long, whom she had befriended so constantly; and what if -father would not permit it? It would be unkind, ungrateful, wrong; but -what if father objected, if it made him unhappy? Dora did not see her -way through this dreadful complication. It was sufficiently hard upon -her, a girl at so early an age, to become the possessor of a beautiful -dress like this, and have no one to show it to, to talk it over with; -nobody even to tell her exactly how it fitted, to judge what was -necessary for its perfection, as Dora herself, with no experience, and -not even a good glass to see herself in, could scarcely do. To hide a -secret of any kind in one’s being at fifteen is a difficult thing; but -when that secret is a frock, a dress!--a robe, indeed, she felt it ought -to be called, it was so exquisite, so poetical in its fineness and -whiteness. Dora had no one to confide in; and if she had possessed a -thousand confidants, would not have said a word to them which would seem -to involve her father in any blame. She put her pretty dress away, -however, with a great sense of discomfiture and downfall. Perhaps he -would dislike to see her wear it, even if she had ever any need for a -beautiful dress like that. But she never had any need. She never went -anywhere, or saw anybody. A whole host of little grievances came up in -the train of that greater one. She wondered if she were to spend all her -life like this, without ever tasting those delights of society which she -had read of, without ever knowing any one of her own age, without ever -seeing people dance, or hearing them sing. As for performing in these -ways herself, that had not come into Dora’s mind. She would like, she -thought, to look on and see how they did it, for once, at least, in her -life. - -When she had come to this point, Dora, who was a girl full of natural -sense, began to feel instinctively that she was not in a good way, and -that it would be better to do something active to clear away the -cobwebs. It was evening, however, and she did not know exactly what to -do. To go back to the sitting-room where her father was reading, and to -sit down also to read at his side, seemed an ordeal too much for her -after the excitement of their previous talk; but it was what probably -she would have been compelled to do, had she not heard a heavy step -mounting the stairs, the sound of a knock at the door, and her father’s -voice bidding some one enter. - -She satisfied herself presently that it was the voice of one of Mr. -Mannering’s chief friends, a colleague from the Museum, and that he was -safe for a time not to remark her absence or to have urgent need for -her. What now should Dora do? The openings of amusement were small. Mrs. -Hesketh had been exhausted for the moment. It must be said that Dora was -free of the whole house, and that she used her _petites entrées_ in the -most liberal and democratic fashion, thinking no scorn of going -downstairs sometimes to the funny little room next to the kitchen, which -Mrs. Simcox called the breakfast-room, and used as her own sanctum, the -family centre where her grandchildren and herself found refuge out of -the toils of the kitchen. The kitchen itself remained in the possession -of Jane; and Jane, like her mistress, occasionally shared the patronage -of Miss Dora. To-night perhaps she wanted solace of another kind from -any which could be given her on the basement story. It is not often that -a young person in search of entertainment or sympathy has all the -gradations of the social system to choose from. The first floor -represented the aristocracy in the establishment at Bloomsbury. It was -occupied by a Scotch lady, a certain Miss Bethune, a somewhat -harsh-featured and angular person, hiding a gentle heart under a grim -exterior; but a little intolerant in her moods, and not always sure to -respond to overtures of friendship; with a maid not much less unlike the -usual denizens of Bloomsbury than herself, but beaming with redness and -good humour, and one of Dora’s chief worshippers in the house. When the -girl felt that her needs required the sympathy of a person of the -highest, _i.e._, her own class, she went either boldly or with strategy -to the drawing-room floor. She had thus the power of drawing upon the -fellowship of her kind in whatever way the temper of the time adapted it -best for her. - -Mrs. Simcox and the girls downstairs, and Mrs. Hesketh above, would have -been lost in raptures over Dora’s new dress. They would have stared, -they would perhaps have touched with a timid finger, they would have -opened their eyes and their mouths, and cried: “Oh!” or “La!” or “Well, -I never!” But they would not have understood. One’s own kind, Dora felt, -was necessary for that. But as it was evening, and Miss Bethune was not -always gracious, she did not boldly walk up to her door, but lingered -about on the stairs, coming and going, until, as was pretty sure to -occur, Gilchrist, the maid, with her glowing moon face and her sandy -locks, came out of the room. Gilchrist brightened immediately at the -sight of the favourite of the house. - -“Oh, is that you, Miss Dora? Come in and see my lady, and cheer her up. -She’s not in the best of spirits to-night.” - -“Neither am I--in the best of spirits,” said Dora. - -“You!” cried Gilchrist, with what she herself would have called a -“skreigh” of laughter. She added sympathetically: “You’ll maybe have -been getting a scold from your papaw". - -“My father never scolds,” said Dora, with dignity. - -“Bless me! but that’s the way when there’s but wan child,” said Miss -Bethune’s maid: “not always, though,” she added, with a deep sigh that -waved aloft her own cap-strings, and caught Dora’s hair like a breeze. -The next moment she opened the door and said, putting her head in: -“Here’s Miss Dora, mem, to cheer you up a bit: but no’ in the best of -spirits hersel’". - -“Bless me!” repeated Miss Bethune from within: “and what is wrong with -her spirits? Come away, Dora, come in.” Both mistress and maid had, as -all the house was aware, curious modes of expressing themselves, which -were Scotch, though nobody was aware in Bloomsbury how that quality -affected the speech--in Miss Bethune’s case at least. The lady was tall -and thin, a large framework of a woman which had never filled out. She -sat in a large chair near the fire, between which and her, however, a -screen was placed. She held up a fan before her face to screen off the -lamp, and consequently her countenance was in full shadow. She beckoned -to the girl with her hand, and pointed to a seat beside her. “So you are -in low spirits, Dora? Well, I’m not very bright myself. Come and let us -mingle our tears.” - -“You are laughing at me, Miss Bethune. You think I have no right to feel -anything.” - -“On the contrary, my dear. I think at your age there are many things -that a girl feels--too much; and though they’re generally nonsense, -they’re just as disagreeable as if they were the best of sense. Papa a -little cross?” - -“Why should you all think anything so preposterous? My father is never -cross,” cried Dora, with tears of indignation in her eyes. - -“The better for him, my dear, much the better for him,” said Miss -Bethune; “but, perhaps, rather the worse for you. That’s not my case, -for I am just full of irritability now and then, and ready to quarrel -with the tables and chairs. Well, you are cross yourself, which is much -worse. And yet I hear you had one of your grand boxes to-day, all full -of bonnie-dies. What a lucky little girl you are to get presents like -that!” - -“I am not a little girl, Miss Bethune.” - -“No, I’ll allow you’re a very big one for your age. Come, Dora, tell me -what was in the box this time. It will do you good.” - -Dora hesitated a little to preserve her dignity, and then she said -almost with awe: “There was a dress in it". - -“A dress!” cried Miss Bethune, with a little shriek of surprise; “and -does it fit you?” - -“It’s just a very, very little bit too short,” said Dora, with pride, -“and just a very, very little bit too wide at the waist.” - -“Run and bring it, and let me see it,” cried the lady. “I’ve no doubt in -the world it fits like a glove. Gilchrist, come in, come in, and see -what the bairn’s got. A frock that fits her like a glove.” - -“Just a very, very little too short, and a very, very little too wide in -the waist,” said Dora, repeating her formula. She had flown upstairs -after the first moment’s hesitation, and brought it back in her arms, -glad in spite of herself to be thus delivered from silence and the sense -of neglect. - -“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, “but it must be an awfu’, awfu’ faithful -woman that has minded how a lassie like that grows and gets big, and -just how big she gets, a’ thae years.” - -“There ye are with your moral!” cried the mistress; and to Dora’s -infinite surprise tears were on her cheeks. “It’s just the lassie that -makes all the difference,” said Miss Bethune. She flung the pretty dress -from her, and then she rose up suddenly and gave Dora a hasty kiss. “Put -it on and let me see it,” she said; “I will wager you anything it just -fits like a glove.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -“That is a very strange business of these Mannerings, Gilchrist,” said -Miss Bethune to her maid, when Dora, excited by praise and admiration, -and forgetting all her troubles, had retired to her own habitation -upstairs, escorted, she and her dress, by Gilchrist, who could not find -it in her heart, as she said, to let a young thing like that spoil her -bonnie new frock by not putting it properly away. Gilchrist laid the -pretty dress lovingly in a roomy drawer, smoothing out all its creases -by soft pats of her accustomed hands, and then returned to her mistress -to talk over the little incident of the evening. - -Miss Bethune’s spirits were improved also by that little exhibition. -What a thing it is to be able to draw a woman softly out of her troubles -by the sight of a pretty child in a pretty new dress! Contemptible the -love of clothes, the love of finery, and so forth, let the philosophers -say. To me there is something touching in that natural instinct which -relieves for a moment now and then the heaviest pressure. Dora’s new -frock had nothing to do with any gratification of Miss Bethune’s vanity; -but it brought a little dawning ray of momentary light into her room, -and a little distraction from the train of thoughts that were not over -bright. No man could feel the same for the most beautiful youth ever -introduced in raiment like the day. Let us be thankful among all our -disabilities for a little simple pleasure, now and then, that is common -to women only. Boy or girl, it scarcely matters which, when they come in -dressed in their best, all fresh and new, the sight pleases the oldest, -the saddest of us--a little unconsidered angel-gift, amid the dimness -and the darkness of the every-day world. Miss Bethune to outward aspect -was a little grim, an old maid, as people said, apart from the -sympathies of life. But the dull evening and the pressure of many -thoughts had been made bright to her by Dora’s new frock. - -“What business, mem?” asked Gilchrist. - -“If ever there was a living creature slow at the uptake, and that could -not see a pikestaff when it is set before your eyes!” cried Miss -Bethune. “What’s the meaning of it all, you stupid woman? Who’s that -away in the unknown that sends all these bonnie things to that -motherless bairn?--and remembers the age she is, and when she’s grown -too big for dolls, and when she wants a frock that will set her off, -that she could dance in and sing in, and make her little curtesy to the -world? No, she’s too young for that; but still the time’s coming, and -fancy goes always a little before.” - -“Eh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “that is just what I have askit -mysel’--that’s just what I was saying. It’s some woman, that’s the wan -thing; but what woman could be so thoughtful as that, aye minding just -what was wanted?” She made a gesture with her hands as if in utter -inability to divine, but her eyes were fixed all the time very wistfully -on her mistress’s face. - -“You need not look at me like that,” the lady said. - -“I was looking at you, mem, not in any particklar way.” - -“If you think you can make a fool of me at the present period of our -history, you’re far mistaken,” said Miss Bethune. “I know what you were -meaning. You were comparing her with me, not knowing either the one or -the other of us--though you have been my woman, and more near me than -anybody on earth these five-and-twenty long years.” - -“And more, mem, and more!” cried Gilchrist, with a flow of tears, which -were as natural to her as her spirit. “Eh, I was but a young, young -lass, and you a bonnie ----” - -“Hold your peace!” said Miss Bethune, with an angry raising of her hand; -and then her voice wavered and shook a little, and a tremulous laugh -came forth. “I was never a bonnie--anything, ye auld fool! and that you -know as well as me.” - -“But, mem----” - -“Hold your peace, Gilchrist! We were never anything to brag of, either -you or me. Look in your glass, woman, if you don’t believe me. A couple -of plain women, very plain women, mistress and maid.” - -This was said with a flash of hazel eyes which gave a half-humorous -contradiction at the same moment to the assertion. Gilchrist began to -fold hems upon the apron with which she had just dried her tears. - -“I never said,” she murmured, with a downcast head, “a word about -mysel’,--that’s no’ a woman’s part. If there’s nobody that speaks up for -her she has just to keep silence, if she was the bonniest woman in the -world.” - -“The auld fool! because there was once a silly lad that had nobody else -to come courting to! No, Gilchrist, my woman, you were never bonnie. A -white skin, I allow, to go with your red hair, and a kind of innocent -look in your eyes,--nothing, nothing more! We were both plain women, you -and me, not adapted to please the eyes of men.” - -“They might have waited long afore we would have tried, either the wan -or the other of us,” cried Gilchrist, with a flash of self-assertion. -“No’ that I would even mysel’ to you, mem,” she added in an after -breath. - -“As for that, it’s a metaphysical question,” said Miss Bethune. “I will -not attempt to enter into it. But try or no’, it is clear we did not -succeed. And what it is that succeeds is just more than I can tell. It’s -not beauty, it’s a kind of natural attraction.” She paused a moment in -this deep philosophical inquiry, and then said quickly: “All this does -not help us to find out what is this story about the Mannerings. Who is -the woman? Is it somebody that loves the man, or somebody that loves the -girl?” - -“If you would take my opinion, mem, I would say that the man--if ye call -Mr. Mannering, honest gentleman, the man, that has just every air of -being a well-born person, and well-bred, and not a common person at -all----” - -“You haveral! The king himself, if there was a king, could be no more -than a man.” - -“I would say, mem, that it was not for him--oh, no’ for him, except -maybe in opposition, if you could fancy that. Supposing,” said -Gilchrist, raising her arm in natural eloquence, “supposin’ such a thing -as that there should be a bonnie bairn like Miss Dora between two folk -that had broken with one another--and it was the man, not the woman, -that had her. I could just fancy,” said the maid, her brown eyes -lighting, her milky yet freckled complexion flushing over,--“I could -just fancy that woman pouring out everything at the bairn’s feet--gold -and silver and grand presents, and a’ the pomps of this world, partly -out of an adoration for her hersel’, partly just to make the man set his -teeth at her that was away--maybe, in the desert--unknown!” - -Gilchrist stood like a sibyl making this picture flash and gleam before -her own inward vision with a heat and passion that seemed quite uncalled -for in the circumstances. What was Hecuba to her, or she to Hecuba, that -she should be so inspired by the possibilities of a mystery with which -she had nothing to do? Her eloquence brought a corresponding glow, yet -cloud, over the countenance of her mistress, who sat and listened with -her head leaning on her hand, and for some time said nothing. She broke -the silence at last with a laugh in which there was very little sound of -mirth. - -“You are a limited woman,” she said--“a very limited woman. You can -think of no state of affairs but one, and that so uncommon that perhaps -there never was a case in the world like it. You will never be done, I -know that, taking up your lesson out of it--all to learn one that has -neither need to learn nor wish to learn--a thing that is impossible. -Mind you what I say, and be done with this vain endeavour. Whatever may -be the meaning of this Mannering business, it has no likeness to the -other. And I am not a person to be schooled by the like of you, or to be -taught in parables by my own woman, as if I was a person of no -understanding, and her a mistress of every knowledge.” - -Miss Bethune rose hurriedly from her seat, and made a turn about the -room with an air of high excitement and almost passion. Then she came -and stood before the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, looking down upon -the blaze with a face that seemed to be coloured by the reflection. -Finally, she put out a long arm, caught Gilchrist by the shoulders, who -stood softly crying, as was her wont, within reach, and drew her close. -“You’ve been with me through it all,” she said suddenly; “there’s nobody -that knows me but you. Whatever you say, it’s you only that knows what -is in my heart. I bear you no ill-will for any word you say, no’ for any -word you say; and the Lord forgive me if maybe all this time it is you -that has been right and me that has been wrong!” Only a moment, scarcely -so much, Miss Bethune leant her head upon Gilchrist’s shoulder, then -she suddenly pushed her away. And not a second too soon, for at that -moment a knock came to the door. They both started a little; and Miss -Bethune, with the speed of thought, returned to the chair shaded by a -screen from the lamplight and firelight in which she had been sitting, -“not in good spirits,” at the time of the interruption of Dora. “Go and -see who it is,” she said, half in words, half by the action of her hand. -Nothing could have been more instantaneous than this rapid change. - -When Gilchrist, scarcely less rapid though so much heavier than her -mistress, opened the door, there stood before it a little man very -carefully dressed, though in morning costume, in a solemn frock coat, -with his hat in his hand. Though professional costume no longer exists -among us, it was impossible not to feel and recognise in a moment that -nothing but a medical man, a doctor to the tips of his fingers, could -have appeared in just that perfect neatness of dress, so well brushed, -so exactly buttoned, so gravely clothed in garments which, though free -of any peculiarity of art or colour, such as that which distinguishes -the garb of a clergyman, were yet so completely and seriously -professional. His whiskers, for it was in the days when these ornaments -were still worn, his hair, brown, with a slight crisp and upturning, -like lining, of grey, the watch-chain that crossed his waistcoat, as -well as the accurate chronometer of a watch to which so many eager and -so many languid pulses had beat, were all in perfect keeping; even his -boots--but we must not pursue too far this discussion of Dr. Roland’s -personal appearance. His boots were not the polished leather of the -evening; but they were the spotless boots of a man who rarely walked, -and whose careful step from his carriage to a patient’s door never -carried in any soil of the outside to the most delicate carpet. Why, -being one of the inhabitants of this same house in Bloomsbury, he should -have carried his hat in his hand when he came to the door of Miss -Bethune’s drawing-room from his own sitting-room downstairs, is a -mystery upon which I can throw no light. - -The ideas of a man in respect to his hat are indeed unfathomable. -Whether he carries it as a protection or a shield of pretence, whether -to convey to you that he is anxiously expected somewhere else, and that -you are not to calculate upon anything but a short appearance upon your -individual scene, whether to make it apparent by its gloss and sheen how -carefully he has prepared for this interview, whether it is to keep -undue familiarity at arm’s length, or provide a becoming occupation for -those hands with which many persons, while in repose, do not know what -to do, it is impossible to tell. Certain it is that a large number of -men find consolation and support in the possession of that article of -apparel; and though they may freely abuse it in other circumstances, -cling to it on social occasions as to an instrument of salvation. Dr. -Roland held it fast, and bowed over it with a little formality, as he -came into his neighbour’s presence. They met on the stairs or in the -hall sometimes three or four times in a day, but they were not the less -particular in going through all the forms of civility when the doctor -came to pay a call, as if they had not seen each other for a week -before. He was a man of very great observation, and he did not miss a -single particular of the scene. The screen drawn round the lady, -defending her not only from the fire but from inspection, and a slight -glistening upon the cheek of Gilchrist, which, as she did not paint or -use any cosmetic, had but one explanation. That he formed a completely -wrong conclusion was not Dr. Roland’s fault. He did so sometimes from -lack of material on which to form his judgment, but not often. He said -to himself, “There has been a row,” which, as the reader is aware, was -not the case; but then he set himself to work to smooth down all -agitation with a kindness and skill which the gentlest reader, knowing -all about it, could not have surpassed. - -“We have just been doing a very wrong thing, Gilchrist and me,” said -Miss Bethune; “a thing which you will say, doctor, is the way of ladies -and their maids; but that is just one of your generalisings, and not -true--except now and then. We have been wondering what is the strange -story of our bonnie little Dora and that quiet, learned father of hers -upstairs.” - -“Very natural, I should say,” said the doctor. “But why should there be -any story at all? I don’t wonder at the discussion, but why should there -be any cause for it? A quiet, learned man, as you say, and one fair -daughter and no more, whom he loves passing well.” - -“Ah, doctor,” said Miss Bethune, “you know a great deal about human -nature. You know better than that.” - -The doctor put down his hat, and drew his chair nearer the fire. “Should -you like to hear the story of poor Mannering?” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -There is nothing more usual than to say that could we but know the life -history of the first half-dozen persons we meet with on any road, we -should find tragic details and unexpected lights and shadows far beyond -the reach of fiction, which no doubt is occasionally true: though -probably the first half-dozen would be found to gasp, like the -knife-grinder: “Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir.” This, -to be sure, would be no argument; for our histories are not frequently -unknown to, or, at least, unappreciated by ourselves, and the common -human sense is against any accumulation of wonders in a small space. I -am almost ashamed to say that the two people who inhabited one above the -other two separate floors of my house in Bloomsbury, had a certain -singularity and unusualness in their lives, that they were not as other -men or women are; or, to speak more clearly, that being as other men and -women are, the circumstances of their lives created round them an -atmosphere which was not exactly that of common day. When Dr. Roland -recounted to Miss Bethune the story of Mr. Mannering, that lady shut her -lips tight in the partial shadow of the screen, to restrain the almost -irrepressible murmurs of a revelation equally out of the common which -belonged to herself. That is, she was tempted to utter aloud what she -said in her soul, “Oh, but that is like me!” “Oh, but I would never have -done that!"--comparing the secret in her own life, which nobody in this -place suspected, with the secret in her neighbour’s, which, at least to -some few persons, was known. - -Poor Mr. Mannering! there was a strange kind of superiority and secret -satisfaction in pitying his fate, in learning all the particulars of it, -in assuring herself that Dora was quite ignorant, and nobody in the -house had the least suspicion, while at the same time secure in the -consciousness that she herself was wrapt in impenetrable darkness, and -that not even this gossip of a doctor could divine her. There is an -elation in knowing that you too have a story, that your own experiences -are still more profound than those of the others whom you are called -upon to pity and wonder over, that did they but know!--which, perhaps, -is not like the more ordinary elation of conscious superiority, but yet -has its sweetness. There was a certain dignity swelling in Miss -Bethune’s figure as she rose to shake hands with the doctor, as if she -had wrapped a tragic mantle round her, as if she dismissed him like a -queen on the edge of ground too sacred to be trodden by any vulgar feet. -He was conscious of it vaguely, though not of what it was. He gave her a -very keen glance in the shadow of that screen: a keener observer than -Dr. Roland was not easily to be met with,--but then his observations -were generally turned in one particular way, and the phenomena which he -glimpsed on this occasion did not come within the special field of his -inquiries. He perceived them, but he could not classify them, in the -scientific narrowness of his gaze. - -Miss Bethune waited until the well-known sound of the closing of Dr. -Roland’s door downstairs met her ear; and then she rang violently, -eagerly for her maid. What an evening this was, among all the quiet -evenings on which nothing happened,--an evening full of incidents, of -mysteries, and disclosures! The sound of the bell was such that the -person summoned came hurrying from her room, well aware that there must -be something to be told, and already breathless with interest. She found -her mistress walking up and down the room, the screen discarded, the fan -thrown down, the very shade on the lamp pushed up, so that it had the -tipsy air of a hat placed on one side of the head. “Oh, Gilchrist!” Miss -Bethune cried. - -Dr. Roland went, as he always went, briskly but deliberately downstairs. -If he had ever run up and down at any period of his life, taking two -steps at a time, as young men do, he did it no longer. He was a little -short-sighted, and wore a “pince-nez,” and was never sure that between -his natural eyes, with which he looked straight down at his feet, and -his artificial ones, which had a wider circle, he might not miss a step, -which accounted for the careful, yet rapid character of his movements. -The door which Miss Bethune waited to hear him close was exactly below -her own, and the room filled in Dr. Roland’s life the conjoint positions -of waiting-room, dining-room, and library. His consulting-room was -formed of the other half looking to the back, and shut off from this by -folding-doors and closely-drawn curtains. All the piles of _Illustrated -News_, _Graphic_, and other picture papers, along with various -well-thumbed pictorial volumes, the natural embellishments of the -waiting-room, were carefully cleared away; and the room, with Dr. -Roland’s chair drawn near a cheery blazing fire, his reading-lamp, his -book, and his evening paper on his table, looked comfortable enough. It -was quite an ordinary room in Bloomsbury, and he was quite an ordinary -man. Nothing remarkable (the reader will be glad to hear) had ever -happened to him. He had gone through the usual studies, he had knocked -about the world for a number of years, he had seen life and many -incidents in other people’s stories both at home and abroad. But nothing -particular had ever happened to himself. He had lived, but if he had -loved, nobody knew anything about that. He had settled in Bloomsbury -some four or five years before, and he had grown into a steady, not too -overwhelming practice. His specialty was the treatment of dyspepsia, and -other evils of a sedentary life; and his patients were chiefly men, the -men of offices and museums, among whom he had a great reputation. This -was his official character, not much of a family adviser, but strong to -rout the liver fiend and the demons of indigestion wherever encountered. -But in his private capacity Dr. Roland’s character was very remarkable -and his scientific enthusiasm great. - -He was a sort of medical detective, working all for love, and nothing -for reward, without fee, and in many cases without even the high -pleasure of carrying out his views. He had the eye of a hawk for -anything wrong in the complexion or aspect of those who fell under his -observation. The very postman at the door, whom Dr. Roland had met two -or three times as he went out for his constitutional in the morning, had -been divined and cut open, as it were, by his lancet of a glance, and -saved from a bad illness by the peremptory directions given to him, -which the man had the sense (and the prudence, for it was near -Christmas) to obey. In that case the gratuity passed from doctor to -patient, not from patient to doctor, but was not perhaps less -satisfactory on that account. Then Dr. Roland would seize Jenny or Molly -by the shoulders when they timidly brought a message or a letter into -his room, look into the blue of their eyes for a moment, and order a -dose on the spot; a practice which made these innocent victims tremble -even to pass his door. - -“Oh, granny, I can’t, I can’t take it up to the doctor,” they would say, -even when it was a telegram that had come: little selfish things, not -thinking what poor sick person might be sending for the doctor; nor how -good it was to be able to get a dose for nothing every time you wanted -it. - -But most of the people whom he met were less easily manageable than the -postman and the landlady’s little granddaughters. Dr. Roland regarded -every one he saw from this same medical point of view; and had made up -his mind about Miss Bethune, and also about Mr. Mannering, before he had -been a week in the house. Unfortunately, he could do nothing to impress -his opinion upon them; but he kept his eyes very wide open, and took -notes, attending the moment when perhaps his opportunity might occur. As -for Dora, he had nothing but contempt for her from the first moment he -had seen her. Hers was a case of inveterate good health, and wholly -without interest. That girl, he declared to himself scornfully, would be -well anywhere. Bloomsbury had no effect upon her. She was neither anæmic -or dyspeptic, though the little things downstairs were both. But her -father was a different matter. Half a dozen playful demons were -skirmishing around that careful, temperate, well-living man; and Dr. -Roland took the greatest interest in their advances and withdrawals, -expecting the day when one or other would seize the patient and lay him -low. Miss Bethune, too, had her little band of assailants, who were -equally interesting to Dr. Roland, but not equally clear, since he was -as yet quite in the dark as to the moral side of the question in her -case. - -He knew what would happen to these two, and calculated their chances -with great precision, taking into account all the circumstances that -might defer or accelerate the catastrophe. These observations interested -him like a play. It was a kind of second sight that he possessed, but -reaching much further than the vision of any Highland seer, who sees -the winding-sheet only when it is very near, mounting in a day or two -from the knees to the waist, and hence to the head. But Dr. Roland saw -its shadow long before it could have been visible to any person gifted -with the second sight. Sometimes he was wrong--he had acknowledged as -much to himself in one or two instances; but it was very seldom that -this occurred. Those who take a pessimistic view either of the body or -soul are bound to be right in many, if not in most cases, we are obliged -to allow. - -But it was not with the design of hunting patients that Dr. Roland made -these investigations; his interest in the persons he saw around him was -purely scientific. It diverted him greatly, if such a word may be used, -to see how they met their particular dangers, whether they instinctively -avoided or rushed to encounter them, both which methods they constantly -employed in their unconsciousness. He liked to note the accidents (so -called) that came in to stave off or to hurry on the approaching -trouble. The persons to whom these occurred had often no knowledge of -them; but Dr. Roland noted everything and forgot nothing. He had a -wonderful memory as well as such excessively clear sight; and he carried -on, as circumstances permitted, a sort of oversight of the case, even if -it might be in somebody else’s hands. Sometimes his interest in these -outlying patients who were not his, interfered with the concentration of -his attention on those who were--who were chiefly, as has been said, -dyspeptics and the like, affording no exciting variety of symptoms to -his keen intellectual and professional curiosity. And these -peculiarities made him a very serviceable neighbour. He never objected -to be called in in haste, because he was the nearest doctor, or to give -a flying piece of advice to any one who might be attacked by sudden pain -or uneasiness; indeed, he might be said to like these unintentional -interferences with other people’s work, which afforded him increased -means of observation, and the privilege of launching a new prescription -at a patient’s head by way of experiment, or confidential counsel at the -professional brother whom he was thus accidentally called upon to aid. - -On the particular evening which he occupied by telling Miss Bethune the -story of the Mannerings,--not without an object in so doing, for he had -a strong desire to put that lady herself under his microscope and find -out how certain things affected her,--he had scarcely got himself -comfortably established by his own fireside, put on a piece of wood to -make a blaze, felt for his cigar-case upon the mantelpiece, and taken up -his paper, when a knock at his door roused him in the midst of his -preparations for comfort. The doctor lifted his head quickly, and cocked -one fine ear like a dog, and with something of the thrill of listening -with which a dog responds to any sound. That he let the knock be -repeated was by no means to say that he had not heard the first time. A -knock at his door was something like a first statement of symptoms to -the doctor. He liked to understand and make certain what it meant. - -“Come in,” he said quickly, after the second knock, which had a little -hurry and temerity in it after the tremulous sound of the first. - -The door opened; and there appeared at it, flushed with fright and -alarm, yet pallid underneath the flush, the young and comely countenance -of Mrs. Hesketh, Dora’s friend on the attic floor. - -“Oh!” Dr. Roland said, taking in this unexpected appearance, and all her -circumstances, physical and mental, at a glance. He had met her also -more than once at the door or on the stairs. He asked kindly what was -the little fool frightened about, as he rose up quickly and with -unconscious use and wont placed a chair in the best light, where he -should be able to read the simple little alphabet of her constitution -and thoughts. - -“Oh, doctor, sir! I hope you don’t mind me coming to disturb you, though -I know as it’s late and past hours.” - -“A doctor has no hours. Come in,” he said. - -Then there was a pause. The agitated young face disappeared, leaving Dr. -Roland only a side view of her shoulder and figure in profile, and a -whispering ensued. “I cannot--I cannot! I ain’t fit,” in a hoarse tone, -and then the young woman’s eager pleading. “Oh, Alfred dear, for my -sake!” - -“Come in, whoever it is,” said Dr. Roland, with authority. “A doctor has -no hours, but either people in the house have, and you mustn’t stay -outside.” - -Then there was a little dragging on the part of the wife, a little -resistance on the part of the husband; and finally Mrs. Hesketh -appeared, more flushed than ever, grasping the sleeve of a rather -unwholesome-looking young man, very pink all over and moist, with -furtive eyes, and hair standing on end. He had a fluttered clandestine -look, as if afraid to be seen, as he came into the full light of the -lamp, and looked suspiciously around him, as if to find out whether -anything dangerous was there. - -“It is my ’usband, sir,” said Mrs. Hesketh. “It’s Alfred. He’s been off -his food and off his sleep for I don’t know how long, and I’m not happy -about him. I thought perhaps you might give him a something that would -put him all straight.” - -“Off his food and off his sleep? Perhaps he hasn’t been off his drink -also?” said the doctor, giving a touch to the shade of the lamp. - -“I knew,” said the young man, in the same partially hoarse voice, “as -that is what would be said.” - -“And a gentleman like you ought to know better,” said the indignant -wife. “Drink is what he never touches, if it isn’t a ’alf pint to his -supper, and that only to please me.” - -“Then it’s something else, and not drink,” said the doctor. “Sit down, -and let me have a look at you.” He took into his cool grasp a somewhat -tremulous damp hand, which had been hanging down by the patient’s side, -limp yet agitated, like a thing he had no use for. “Tell me something -about him,” said Dr. Roland. “In a shop? Baxter’s?--yes, I know the -place. What you call shopman,--no, assistant,--young gentleman at the -counter?” - -“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Hesketh, with pride; “book-keeper, sir--sits up in -his desk in the middle of the costume department, and----” - -“Ah, I see,” said the doctor quickly. He gave the limp wrist, in which -the pulse had suddenly given a great jump, a grip with his cool hand. -“Control yourself,” he said quietly. “Nerves all in a whirl, system -breaking down--can you take a holiday?” - -“Oh, yes,” said the young man in a sort of bravado, “of course I can -take a holiday! and an express ticket for the workhouse after it. How -are we to live if I go taking holidays? We can’t afford no holidays,” he -said in his gruff voice. - -“There are worse places than the workhouse,” said the doctor, with -meaning. “Take this, and to-morrow I’ll give you a note to send to your -master. The first thing you want is a good night’s sleep.” - -“Oh, that is the truth, however you know it,” cried Mrs. Hesketh. “He -hasn’t had a night’s sleep, nor me neither, not for a month back.” - -“I’ll see that he has one to-night,” said Dr. Roland, drawing back the -curtain of his surgery and opening the folding-doors. - -“I won’t take no opiates, doctor,” said the young man, with dumb -defiance in his sleepy eyes. - -“You won’t take any opiates? And why, if I may ask?” the doctor said, -selecting a bottle from the shelf. - -“Not a drop of your nasty sleepy stuff, that makes fellows dream and -talk nonsense in their sleep--oh, not for me!” - -“You are afraid, then, of talking nonsense in your sleep? We must get -rid of the nonsense, not of the sleep,” said the doctor. “I don’t say -that this is an opiate, but you have got to swallow it, my fine fellow, -whether or not.” - -“No,” said the young man, setting his lips firmly together. - -“Drink!” cried Dr. Roland, fully roused. “Come, I’ll have no childish, -wry faces. Why, you’re a man--with a wife--and not a naughty boy!” - -“It’s not my doing coming here. She brought me, and I’ll see her far -enough----” - -“Hold your tongue you young ass, and take your physic! She’s a capital -woman, and has done exactly as she ought to have done. No nonsense, I -tell you! Sleep to-night, and then to-morrow you’ll go and set yourself -right with the shop.” - -“Sir!” cried the young man, with a gasp. His pulse gave a jump under the -strong cool grip in which Dr. Roland had again taken it, and he fixed a -frightened imploring gaze upon the doctor’s face. - -“Oh, doctor!” cried the poor wife, “there’s nothing to set right with -the shop. They think all the world of Alfred there.” - -“They’ll think all the more of him,” said Dr. Roland, “after he has had -a good night’s sleep. There, take him off to bed; and at ten o’clock -to-morrow morning I expect to see him here.” - -“Oh, doctor, is it anything bad? Oh, sir, can’t you make him all right?” -she cried, standing with clasped hands, listening to the hurried yet -wavering step with which her husband went upstairs. - -“I’ll tell you to-morrow morning,” Dr. Roland said. - -When the door was closed he went and sat down again by his fire; but the -calm of his mind, the pleasure of his cigar, the excitement of his -newspaper, had gone. Truth to tell, the excitement of this new question -pleased him more than all these things together. “Has he done it, or is -he only going to do it?” he asked himself. Could the thing be set right, -or could it never be set right? He sat there for perhaps an hour, -working out the question in both directions, considering the case in -every light. It was a long time since he had met with anything so -interesting. He only came to himself when he became conscious that the -fire was burning very low, and the chill of the night creeping into the -air. Then Dr. Roland rose again, compounded a drink for himself of a -different quality from that which he had given to his patient, and -selected out of his bookcase a yellow novel. But after a while he -pitched the book from him, and pushed away the glass, and resumed his -meditations. What was grog, and what was Gaboriau, in comparison with a -problem like this? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The house in Bloomsbury was, however, much more deeply troubled and -excited than it would have been by anything affecting Alfred Hesketh, -when it was known next morning that Mr. Mannering had been taken ill in -the night, and was now unable to leave his bed. The doctor had been sent -for early--alas! it was not Dr. Roland--and the whole household was -disturbed. Such a thing had not been known for nearly a dozen years -past, as that Mr. Mannering should not walk downstairs exactly at a -quarter before ten, and close the door behind him, forming a sort of -fourth chime to the three-quarters as they sounded from the church -clock. The house was put out for the day by this failure in the -regularity of its life and movement; all the more that it was very soon -known that this prop of the establishment was very ill, that “the fever” -ran very high, and that even his life was in danger. Nobody made much -remark in these circumstances upon the disappearance of the humble -little people on the upper floor, who, after much coming and going -between their habitation and that of Dr. Roland downstairs, made a -hurried departure, providentially, Mrs. Simcox said--thus leaving a -little available room for the nurse who by this time had taken -possession of the Mannering establishment, reducing Dora to the -position which she had never occupied, of a child, and taking the -management of everything. Two of these persons, indeed, had been ordered -in by the doctor--a nurse for the day, and a nurse for the night, who -filled the house with that air of redundant health and cheerfulness -which seem to belong to nurses, one or other of them being always met on -the stairs going out for her constitutional, going down for her meals, -taking care of herself in some methodical way or other, according to -prescription, that she might be fit for her work. And no doubt they were -very fit for their work, and amply responded to the confidence placed in -them: which was only not shared by Dora, banished by them out of her -father’s room--and Miss Bethune, a woman full of prejudices, and -Gilchrist, whose soft heart could not resist the cheerful looks of the -two fresh young women, though their light-heartedness shocked her a -little, and the wrongs of Dora filled her heart with sympathy. - -Alas! Dora was not yet sixteen--there was no possibility, however -carefully you counted the months, and showed her birthday to be -approaching, to get over that fact. And what were her love and anxious -desire to be of service, and devotion to her father, in comparison with -these few years and the superior training of the women, who knew almost -as much as the doctor himself? “Not saying much, that!” Dr. Roland -grumbled under his breath, as he joined the anxious circle of -malcontents in Miss Bethune’s apartment, where Dora came, trying proudly -to restrain her tears, and telling how she had been shut out of Mr. -Mannering’s room--“my own father’s room!” the girl cried in her -indignation, two big drops, like raindrops, falling, in spite of her, -upon her dress. - -“It’s better for you, my bonnie dear,--oh, it’s better for you,” -Gilchrist whispered, standing behind her, and drying her own flowing -eyes with her apron. - -“Dora, my darling,” said Miss Bethune, moved to a warmth of spirit quite -unusual to her, “it is quite true what Gilchrist says. I am not fond of -these women myself. They shall never nurse me. If I cannot have a hand -that cares for me to smooth my pillow, it shall be left unsmoothed, and -none of these good-looking hussies shall smile over me when I’m -dying--no, no! But it is different; you’re far too young to have that on -your head. I would not permit it. Gilchrist and me would have taken it -and done every justice to your poor papa, I make no doubt, and been all -the better for the work, two idle women as we are--but not you. You -should have come and gone, and sat by his bedside and cheered him with -the sight of you; but to nurse him was beyond your power. Ask the -doctor, and he will tell you that as well as me.” - -“I have always taken care of my father before,” said Dora. “When he has -had his colds, and when he had rheumatism, and when----that time, Dr. -Roland, you know.” - -“That was the time,” said the doctor, “when you ran down to me in the -middle of the night and burst into my room, like a wise little girl. We -had him in our own hands then, and we knew what to do with him, Dora. -But here’s Vereker, he’s a great swell, and neither you nor I can -interfere.” - -It comforted Dora a little to have Dr. Roland placed with herself among -the outsiders who could not interfere, especially when Miss Bethune -added: “That is just the grievance. We would all like to have a finger -in the pie. Why should a man be taken out of the care of his natural -friends and given into the charge of these women, that never saw him in -their lives before, nor care whether he lives or dies?” - -“Oh, they care--for their own reputation. There is nothing to be said -against the women, they’ll do their duty,” said the doctor. “But there’s -Vereker, that has never studied his constitution--that sees just the -present symptoms, and no more. Take the child out for a walk, Miss -Bethune, and let’s have her fresh and fair for him, at least, if"--the -doctor pulled himself up hastily, and coughed to swallow the last -alarming syllable,--“fresh and fair,” he added hastily, “_when_ he gets -better, which is a period with which no nurses can interfere.” - -A colloquy, which was silent yet full of eager interest and feeling, -sprang up between two pairs of eyes at the moment that _if_--most -alarming of conjectures--was uttered. Miss Bethune questioned; the -doctor replied. Then he said in an undertone: “A constitution never very -strong,--exhausting work, exhausting emotions, unnatural peace in the -latter life.” - -Dora was being led away by Gilchrist to get her hat for the proposed -walk; and Dr. Roland ended in his ordinary voice. - -“Do you call that unnatural peace, with all the right circumstances of -his life round him, and--and full possession of his bonnie girl, that -has never been parted from him? I don’t call that unnatural.” - -“You would if you were aware of the other side of it lopped off--one -half of him, as it were, paralysed.” - -“Doctor,” said Miss Bethune, with a curious smile, “I ought to take that -as a compliment to my sex, as the fools say--if I cared a button for my -sex or any such nonsense! But there is yourself, now, gets on very well, -so far as I can see, with that side, as you call it, just as much lopped -off.” - -“How do you know?” said the doctor. “I may be letting concealment, like -a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek. But I allow,” he said, with -a laugh, “I do get on very well: and so, if you will permit me to say -it, do you, Miss Bethune. But then, you see, we have never known -anything else.” - -Something leaped up in Miss Bethune’s eye--a strange light, which the -doctor could not interpret, though it did not escape his observation. -“To be sure,” she said, nodding her head, “we have never known anything -else. And that changes the case altogether.” - -“That changes the case. I say nothing against a celibate life. I have -always preferred it--it suits me better. I never cared,” he added, -again with a laugh, “to have too much baggage to move about.” - -“Do not be uncivil, doctor, after being more civil than was necessary.” - -“But it’s altogether a different case with poor Mannering. It is not -even as if his wife had betrayed him--in the ordinary way. The poor -thing meant no harm.” - -“Oh, do not speak to me!” cried Miss Bethune, throwing up her hands. - -“I know; it is well known you ladies are always more severe--but, -anyhow, that side was wrenched away in a moment, and then there followed -long years of unnatural calm.” - -“I do not agree with you, doctor,” she said, shaking her head. “The -wrench was defeenitive.” Miss Bethune’s nationality betrayed itself in a -great breadth of vowels, as well as in here and there a word or two. “It -was a cut like death: and you do not call calm unnatural that comes -after death, after long years?” - -“It’s different--it’s different,” the doctor said. - -“Ay, so it is,” she said, answering as it were her own question. - -And there was a pause. When two persons of middle age discuss such -questions, there is a world lying behind each full of experiences, which -they recognise instinctively, however completely unaware they may be of -each other’s case. - -“But here is Dora ready for her walk, and me doing nothing but haver,” -cried Miss Bethune, disappearing into the next room. - -They might have been mother and daughter going out together in the -gentle tranquillity of use and wont,--so common a thing!--and yet if the -two had been mother and daughter, what a revolution in how many lives -would have been made!--how different would the world have been for an -entire circle of human souls! They were, in fact, nothing to each -other--brought together, as we say, by chance, and as likely to be -whirled apart again by those giddy combinations and dissolutions which -the head goes round only to think of. For the present they walked -closely together side by side, and talked of one subject which engrossed -all their thoughts. - -“What does the doctor think? Oh, tell me, please, what the doctor -thinks!” - -“How can he think anything, Dora, my dear? He has never seen your father -since he was taken ill.” - -“Oh, Miss Bethune, but he knew him so well before. And I don’t ask you -what he knows. He must think something. He must have an opinion. He -always has an opinion, whatever case it may be.” - -“He thinks, my dear, that the fever must run its course. Now another -week’s begun, we must just wait for the next critical moment. That is -all, Dora, my darling, that is all that any man can say.” - -“Oh, that it would only come!” cried Dora passionately. “There is -nothing so dreadful as waiting--nothing! However bad a thing is, if you -only know it, not hanging always in suspense.” - -“Suspense means hope; it means possibility and life, and all that makes -life sweet. Be patient, be patient, my bonnie dear.” - -Dora looked up into her friend’s face. “Were you ever as miserable as I -am?” she said. Miss Bethune was thought grim by her acquaintances and -there was a hardness in her, as those who knew her best were well aware; -but at this question something ineffable came into her face. Her eyes -filled with tears, her lips quivered with a smile. “My little child!” -she said. - -Dora did not ask any more. Her soul was silenced in spite of herself: -and just then there arose a new interest, which is always so good a -thing for everybody, especially at sixteen. “There,” she cried, in spite -of herself, though she had thought she was incapable of any other -thought, “is poor Mrs. Hesketh hurrying along on the other side of the -street.” - -They had got into a side street, along one end of which was a little row -of trees. - -“Oh, run and speak to her, Dora.” - -Mrs. Hesketh seemed to feel that she was pursued. She quickened her step -almost into a run, but she was breathless and agitated and laden with a -bundle, and in no way capable of outstripping Dora. She paused with a -gasp, when the girl laid a hand on her arm. - -“Didn’t you hear me call you? You surely could never, never mean to run -away from me?” - -“Miss Dora, you were always so kind, but I didn’t know who it might be.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Hesketh, you can’t know how ill my father is, or you would -have wanted to ask for him. He has been ill a month, and I am not -allowed to nurse him. I am only allowed to go in and peep at him twice a -day. I am not allowed to speak to him, or to do anything for him, or to -know----” - -Dora paused, choked by the quick-coming tears. - -“I am so sorry, miss. I thought as you were happy at least: but there’s -nothing, nothing but trouble in this world,” cried Mrs. Hesketh, -breaking into a fitful kind of crying. Her face was flushed and heated, -the bundle impeding all her movements. She looked round in alarm at -every step, and when she saw Miss Bethune’s tall figure approaching, -uttered a faint cry. “Oh, Miss Dora, I can’t stay, and I can’t do you -any good even if I could; I’m wanted so bad at home.” - -“Where are you going with that big bundle? You are not fit to be -carrying it about the streets,” said Miss Bethune, suddenly standing -like a lion in the way. - -The poor little woman leant against a tree, supporting her bundle. “Oh, -please,” she said, imploring; and then, with some attempt at -self-defence, “I am going nowhere but about my own business. I have got -nothing but what belongs to me. Let me go.” - -“You must not go any further than this spot,” said Miss Bethune. “Dora, -go to the end of the road and get a cab. Whatever you would have got for -that where you were going, I will give it you, and you can keep your -poor bits of things. What has happened to you? Quick, tell me, while -the child’s away.” - -The poor young woman let her bundle fall at her feet. “My husband’s ill, -and he’s lost his situation,” she said, with piteous brevity, and -sobbed, leaning against the tree. - -“And therefore you thought that was a fine time to run away and hide -yourself among strangers, out of the reach of them that knew you? There -was the doctor, and there was me. Did you think we would let harm happen -to you? You poor feckless little thing!” - -“The doctor! It was the doctor that lost Alfred his place,” cried the -young woman angrily, drying her eyes. “Let me go--oh, let me go! I don’t -want no charity,” she said. - -“And what would you have got for all that?” - -“Perhaps ten shillings--perhaps only six. Oh, lady, you don’t know us -except just to see us on the stairs. I’m in great trouble, and he’s -heartbroken, and waiting for me at ’ome. Leave me alone and let me go.” - -“If you had put them away for ten shillings they would have been of no -further use to you. Now, here’s ten shillings, and you’ll take these -things back; but you’ll mind that they’re mine, though I give you the -use of them, and you’ll promise to come to me, or to send for me, and to -take no other way. What is the matter with your husband? Let him come to -the doctor, and you to me.” - -“Oh, never, never, to that doctor!” Mrs. Hesketh cried. - -“The doctor’s a good man, and everybody’s friend, but he may have a -rough tongue, I would not say. But come you to me. We’ll get him another -place, and all will go well. You silly little thing, the first time -trouble comes in your way, to fall into despair! Oh, this is you, Dora, -with the cab. Put in the bundle. And now, here’s the money, and if you -do not come to me, mind you will have broken your word.” - -“Oh, ma’am! Oh, Miss Dora!” was all the poor little woman could say. - -“Now, Dora,” said Miss Bethune cheerfully, “there’s something for you to -do--Gilchrist and you. You’ll give an account to me of that poor thing, -and if you let her slip through your fingers I’ll never forgive you. -There’s something wrong. Perhaps he drinks, or perhaps he does something -worse--if there’s anything worse: but whatever it is, it is your -responsibility. I’m an idle, idle person; I’m good for nothing. But -you’re young, and Gilchrist’s a tower of strength, and you’ll just give -an account of that poor bit creature, soul and body, to me.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Mr. Mannering’s illness ran on and on. Week after week the anxious -watchers waited for the crisis which did not come. It was evident now -that the patient, who had no violence in his illness any more than in -his life, was yet not to be spared a day of its furthest length. But it -was allowed that he had no bad symptoms, and that the whole matter -turned on the question whether his strength could be sustained. Dr. -Roland, not allowed to do anything else for his friend, regulated -furtively the quality and quantity of the milk, enough to sustain a -large nursery, which was sent upstairs. He tested it in every scientific -way, and went himself from dairy to dairy to get what was best; and Mrs. -Simcox complained bitterly that he was constantly making inroads into -“my kitchen” to interfere in the manufacture of the beef tea. He even -did, which was against every rule of medical etiquette, stop the great -Dr. Vereker on the stairs and almost insist upon a medical consultation, -and to give his own opinion about the patient to this great authority, -who looked him over from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot -with undisguised yet bewildered contempt. Who was this man who -discoursed to the great physician about the tendencies and the -idiosyncrasies of the sick man, whom it was a matter of something like -condescension on Dr. Vereker’s part to attend at all, and whom this -little person evidently believed himself to understand better? - -“If Mr. Mannering’s friends wish me to meet you in consultation, I can -have, of course, no objection to satisfy them, or even to leave the -further conduct of the case in your hands,” he said stiffly. - -“Nothing of the kind--nothing of the kind!” cried poor Dr. Roland. “It’s -only that I’ve watched the man for years. You perhaps don’t know----” - -“I think,” said Dr. Vereker, “you will allow that after nearly six -weeks’ attendance I ought, unless I am an ignoramus, to know all there -is to know.” - -“I don’t deny it for a moment. There is no practitioner in London -certainly who would doubt Dr. Vereker’s knowledge. I mean his past--what -he has had to bear--the things that have led up----” - -“Moral causes?” said the great physician blandly, raising his eyebrows. -“My dear sir, depend upon it, a bad drain is more to be reckoned with -than all the tragedies of the world.” - -“I shall not depend on anything of the kind!” cried Dr. Roland, almost -dancing with impatience. - -“Then you will permit me to say good-morning, for my time is precious,” -answered his distinguished brother--“unless,” he added sarcastically, -pausing to look round upon the poor doctor’s sitting-room, then arrayed -in its morning guise as waiting-room, with all the old _Graphics_, and -picture books laid out upon the table--“Mr. Mannering’s friends are -dissatisfied and wish to put the case in your hands?” - -“Do you know who Mr. Mannering’s friends are?” cried Dr. Roland. “Little -Dora, his only child! I know no others. Just about as little influential -as are those moral causes you scorn, but I don’t.” - -“Indeed!” said Dr. Vereker, with more consideration of this last -statement. Little Dora was not much of a person to look to for the -rapidly accumulating fees of a celebrated doctor during a long illness. -But though he was a prudent man, he was not mercenary; perhaps he would -have hesitated about taking up the case had he known at first, but he -was not the man to retire now out of any fear of being paid. “Mr. -Mannering is a person of distinction,” he said, in a self-reassuring -tone; “he has been my patient at long intervals for many years. I don’t -think we require to go into the question further at this moment.” He -withdrew with great dignity to the carriage that awaited him, crossing -one or two of Dr. Roland’s patients, whose appearance somewhat changed -his idea of the little practitioner who had thus ventured to assail him; -while, on the other hand, Roland for his part was mollified by the -other’s magnanimous reception of a statement which seemed to make his -fees uncertain. Dr. Vereker was not in the least a mercenary man, he -would never have overwhelmed an orphan girl with a great bill: at the -same time, it did float across his mind that if the crisis were once -over which professional spirit and honour compelled him to conduct to a -good end if possible, a little carelessness about his visits after could -have no bad result, considering the constant vicinity of that very -keen-eyed practitioner downstairs. - -A great doctor and two nurses, unlimited supplies of fresh milk, strong -soup, and every appliance that could be thought of to alleviate and -console the patient, by these professional persons of the highest class, -accustomed to spare no expense, are, however, things that do not agree -with limited means; and Dora, the only authority on the subject, knew -nothing about her father’s money, or how to get command of it. Mrs. -Simcox’s bills were very large in the present position of affairs, the -rooms that had been occupied by the Heskeths being now appropriated to -the nurses, for whom the landlady furnished a table more plentiful than -that to which Mr. Mannering and his daughter had been accustomed. And -when the crisis at last arrived, in the middle of a tardy and backward -June, the affairs of the little household, even had there been any -competent person to understand them, were in a very unsatisfactory state -indeed--a state over which Dr. Roland and Miss Bethune consulted in the -evenings with many troubled looks, and shakings of the head. She had -taken all the necessary outgoings in hand, for the moment as she said; -and Miss Bethune was known to be well off. But the prospect was rather -serious, and neither of them knew how to interfere in the sick man’s -money matters, or to claim what might be owing to him, though, indeed, -there was probably nothing owing to him until quarter day: and there -were a number of letters lying unopened which, to experienced eyes, -looked painfully like bills, as if quarter day would not have enough to -do to provide for its own things without responding to this unexpected -strain. Dora knew nothing about these matters. She recognised the -letters with the frankest acquaintance. They were from old book shops, -from scientific workmen who mounted and prepared specimens, from dealers -in microscopes and other delicate instruments. “Father says these are -our dressmakers, and carriages, and parties,” said Dora, half, or indeed -wholly, proud of such a distinction above her fellows. - -Miss Bethune shook her head and said, “Such extravagance!” in Dr. -Roland’s ear. He was more tolerant. “They are all the pleasures the poor -man has,” he said. But they did not make the problem more easy as to how -the present expenses were to be met when the quarter’s pay came in, even -if it could be made available by Dora’s only friends, who were “no -relations,” and had no right to act for her. Miss Bethune went through a -great many abstruse calculations in the mornings which she spent alone. -She was well off,--but that is a phrase which means little or much, -according to circumstances; and she had a great many pensioners, and -already carried a little world on her shoulders, to which she had lately -added the unfortunate little Mrs. Hesketh, and the husband, who found it -so difficult to get another place. Many cares of a similar kind were on -this lady’s head. She never gave a single subscription to any of the -societies: collectors for charities called on her in vain; but to see -the little jottings of her expenses would have been a thing not without -edification for those who could understand the cipher, or, rather, the -combination of undecipherable initials, in which they were set down. She -did not put M. for Mannering in her accounts; but there were a great -many items under the initial W., which no one but herself could ever -have identified, which made it quite sure that no stranger going over -these accounts could make out who Miss Bethune’s friends were. She shook -her head over that W. If Dora were left alone, what relics would there -be for her out of the future quarter’s pay, so dreadfully forestalled, -even if the pay did not come to a sudden stop at once? And, on the other -hand, if the poor man got better, and had to face a long convalescence -with that distracting prospect before him, no neighbour any longer -daring to pay those expenses which would be quite as necessary for him -in his weak state as they were now? Miss Bethune could do nothing but -shake her head, and feel her heart contract with that pang of painful -pity in which there is no comfort at all. And in the meantime everything -went on as if poor Mannering were a millionaire, everything was ordered -for him with a free hand which a prince could have had; and Mrs. Simcox -excelled herself in making the nurses, poor things, comfortable. What -could any one do to limit this full flowing tide of liberality? Of -course, he must have everything that could possibly be wanted for him; -if he did not use it, at least it must be there in case he might use it. -What could people who were “no relations” do? What could Dora do, who -was only a child? And indeed, for the matter of that, what could any -one, even in the fullest authority, have done to hinder the sick man -from having anything which by the remotest possibility might be of use -to him? Thus affairs went on with a dreadful velocity, and accumulation -of wrath against the day of wrath. - -That was a dreadful day, the end of the sixth week, the moment when the -crisis must come. It was in the June evening, still daylight, but -getting late, when the doctor arrived. Mr. Mannering had been very ill -all day, sleeping, or in a state of stupor nearly all the time, moving -his head uneasily on his pillow, but never rousing to any consciousness -of what was going on about him. The nurses, always cheerful, did not, -however, conceal their apprehensions. He had taken his beef tea, he had -taken the milk which they poured down his throat: but his strength was -gone, and he lay with no longer any power to struggle, like a forsaken -boat on the sea margin, to be drifted off or on the beach according to -the pleasure of wind and tide. - -Miss Bethune sat in her room holding Dora’s hand, who, however, did not -realise that this was more important than any of the other days on which -they had hoped that “the turn” might come, and a little impatient of the -seriousness of the elder woman, who kept on saying tender words to her, -caressing her hand,--so unnecessarily emotional, Dora thought, seeing -that at all events it was not _her_ father who was ill, and she had no -reason to be so unhappy about it. This state of excitement was brought -to a climax by the sound of the doctor’s steps going upstairs, followed -close by the lighter step of Dr. Roland, whom no etiquette could now -restrain, who followed into the very room, and if he did not give an -opinion in words, gave it with his eyes, and saw, even more quickly than -the great Dr. Vereker, everything that was to be seen. It was he who -came down a few minutes later, while they were both listening for the -more solemn movements of the greater authority, descending with a rush -like that of a bird, scarcely touching the steps, and standing in the -last sunset light which came from the long staircase window behind, like -something glorified and half angelic, as if his house coat, glazed at -the shoulders and elbows, had been some sort of shining mail. - -Tears were in Dr. Roland’s eyes; he waved his hand over his head and -broke forth into a broken hurrah. Miss Bethune sprang up to meet him, -holding out her hands. And in the sight of stern youth utterly -astonished by this exhibition, these two elderly people as good as -rushed into each other’s arms. - -Dora was so astounded, so disapproving, so little aware that this was -her last chance for her father’s life, that she almost forgot her father -in the consternation, shame, and horror with which she looked on. What -did they mean? It could not have anything to do with her father, of whom -they were “no relations". How dared they to bring in their own silly -affairs when she was in such trouble? And then Miss Bethune caught -herself, Dora, in her arms. - -“What is the matter?” cried the girl. “Oh, let me alone! I can think of -nothing but father and Dr. Vereker, who is upstairs.” - -“It is all right--it is all right,” said Dr. Roland. “Vereker will take -half an hour more to make up his mind. But I can tell you at once; the -fever’s gone, and, please God, he’ll pull through.” - -“Is it only you that says so, Dr. Roland?” cried Dora, hard as the -nether millstone, and careless, indeed unconscious, what wound she might -give. - -“You little ungrateful thing!” cried Miss Bethune; but a shadow came -over her eyes also. And the poor practitioner from the ground floor felt -that “only you” knock him down like a stone. He gave a laugh, and made -no further reply, but walked over to the window, where he stood between -the curtains, looking out upon the summer evening, the children playing -on the pavement, all the noises and humours of the street. No, he had -not made a name for himself, he had not secured the position of a man -who has life and death in his nod. It was hard upon Dr. Roland, who felt -that he knew far more about Mr. Mannering than half a hundred great -physicians rolled into one, coming in with his solemn step at the open -door. - -“Yes, I think he will do,” said Dr. Vereker. “Miss Mannering, I cannot -sufficiently recommend you to leave everything in the hands of these two -admirable women. It will be anxious work for some time yet; his strength -is reduced to the very lowest ebb, but yet, I hope, all will come right. -The same strenuous skilful nursing and constant judicious nourishment -and rest. This young lady is very young to have such an anxiety. Is -there really no one--no relation, no uncle--nor anything of that kind?” - -“We have no relations,” said Dora, growing very red. There seemed a sort -of guilt in the avowal, she could not tell why. - -“But fast friends,” said Miss Bethune. - -“Ah, friends! Friends are very good to comfort and talk to a poor little -girl, but they are not responsible. They cannot be applied to for fees; -whereas an uncle, though perhaps not so good for the child----” Dr. -Vereker turned to Dr. Roland at the window. “I may be prevented from -coming to-morrow so soon as I should wish; indeed, the patient should be -looked at again to-night if I had time. But it is a long way to come -back here. I am sure it will be a comfort to this young lady, Dr. -Roland, if you, being on the spot, would kindly watch the case when I am -not able to be here.” - -Dr. Roland cast but one glance at the doubting spectators, who had said, -“Only you.” - -“With all my heart, and thank you for the confidence you put in me,” he -said. - -“Oh, that,” said the great doctor, with a wave of his hand, “is only -your due. I have to thank you for one or two hints, and you know as well -as I do what care is required now. We may congratulate ourselves that -things are as they are; but his life hangs on a thread. Thank you. I may -rely upon you then? Good-evening, madam; forgive me for not knowing your -name. Good-night, Miss Mannering.” - -Dr. Roland attended the great man to the door; and returned again, -taking three steps at a time. “You see,” he cried breathlessly, “I am in -charge, though you don’t think much of me. He’s not a mercenary man, he -has stayed to pull him through; but we shan’t see much more of Dr. -Vereker. There’s the fees saved at a stroke.” - -“And there’s the women,” said Miss Bethune eagerly, “taking real -pleasure in it, and growing fatter and fairer every day.” - -“The women have done very well,” said the doctor. “I’ll have nothing -said against them. It’s they that have pulled him through.” Dr. Roland -did not mean to share his triumph with any other voluntary aid. - -“Well, perhaps that is just,” she said, regretfully; “but yet here is me -and Gilchrist hungering for something to do, and all the good pounds a -week that might be so useful handed over to them.” - -Dora listened to all this, half indignant, half uncomprehending. She had -a boundless scorn of the “good pounds” of which Miss Bethune in her -Scotch phraseology spoke so tenderly. And she did not clearly understand -why this particular point in her father’s illness should be so much -more important than any other. She heard her own affairs discussed as -through a haze, resenting that these other people should think they had -so much to do with them, and but dimly understanding what they meant by -it. Her father, indeed, did not seem to her any better at all, when she -was allowed for a moment to see him as he lay asleep. But Dora, -fortunately, thought nothing of the expenses, nor how the little money -that came in at quarter day would melt away like snow, nor how the -needs, now miraculously supplied as by the ravens, would look when the -invalid awoke to a consciousness of them, and of how they were to be -provided in a more natural way. - -It was not very long, however, before something of that consciousness -awoke in the eyes of the patient, as he slowly came back into the -atmosphere of common life from which he had been abstracted so long. He -was surprised to find Dr. Roland at his pillow, which that eager student -would scarcely have left by day or night if he could have helped it, and -the first glimmering of anxiety about his ways and means came into his -face when Roland explained hastily that Vereker came faithfully so long -as there was any danger. “But now he thinks a poor little practitioner -like myself, being on the spot, will do,” he said, with a laugh. “Saves -fees, don’t you know?” - -“Fees?” poor Mannering said, with a bewildered consciousness; and next -morning began to ask when he could go back to the Museum. Fortunately, -all ideas were dim in that floating weakness amid the sensations of a -man coming back to life. Convalescence is sweet in youth; but it is not -sweet when a man whose life is already waning comes back out of the -utter prostration of disease into the lesser but more conscious ills of -common existence. Presently he began to look at the luxuries with which -he was surrounded, and the attendants who watched over him, with alarm. -“Look here, Roland, I can’t afford all this. You must put a stop to all -this,” he said. - -“We can’t be economical about getting well, my dear fellow,” said the -doctor. “That’s the last thing to save money on.” - -“But I haven’t got it! One can’t spend what one hasn’t got,” cried the -sick man. It is needless to say that his progress was retarded, and the -indispensable economies postponed, by this new invasion of those cares -which are to the mind what the drainage which Dr. Vereker alone believed -in is to the body. - -“Never mind, father,” Dora said in her ignorance; “it will all come -right.” - -“Right? How is it to come right? Take that stuff away. Send these nurses -away. I can’t afford it. Do you hear me? I cannot afford it!” he began -to cry night and day. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Mr. Mannering’s convalescence was worse than his illness had been to the -house in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Simcox’s weekly bill fell by chance into the -patient’s hands, and its items filled him with horror. When a man is -himself painfully supported on cups of soup and wings of chicken, the -details of roast lamb for the day-nurse’s dinner, and bacon and eggs for -the night-nurse’s breakfast, take an exaggerated magnitude. And Mrs. -Simcox was very conscientious, putting down even the parsley and the -mint which were necessary for these meals. This bill put back the -patient’s recovery for a week, and prolonged the expenses, and brought -the whole house, as Mrs. Simcox declared tearfully, on her comparatively -innocent head. - -“For wherever’s the bill to go if not to the gentleman hisself?” cried -the poor woman. “He’s sittin’ up every day, and gettin’ on famous, by -what I hears. And he always did like to see ’is own bills, did Mr. -Mannering: and what’s a little bit of a thing like Miss Dora to go to, -to make her understand money? Lord bless you! she don’t spend a shilling -in a week, nor knows nothing about it. And the nurses, as was always to -have everything comfortable, seeing the ’ard work as they ’as, poor -things. And if it was a bit o’ mint for sauce, or a leaf o’ parsley for -garnish, I’d have put it in out o’ my own pocket and welcome, if I’d a -thought a gentleman would go on about sich things.” - -“You ridiculous woman, why couldn’t you have brought it to me, as you -have done before? And who do you suppose cares for your parsley and your -mint?” cried Miss Bethune. But nobody knew better than Miss Bethune that -the bills could not now be brought to her; and it was with a sore heart, -and that sense of the utter impossibility of affording any help, with -which we look on impotent at the troubles of our neighbours, whom we -dare not offend even by our sympathy, that she went downstairs in a -morning of July, when London was hot and stifling, yet still, as ever, a -little grace and coolness dwelt in the morning, to refresh herself with -a walk under the trees in the Square, to which she had a privilege of -entrance. - -Even in London in the height of summer the morning is sweet. There is -that sense of ease and lightness in it, which warm and tranquil weather -brings, before it comes too hot to bear. There were smells in the -streets in the afternoon, and the din of passing carts and carriages, of -children playing, of street cries and shouts, which would sometimes -become intolerable; but in the morning there was shade and softness, and -a sense of trouble suspended for the moment or withdrawn, which often -follows the sudden sharp realisation of any misfortune which comes with -the first waking. The pavement was cool, and the air was -(comparatively) sweet. There was a tinkle of water, though only from a -water cart. Miss Bethune opened the door into this sweetness and -coolness and morning glory which exists even in Bloomsbury, and found -herself suddenly confronted by a stranger, whose hand had been raised to -knock when the door thus suddenly opened before him. The sudden -encounter gave her a little shock, which was not lessened by the -appearance of the young man--a young fellow of three or four and twenty, -in light summer clothes, and with a pleasant sunburnt countenance. - - Not his the form, not his the eye, - That youthful maidens wont to fly. - -Miss Bethune was no youthful maiden, but this sudden apparition had a -great effect upon her. The sight made her start, and grow red and grow -pale without any reason, like a young person in her teens. - -“I beg your pardon,” said the young man, making a step back, and taking -off his hat. This was clearly an afterthought, and due to her -appearance, which was not that of the mistress of a lodging-house. “I -wanted to ask after a ----” - -“I am not the person of the house,” said Miss Bethune quickly. - -“Might I ask you all the same? I would so much rather hear from some one -who knows him.” - -Miss Bethune’s eyes had been fixed upon him with the closest attention, -but her interest suddenly changed and dropped at the last word. “Him?” -she said involuntarily, with a flash out of her eyes, and a look almost -of disappointment, almost of surprise. What had she expected? She -recovered in a moment the composure which had been disturbed by this -stranger’s appearance, for what reason she only knew. - -“I came,” he said, hesitating a little, and giving her another look, in -which there was also some surprise and much curiosity, “to inquire about -Mr. Mannering, who, I am told, lives here.” - -“Yes, he lives here.” - -“And has been ill?” - -“And has been ill,” she repeated after him. - -The young man smiled, and paused again. He seemed to be amused by these -repetitions. He had a very pleasant face, not intellectual, not -remarkable, but full of life and good-humour. He said: “Perhaps I ought -not to trouble you; but if you know him, and his child----” - -“I know him very well, and his child,--who is a child no longer, but -almost grown up. He is slowly recovering out of a very long dangerous -illness.” - -“That is what we heard. I came, not for myself, but for a lady who takes -a great interest. I think that she is a relation of--of Mr. Mannering’s -late wife.” - -“Is that woman dead, then?” Miss Bethune said. “I too take a great -interest in the family. I shall be glad to tell you anything I know: but -come with me into the Square, where we can talk at our ease.” She led -him to a favourite seat under the shadow of a tree. Though it was in -Bloomsbury, and the sounds of town were in the air, that quiet green -place might have been far in the country, in the midst of pastoral -acres. The Squares of Bloomsbury are too respectable to produce many -children. There were scarcely even any perambulators to vulgarise this -retreat. She turned to him as she sat down, and said again: “So that -woman is dead?” - -The young stranger looked surprised. “You mean Mrs. Mannering?” he said. -“I suppose so, though I know nothing of her. May I say who I am first? -My name is Gordon. I have just come from South America with Mrs. -Bristow, the wife of my guardian, who died there a year ago. And it is -she who has sent me to inquire.” - -“Gordon?” said Miss Bethune. She had closed her eyes, and her head was -going round; but she signed to him with her hand to sit down, and made a -great effort to recover herself. “You will be of one of the Scotch -families?” she said. - -“I don’t know. I have never been in this country till now.” - -“Born abroad?” she said, suddenly opening her eyes. - -“I think so--at least--but, indeed, I can tell you very little about -myself. It was Mrs. Bristow----” - -“Yes, I know. I am very indiscreet, putting so many questions, but you -reminded me of--of some one I once knew. Mrs. Bristow, you were saying?” - -“She was very anxious to know something of Mr. Mannering and his child. -I think she must be a relation of his late wife.” - -“God be thanked if there is a relation that may be of use to Dora. She -wants to know--what? If you were going to question the landlady, it -would not be much----” - -“I was to try to do exactly what I seem to have been so fortunate as to -have done--to find some friend whom I could ask about them. I am sure -you must be a friend to them?” - -“How can you be sure of that, you that know neither them nor me?” - -He smiled, with a very attractive, ingenuous smile. “Because you have -the face of a friend.” - -“Have I that? There’s many, many, then, that would have been the better -for knowing it that have never found it out. And you are a friend to -Mrs. Bristow on the other side?” - -“A friend to her?--no, I am more like her son, yet not her son, for my -own mother is living--at least, I believe so. I am her servant, and a -little her ward, and--devoted to her,” he added, with a bright flush of -animation and sincerity. Miss Bethune took no notice of these last -words. - -“Your mother is living, you believe? and don’t you know her, then? And -why should you be ward or son to this other woman, and your mother -alive?” - -“Pardon me,” said the young man, “that is my story, and it is not worth -a thought. The question is about Mrs. Bristow and the Mannerings. She is -anxious about them, and she is very broken in health. And I think there -is some family trouble there too, so that she can’t come in a natural -straightforward way and make herself known to them. These family -quarrels are dreadful things.” - -“Dreadful things,” Miss Bethune said. - -“They are bad enough for those with whom they originate; but for those -who come after, worse still. To be deprived of a natural friend all your -life because of some row that took place before you were born!” - -“You are a Daniel come to judgment,” said Miss Bethune, pale to her very -lips. - -“I hope,” he said kindly, “I am not saying anything I ought not to say? -I hope you are not ill?” - -“Go on,” she said, waving her hand. “About this Mrs. Bristow, that is -what we were talking of. The Mannerings could not be more in need of a -friend than they are now. He has been very ill. I hear it is very -doubtful if he’ll ever be himself again, or able to go back to his -occupation. And she is very young, nearly grown up, but still a child. -If there was a friend, a relation, to stand up for them, now would be -the very time.” - -“Thank you,” he said. “I have been very fortunate in finding you, but I -don’t think Mrs. Bristow can take any open step. My idea is that she -must be a sister of Mrs. Mannering, and thus involved in the dissension, -whatever it was.” - -“It was more than a dissension, so far as I have heard,” Miss Bethune -said. - -“That is what makes it so hard. What she wishes is to see Dora.” - -“Dora?” - -“Indeed, I mean no disrespect. I have never known her by any other name. -I have helped to pack boxes for her, and choose playthings.” - -Miss Bethune uttered a sudden exclamation. - -“Then it was from Mrs. Bristow the boxes came?” - -“Have I let out something that was a secret? I am not very good at -secrets,” he said with a laugh. - -“She might be an aunt as you say:--an aunt would be a good thing for -her, poor child:--or she might be---- But is it Dora only she wants to -see?” - -“Dora only; and only Dora if it is certain that she would entertain no -prejudices against a relation of her mother.” - -“How could there be prejudices of such a kind?” - -“That is too much to say: but I know from my own case that there are,” -the young man said. - -“I would like to hear your own case.” - -He laughed again. “You are very kind to be so much interested in a -stranger: but I must settle matters for my kind guardian. She has not -been a happy woman, I don’t know why,--though he was as good a man as -ever lived:--and now she is in very poor health--oh, really ill. I -scarcely thought I could have got her to England alive. To see Dora is -all she seems to wish for. Help me, oh, help me to get her that -gratification!” he cried. - -Miss Bethune smiled upon him in reply, with an involuntary movement of -her hands towards him. She was pale, and a strange light was on her -face. - -“I will do that if I can,” she said. “I will do it if it is possible. If -I help you what will you give me in return?” - -The youth looked at her in mild surprise. He did not understand what she -could mean. “Give you in return?” he asked, with astonishment. - -“Ay, my young man, for my hire; everybody has a price, as I daresay you -have heard said--which is a great lie, and yet true enough. Mine is not -just a common price, as you will believe. I’m full of fancies, -a--whimsical kind of a being. You will have to pay me for my goodwill.” - -He rose up from the seat under the tree, and, taking off his hat again, -made her a solemn bow. “Anything that is within my power I will gladly -give to secure my good guardian what she wishes. I owe everything to -her.” - -Miss Bethune sat looking up at him with that light on her face which -made it unlike everything that had been seen before. She was scarcely -recognisable, or would have been to those who already knew her. To the -stranger standing somewhat stiffly before her, surprised and somewhat -shocked by the strange demand, it seemed that this, as he had thought, -plain middle-aged woman had suddenly become beautiful. - -He had liked her face at the first. It had seemed to him a friend’s -face, as he had said. But now it was something more. The surprise, the -involuntary start of repugnance from a woman, a lady, who boldly asked -something in return for the help she promised, mingled with a strange -attraction towards her, and extraordinary curiosity as to what she could -mean. To pay for her goodwill! Such a thing is, perhaps, implied in -every prayer for help; gratitude at the least, if nothing more, is the -pay which all the world is supposed to give for good offices: but one -does not ask even for gratitude in words. And she was in no hurry to -explain. She sat in the warm shade, with all the greenness behind, and -looked at him as if she found somehow a supreme satisfaction in the -sight--as if she desired to prolong the moment, and even his curiosity -and surprise. He on his part was stiff, disturbed, not happy at all. He -did not like a woman to let herself down, to show any wrong side of her, -any acquisitiveness, or equivocal sentiment. What did she want of him? -What had he to give? The thought seemed to lessen himself by reason of -lessening her in his eyes. - -“I tell you I am a very whimsical woman,” she said at length; “above all -things I am fond of hearing every man’s story, and tracing out the -different threads of life. It is my amusement, like any other. If I -bring this lady to speech of Dora, and show her how she could be of real -advantage to both the girl and her father, will you promise me to come -to me another time, and tell me, as far as you know, everything that has -happened to you since the day you were born?” - -Young Gordon’s stiffness melted away. The surprise on his face, which -had been mingled with annoyance, turned into mirth and pleasure. “You -don’t know what you are bringing on yourself,” he said, “nothing very -amusing. I have little in my own record. I never had any adventures. But -if that is your fancy, surely I will, whenever you like, tell you -everything that I know about myself.” - -She rose up, with the light fading a little, but yet leaving behind it a -sweetness which was not generally in Miss Bethune’s face. “Let your -friend come in the afternoon at three any day--it is then her father -takes his sleep--and ask for Miss Bethune. I will see that it is made -all right. And as for you, you will leave me your address?” she said, -going with him towards the gate. “You said you believed your mother was -living--is your father living too?” - -“He died a long time ago,” said the young man, and then added: “May I -not know who it is that is standing our friend?” - -Perhaps Miss Bethune did not hear him; certainly she let him out; and -turned to lock the gate, without making any reply. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Dora had now a great deal to do in her father’s room. The two nurses had -at last been got rid of, to the great relief of all in the house except -Mrs. Simcox, whose bills shrank back at once to their original level, -very different from what they had been, and who felt herself, besides, -to be reduced to quite a lower level in point of society, her thoughts -and imaginations having been filled, as well as those of Janie and -Molly, by tales of the hospitals and sick-rooms, which made them feel as -if translated into a world where the gaiety of perfect health and -constant exercise triumphed over every distress. Janie and Molly had -both determined to be nurses in the enthusiasm created by these -recitals. They turned their little nightcaps, the only things they had -which could be so converted, into imitation nurses’ caps, and -masqueraded in them in the spare moments when they could shut themselves -into their little rooms and play at hospital. And the sitting-room -downstairs returned for these young persons to its original dulness when -the nurses went away. Dora was in her father’s room all day, and -required a great deal of help from Jane, the maid-of-all-work, in -bringing up and taking away the things that were wanted: and Gilchrist -watched over him by night. There was a great deal of beef tea and -chicken broth to be prepared--no longer the time and trouble saving -luxuries of Brand’s Essence and turtle soup. He would have none of these -luxuries now. He inquired into every expense, and rejected presents, and -was angry rather than grateful when anything was done for him. What he -would have liked would have been to have eaten nothing at all, to have -passed over meal-times, and lived upon a glass of water or milk and a -biscuit. But this could not be allowed; and Mrs. Simcox had now a great -deal of trouble in cooking for him, whereas before she had scarcely any -at all. Mr. Mannering, indeed, was not an amiable convalescent. The -breaking up of all the habits of his life was dreadful to him. The -coming back to new habits was more dreadful still. He thought with -horror of the debts that must have accumulated while he was ill; and -when he spoke of them, looked and talked as if the whole world had been -in a conspiracy against him, instead of doing everything, and contriving -everything, as was the real state of the case, for his good. - -“Let me have my bills, let me have my bills; let me know how I stand,” -he cried continually to Dr. Roland, who had the hardest ado to quiet -him, to persuade him that for everything there is a reason. “I know -these women ought to be paid at once,” he would say. “I know a man like -Vereker ought to have his fee every time he comes. You intend it very -kindly, Roland, I know; but you are keeping me back, instead of helping -me to recover.” What was poor Dr. Roland to say? He was afraid to tell -this proud man that everything was paid. That Vereker had taken but half -fees, declaring that from a professional man of such distinction as Mr. -Mannering, he ought, had the illness not been so long and troublesome, -to have taken nothing at all,--was a possible thing to say; but not that -Miss Bethune’s purse had supplied these half fees. Even that they should -merely be half was a kind of grievance to the patient. “I hope you told -him that as soon as I was well enough I should see to it,” he cried. “I -have no claim to be let off so. Distinction! the distinction of a half -man who never accomplished anything!” - -“Come, Mannering, come, that will not do. You are the first and only man -in England in your own way.” - -“In my own way? And what a miserable petty way, a way that leads to -nothing and nowhere!” he cried. - -This mood did not contribute to recovery. After his laborious dressing, -which occupied all the morning, he would sit in his chair doing nothing, -saying nothing, turning with a sort of sickness of despair from books, -not looking even at the paper, without a smile even for Dora. The only -thing he would sometimes do was to note down figures with a pencil on a -sheet of paper and add them up, and make attempts to balance them with -the sum which quarter day brought him. Poor Mr. Mannering was refused -all information about the sums he was owing; he put them down -conjecturally, now adding something, now subtracting something. As a -matter of fact his highest estimation was below the truth. And then, by -some unhappy chance, the bills that were lying in the sitting-room were -brought to him. Alas! the foolishest bills--bills which Dora’s father, -knowing that she was unprovided for, should never have incurred--bills -for old books, for fine editions, for delicate scientific instruments. A -man with only his income from the Museum, and his child to provide for, -should never have thought of such things. - -“Father,” said Dora, thinking of nothing but to rouse him, “there is a -large parcel which has never been opened, which came from Fiddler’s -after you were taken ill. I had not any heart to open it to see what was -in it; but perhaps it would amuse you to look at what is in it now.” - -“Fiddler’s?” he said, with a sick look of dismay. “Another--another! -What do I want with books, when I have not a penny to pay my expenses, -nor a place to hide my head?” - -“Oh, father, don’t talk so: only have patience, and everything will come -right,” cried Dora, with the facile philosophy of youth. “They are great -big books; I am sure they are something you wanted very much. It will -amuse you to look at them, at least.” - -He did not consent in words, but a half motion of his head made Dora -bring in, after a little delay to undo the large parcel, two great books -covered with old-fashioned gilding, in brown leather, frayed at the -corners--books to make the heart of a connoisseur dance, books looked -out for in catalogues, followed about from one sale to another. Mr. -Mannering’s eyes, though they were dim and sunken, gave forth a -momentary blaze. He put out his trembling hands for them, as Dora -approached, almost tottering under the weight, carrying them in her -arms. - -“I will put them beside you on the table, father. Now you can look at -them without tiring yourself, and I will run and fetch your beef tea. -Oh, good news!” cried Dora, flinging into Miss Bethune’s room as she ran -downstairs. “He is taking a little interest! I have just given him the -books from Fiddler’s, and he is looking a little like his own self.” - -She had interrupted what seemed a very serious conversation, perceiving -this only now after she had delivered her tidings. She blushed, drew -back, and begged Miss Bethune’s pardon, with a curious look at the -unknown visitor who was seated on the sofa by that lady’s side. Dora -knew all Miss Bethune’s visitors by heart. She knew most of those even -who were pensioners, and came for money or help, and had been used to be -called in to help to entertain the few callers for years past. But this -was some one altogether new, not like anybody she had ever seen before, -very much agitated, with a grey and worn face, which got cruelly red by -moments, looking ill, tired, miserable. Poor lady! and in deep mourning, -which was no doubt the cause of her trouble, and a heavy crape veil -hanging over her face. She gave a little cry at the sight of Dora, and -clasped her hands. The gesture caused her veil to descend like a cloud, -completely concealing her face. - -“I beg your pardon, indeed. I did not know there was anybody here.” - -Miss Bethune made her a sign to be silent, and laid her hand upon her -visitor’s arm, who was tremulously putting up her veil in the same -dangerous overhanging position as before. - -“This is Dora--as you must have guessed,” she said. - -The lady began to cry, feebly sobbing, as if she could not restrain -herself. “I saw it was--I saw it was,” she said. - -“Dora, come here,” said Miss Bethune. “This lady is--a relation of -yours--a relation of--your poor mamma.” - -The lady sobbed, and held out her hands. Dora was not altogether pleased -with her appearance. She might have cried at home, the girl thought. -When you go out to pay a call, or even to make inquiries, you should -make them and not cry: and there was something that was ridiculous in -the position of the veil, ready to topple over in its heavy folds of -crape. She watched it to see when the moment would come. - -“Why ‘my poor mamma’?” said Dora. “Is it because mother is dead?” - -“There are enough of reasons,” Miss Bethune said hastily. - -Dora flung back her head with a sudden resistance and defiance. “I don’t -know about mother. She has been dead ever since I remember; but she was -my mother, and nobody has any right to be sorry for her, as though that -were a misfortune.” - -“She is a little perverse thing,” said Miss Bethune, “but she has a -great spirit. Dora, come here. I will go and see about your papa’s beef -tea, while you come and speak to this lady.” She stooped over the girl -for a moment as she passed her going out. “And be kind,” she whispered; -“for she’s very ill, poor thing, and very broken. Be merciful in your -strength and in your youth.” - -Dora could not tell what this might mean. Merciful? She, who was still -only a child, and, to her own consciousness, ordered about by everybody, -and made nothing of. The stranger sat on the sofa, trembling and -sobbing, her face of a sallow paleness, her eyes half extinguished in -tears. The heavy folds of the crape hanging over her made the faded -countenance appear as if looking out of a cave. - -“I am afraid you are not well,” said Dora, drawing slowly near. - -“No, I am not at all well. Come here and sit by me, will you? I -am--dying, I think.” - -“Oh, no,” said Dora, with a half horror, half pity. “Do not say that.” - -The poor lady shook her head. “I should not mind, if perhaps it made -people a little forgiving--a little indulgent. Oh, Dora, my child, is it -you, really you, at last?” - -Dora suffered her hand to be taken, suffered herself to be drawn close, -and a tremulous kiss pressed upon her cheek. She did not know how to -respond. She felt herself entangled in the great crape veil, and her -face wet with the other’s tears. She herself was touched by pity, but by -a little contrariety as well, and objection to this sudden and so -intimate embrace. - -“I am very, very sorry if you are ill,” she said, disengaging herself as -gently as possible. “My father has been very ill, so I know about it -now; but I don’t know you.” - -“My darling,” the poor lady said. “My darling, my little child! my Dora, -that I have thought and dreamed of night and day!” - -Dora was more than ever confused. “But I don’t know you at all,” she -said. - -“No, that is what is most dreadful: not at all, not at all!--and I dying -for the sight of you, and to hold you in my arms once before I die.” - -She held the girl with her trembling arms, and the two faces, all -entangled and overshadowed by the great black veil, looked into each -other, so profoundly unlike, not a line in either which recalled or -seemed to connect with the other. Dora was confounded and abashed by the -close contact, and her absolute incapacity to respond to this -enthusiasm. She put up her hands, which was the only thing that occurred -to her, and threw quite back with a subdued yet energetic movement that -confusing veil. She was conscious of performing this act very quietly, -but to the stranger the quick soft movement was like energy and strength -personified. - -“Oh, Dora,” she said, “you are not like me. I never was so lively, so -strong as you are. I think I must have been a poor creature, always -depending upon somebody. You could never be like that.” - -“I don’t know,” said Dora. “Ought I to have been like you? Are we such -near relations as that?” - -“Just as near as--almost as near as--oh, child, how I have longed for -you, and thought of you! You have never, never been out of my mind--not -a day, Dora, scarcely an hour. Oh, if you only knew!” - -“You must then have been very fond of my mother,” Dora said a little -stiffly. She might have been less cold had this enthusiasm been less -great. - -“Your mother!” the stranger said. She broke out into audible weeping -again, after comparative composure. “Oh, yes, I suppose I was--oh, yes, -I suppose I was,” she said. - -“You only suppose you were, and yet you are so fond as this of -me?--which can be only,” said Dora, severely logical, “for her sake.” - -The poor lady trembled, and was still for a moment; she then said, -faltering: “We were so close together, she and I. We were like one. But -a child is different--you are her and yourself too. But you are so -young, my dearest, my dearest! You will not understand that.” - -“I understand it partly,” said Dora; “but it is so strange that I never -heard of you. Were my mother’s relations against my father? You must -forgive me,” the girl said, withdrawing herself a little, sitting very -upright; “but father, you know, has been everything to me. Father and I -are one. I should like very much to hear about mamma, who must have died -so long ago: but my first thought must always be for father, who has -been everything to me, and I to him.” - -A long minute passed, during which the stranger said nothing. Her head -was sunk upon her breast; her hand--which was on Dora’s waist--quivered, -the nervous fingers beating unconsciously upon Dora’s firm smooth belt. - -“I have nothing, nothing to say to you against your father. Oh, -nothing!--not a word! I have no complaint--no complaint! He is a good -man, your father. And to have you cling to him, stand up for him, is not -that enough?--is not that enough,” she cried, with a shrill tone, -“whatever failed?” - -“Then,” said Dora, pursuing her argument, “mamma’s relations were not -friends to him?” - -The lady withdrew her arm from Dora’s waist. She clasped her tremulous -hands together, as if in supplication. “Nothing was done against -him--oh, nothing, nothing!” she cried. “There was no one to blame, -everybody said so. It was a dreadful fatality; it was a thing no one -could have foreseen or guarded against. Oh, my Dora, couldn’t you give a -little love, a little kindness, to a poor woman, even though she was not -what you call a friend to your father? She never was his enemy--never, -never!--never had an evil thought of him!--never wished to harm him--oh, -never, never, never!” she cried. - -She swayed against Dora’s breast, rocking herself in uncontrolled -distress, and Dora’s heart was touched by that involuntary contact, and -by the sight of an anguish which was painfully real, though she did not -understand what it meant. With a certain protecting impulse, she put her -own arm round the weeping woman to support her. “Don’t cry,” she said, -as she might have said to a child. - -“I will not cry. I will be very glad, and very happy, if you will only -give me a little of your love, Dora,” the lady sobbed in a broken voice. -“A little of your love,--not to take it from your father,--a little, -just a little! Oh, my child, my child!” - -“Are you my mother’s sister?” the girl asked solemnly. - -The stranger raised her head again, with a look which Dora did not -understand. Her eyes were full of tears, and of a wistful appeal which -said nothing to the creature to whom it was addressed. After a moment, -with a pathetic cry of pain and self-abandonment, she breathed forth a -scarcely intelligible “Yes". - -“Then now I know,” said Dora, in a more satisfied tone. She was not -without emotion herself. It was impossible to see so much feeling and -not to be more or less affected by it, even when one did not understand, -or even felt it to be extreme. “Then I will call you aunt, and we shall -know where we are,” she added. “I am very glad to have relations, as -everybody has them. May I mention you to father? It must be long since -you quarrelled, whatever it was about. I shall say to him: ‘You need -not take any notice, but I am glad, very glad, to have an aunt like -other girls’.” - -“No, no, no, no--not to him! You must not say a word.” - -“I don’t know how I can keep a secret from father,” Dora said. - -“Oh, child,” cried the lady, “do not be too hard on us! It would be hard -for him, too, and he has been ill. Don’t say a word to him--for his own -sake!” - -“It will be very strange to keep a secret from father,” Dora said -reflectively. Then she added: “To be sure, there have been other -things--about the nurses, and all that. And he is still very weak. I -will not mention it, since you say it is for his own sake.” - -“For we could never meet--never, never!” cried the lady, with her head -on Dora’s breast--“never, unless perhaps one of us were dying. I could -never look him in the face, though perhaps if I were dying---- Dora, -kiss your poor--your poor, poor--relation. Oh, my child! oh, my darling! -kiss me as that!” - -“Dear aunt,” said Dora quietly. She spoke in a very subdued tone, in -order to keep down the quite uncalled-for excitement and almost passion -in the other’s voice. She could not but feel that her new relation was a -person with very little self-control, expressing herself far too -strongly, with repetitions and outcries quite uncalled for in ordinary -conversation, and that it was her, Dora’s, business to exercise a -mollifying influence. “This is for you,” she said, touching the sallow, -thin cheek with her young rosy lips. “And this is for poor mamma--poor -young mamma, whom I never saw.” - -The lady gave a quick cry, and clutched the girl in her trembling arms. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The meeting with her new relation had a great effect upon Dora’s mind. -It troubled her, though there was no reason in the world why the -discovery that her mother had a sister, and she herself an aunt, should -be painful. An aunt is not a very interesting relation generally, not -enough to make a girl’s heart beat; but it added a complication to the -web of altogether new difficulties in which Dora found herself -entangled. Everything had been so simple in the old days--those dear old -days now nearly three months off, before Mr. Mannering fell ill, to -which now Dora felt herself go back with such a sense of happiness and -ease, perhaps never to be known again. Then everything had been above -board: there had been no payments to make that were not made naturally -by her father, the fountainhead of everything, who gave his simple -orders, and had them fulfilled, and provided for every necessity. Now -Dora feared a knock at the door of his room lest it should be some -indiscreet messenger bringing direct a luxury or novelty which it had -been intended to smuggle in so that he might not observe it, or -introduce with some one’s compliments as an accidental offering to the -sick man. To hurry off Janie or Molly downstairs with these good things -intended to tempt the invalid’s appetite, to stamp a secret foot at the -indiscretions of Jane, who would bring in the bill for these dainties, -or announce their arrival loud out, rousing Mr. Mannering to inquiries, -and give a stern order that such extravagances should be no more, were -now common experiences to Dora. She had to deceive him, which was, Miss -Bethune assured her, for his good, but which Dora felt with a sinking -heart was not at all for her own good, and made her shrink from her -father’s eye. To account for the presence of some rare wine which was -good for him by a little story which, though it had been carefully -taught her by Dr. Roland or Miss Bethune, was not true--to make out that -it was the most natural thing in the world that _patés de fois gras_, -and the strongest soups and essence should be no more expensive than -common beef tea, the manufacture of Bloomsbury, because the doctor knew -some place where they were to be had at wholesale rates for almost -nothing--these were devices now quite familiar to her. - -It was no worse to conceal the appearance of this new and strange -personage on the scene, the relation of whom she had never heard, and -whose existence was to remain a secret; but still it was a bigger secret -than any that concerned the things that were to eat or drink, or even -Mrs. Simcox’s bills. Concealment is an art that has to be carefully -learnt, like other arts, and it is extremely difficult to some minds, -who will more easily acquire the most elaborate handicraft than the -trick of selecting what is to be told and what is not to be told. It -was beyond all description difficult to Dora. She was ready to betray -herself at almost every moment, and had it not been that her own mind -was much perturbed and troubled by her strange visitor, and by attempts -to account for her to herself, she never could have succeeded in it. -What could the offence be that made it impossible for her father ever to -meet the sister of his wife again? Dora had learned from novels a great -deal about the mysteries of life, some which her natural mind rejected -as absurd, some which she contemplated with awe as tragic possibilities -entirely out of the range of common life. She had read about implacable -persons who once offended could never forgive, and of those who revenged -themselves and pursued a feud to the death. But the idea of her father -in either of these characters was too ridiculous to be dwelt upon for a -moment. And there had been no evil intended, no harm,--only a fatality. -What is a fatality? To have such dreadful issues, a thing must be -serious, very terrible. Dora was bewildered and overawed. She put this -question to Miss Bethune, but received no light on the subject. “A -fatality is a thing that is not intentional--that happens by -accident--that brings harm when you mean nothing but good,” that -authority said. - -“But how should that be? It says in the Bible that people must not do -evil that good may come. But to do good that evil may come, I never -heard of that.” - -“There are many things in the world that you never heard of, Dora, my -dear.” - -“Oh yes, yes, I know,” cried the girl impatiently. “You are always -saying that, because I am young--as if it were my fault that I am young; -but that does not change anything. It is no matter, then, whether you -have any meaning in what you do or not?” - -“Sometimes it appears as if it was no matter. We walk blindly in this -world, and often do things unawares that we would put our hands in the -fire rather than do. You say an unguarded word, meaning nothing, and it -falls to the ground, as you think, but afterwards springs up into a -poisonous tree and blights your life; or you take a turn to the right -hand instead of the left when you go out from your own door, and it -means ruin and death--that’s fatality, and it’s everywhere,” said Miss -Bethune, with a deep sigh. - -“I do not believe in it,” said Dora, standing straight and strong, like -a young tree, and holding her head high. - -“Nor did I, my dear, when I was your age,” Miss Bethune said. - -At this moment there was a light knock at the door, and there appeared -suddenly the young man whom Miss Bethune had met in the Square, and who -had come as the messenger of the lady who was Dora’s aunt. - -“She is asking me what fatality is,” said Miss Bethune. “I wonder if you -have any light to throw on the subject? You are nearer her age than I.” - -The two young people looked at each other. Dora, though she was only -sixteen, was more of a personage than the young Gordon whom she had not -seen before. She looked at him with the condescension of a very young -girl brought up among elder people, and apt to feel a boundless -imaginative superiority over those of her own age. A young man was a -slight person to Dora. She was scarcely old enough to feel any of the -interest in him which exists naturally between the youth and the maiden. -She looked at him from her pedestal, half scornful beforehand of -anything he might say. - -“Fatality?” he said. “I think it’s a name people invent for anything -particularly foolish which they do, when it turns out badly: though they -might have known it would turn out badly all the time.” - -“That is exactly what I think,” cried Dora, clapping her hands. - -“This is the young lady,” said young Gordon, “whom I used to help to -pack the toys for. I hope she will let me call her Miss Dora, for I -don’t know her by any other name.” - -“To pack the toys?” said Dora. Her face grew blank, then flashed with a -sudden light, then grew quite white and still again, with a gasp of -astonishment and recognition. “Oh!” she cried, and something of -disappointment was in her tone, “was it--was it _she_ that sent them?” -In the commotion of her feelings a sudden deep red followed the -paleness. Dora was all fancy, changeableness, fastidiousness, -imagination, as was natural to her age. Why was she disappointed to know -that her yearly presents coming out of the unseen, the fairy gifts that -testified to some love unknown, came from so legitimate a source, from -her mother’s sister, her own nearest relation--the lady of the other -day? I cannot tell how it was, nor could she, nor any one, but it was -so; and she felt this visionary, absurd disappointment go to the bottom -of her heart. “Oh,” she repeated, growing blank again, with a sort of -opaque shadow closing over the brightness of her eyes and clouding her -face, “so that was where my boxes came from? And you helped to pack the -toys? I ought to have known,” said Dora, very sedately, feeling as if -she had suddenly fallen from a great height. - -“Yes,” said Miss Bethune, “we ought to have thought of that at once. Who -else could have followed with such a faithful imagination, Dora? Who -could have remembered your age, and the kind of things you want, and how -you would grow, but a kind woman like that, with all the feelings of a -mother? Oh, we should have thought of it before.” - -Dora at first made no reply. Her face, generally so changeable and full -of expression, settled down more and more into opaqueness and a blank -rigidity. She was deeply disappointed, though why she could not have -told--nor what dream of a fairy patroness, an exalted friend, entirely -belonging to the realms of fancy, she had conceived in her childish -imagination as the giver of these gifts. At all events, the fact was so. -Mrs. Bristow, with her heavy crape veil, ready to fall at any moment -over her face, with the worn lines of her countenance, the flush and -heat of emotion, her tears and repetitions, was a disappointing image to -come between her and the vision of a tender friend, too delicate, too -ethereal a figure for any commonplace embodiment which had been a kind -of tutelary genius in Dora’s dreams all her life. Any one in actual -flesh and blood would have been a shock after that long-cherished, -visionary dream. And young Gordon’s laughing talk of the preparation of -the box, and of his own suggestions as to its contents, and the picture -he conjured up of a mystery which was half mischievous, and in which -there was not only a desire to please but to puzzle the distant -recipient of all these treasures, both offended and shocked the girl in -the fantastic delicacy of her thoughts. - -Without being himself aware of it, the young man gave a glimpse into the -distant Southern home, in which it would appear he had been brought up, -which was in reality very touching and attractive, though it reduced -Dora to a more and more strong state of revolt. On the other hand, Miss -Bethune listened to him with a rapt air of happiness, which was more -wonderful still--asking a hundred questions, never tiring of any detail. -Dora bore it all as long as she could, feeling herself sink more and -more from the position of a young princess, mysteriously loved and -cherished by a distant friend, half angelic, half queenly, into that of -a little girl, whom a fantastic kind relation wished to pet and to -bewilder, half in love and half in fun, taking the boy into her -confidence, who was still more to her and nearer to her than Dora. She -could not understand how Miss Bethune could sit and listen with that -rapt countenance; and she finally broke in, in the very midst of the -narrative to which she had listened (had any one taken any notice) with -growing impatience, to say suddenly, “In the meantime father is by -himself, and I shall have to go to him,” with a tone of something like -injury in her voice. - -“But Gilchrist is there if he wants anything, Dora.” - -“Gilchrist is very kind, but she is not quite the same as me,” said -Dora, holding her head high. - -She made Mr. Gordon a little gesture, something between farewell and -dismissal, in a very lofty way, impressing upon the young man a sense of -having somehow offended, which he could not understand. He himself was -very much interested in Dora. He had known of her existence for years. -She had been a sort of secret between him and the wife of his guardian, -who, he was well aware, never discussed with her husband or mentioned in -his presence the child who was so mysteriously dear to her; but bestowed -all her confidence on this subject on the boy who had grown up in her -house and filled to her the place of a son. He had liked the confidence -and the secret and the mystery, without much inquiring what they meant. -They meant, he supposed, a family quarrel, such as that which had -affected all his own life. Such things are a bore and a nuisance; but, -after all, don’t matter very much to any but those with whom they -originate. And young Gordon was not disposed to trouble his mind with -any sort of mystery now. - -“Have I said anything I should not have said? Is she displeased?” he -said. - -“It matters very little if she is displeased or not, a fantastic little -girl!” cried Miss Bethune. “Go on, go on with what you are saying. I -take more interest in it than words can say.” - -But it was not perhaps exactly the same thing to continue that story in -the absence of the heroine whose name was its centre all through. She -was too young to count with serious effect in the life of a man; and yet -it would be difficult to draw any arbitrary line in respect to age with -a tall girl full of that high flush of youth which adopts every -semblance in turn, and can put all the dignity of womanhood in the eyes -of a child. Young Gordon’s impulse slackened in spite of himself; he was -pleased, and still more amused, by the interest he excited in this lady, -who had suddenly taken him into her intimacy with no reason that he knew -of, and was so anxious to know all his story. It was droll to see her -listening in that rapt way,--droll, yet touching too. She had said that -he reminded her of somebody she knew--perhaps it was some one who was -dead, a young brother, a friend of earlier years. He laughed a little to -himself, though he was also affected by this curious unexpected interest -in him. But he certainly had not the same freedom and eloquence in -talking of the old South American home, now broken up, and the visionary -little maiden, who, all unknown herself, had lent it a charm, when Dora -was gone. Neither, perhaps, did Miss Bethune concentrate her interest on -that part that related to Dora. When he began to flag she asked him -questions of a different kind. - -“Those guardians of yours must have been very good to you--as good as -parents?” she said. - -“Very good, but not perhaps like parents; for I remember my father very -well, and I still have a mother, you know.” - -“Your father,” she said, turning away her head a little, “was devoted to -you, I suppose?” - -“Devoted to me?” he said, with a little surprise, and then laughed. “He -was kind enough. We got on very well together. Do men and their sons do -more than that?” - -“I know very little about men and their sons,” she said hastily; “about -men and women I maybe know a little, and not much to their advantage. -Oh, you are there, Gilchrist! This is the gentleman I was speaking to -you about. Do you see the likeness?” - -Gilchrist advanced a step into the room, with much embarrassment in her -honest face. She uttered a broken laugh, which was like a giggle, and -began as usual to fold hems in her apron. - -“I cannot say, mem, that I see a resemblance to any person,” she said. - -“You are just a stupid creature!” said her mistress,--“good for nothing -but to make an invalid’s beef tea. Just go away, go away and do that.” -She turned suddenly to young Gordon, as Gilchrist went out of the room. -“That stupid woman’s face doesn’t bring anything to your mind?” she -said hastily. - -“Bring anything to my mind?” he cried, with great surprise. “What should -she bring to my mind?” - -“It was just a fancy that came into mine. Do you remember the scene in -_Guy Mannering_, where Bertram first sees Dominie Sampson? Eh, I hope -your education has not been neglected in that great particular?” - -“I remember the scene,” he said, with a smile. - -“It was perhaps a little of what you young folk call melodramatic: but -Harry Bertram’s imagination gets a kind of shock, and he remembers. And -so you are a reader of Sir Walter, and mind that scene?” - -“I remember it very well,” said the young man, bewildered. “But about -the maid? You said----” - -“Oh, nothing about the maid; she’s my faithful maid, but a stupid woman -as ever existed. Never you mind what I said. I say things that are very -silly from time to time. But I would like to know how you ever heard -your mother was living, when you have never seen her, nor know anything -about her? I suppose not even her name?” - -“My father told me so when he was dying: he told Mr. Bristow so, but he -gave us no further information. I gathered that my mother---- It is -painful to betray such an impression.” - -She looked at him with a deep red rising over her cheeks, and a -half-defiant look. “I am old enough to be your mother, you need not -hesitate to speak before me,” she said. - -“It is not that; it is that I can’t associate that name with -anything--anything--to be ashamed of.” - -“I would hope not, indeed!” she cried, standing up, towering over him as -if she had added a foot to her height. She gave forth a long fiery -breath, and then asked, “Did he dare to say that?” with a heaving -breast. - -“He did not say it: but my guardian thought----” - -“Oh, your guardian thought! That was what your guardian would naturally -think. A man--that is always of an evil mind where women are concerned! -And what did she think?--her, his wife, the other guardian, the woman I -have seen?” - -“She is not like any one else,” said young Gordon; “she will never -believe in any harm. You have given me one scene, I will give you -another. She said what Desdemona said, ‘I do not believe there was ever -any such woman’.” - -“Bless her! But oh, there are--there are!” cried Miss Bethune, tears -filling her eyes, “in life as well as in men’s ill imaginations. But not -possible to her or to me!” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Young Gordon had gone, and silence had fallen over Miss Bethune’s room. -It was a commonplace room enough, well-sized, for the house was old and -solid, with three tall windows swathed in red rep curtains, partially -softened but not extinguished by the white muslin ones which had been -put up over them. Neither Miss Bethune nor her maid belonged to the -decorative age. They had no principles as to furniture, but accepted -what they had, with rather a preference than otherwise for heavy -articles in mahogany, and things that were likely to last. They thought -Mr. Mannering’s dainty furniture and his faded silken curtains were -rather of the nature of trumpery. People could think so in these days, -and in the locality of Bloomsbury, without being entirely abandoned in -character, or given up to every vicious sentiment. Therefore, I cannot -say, as I should be obliged to say now-a-days, in order to preserve any -sympathy for Miss Bethune in the reader’s mind, that the room was -pretty, and contained an indication of its mistress’s character in every -carefully arranged corner. It was a room furnished by Mrs. Simcox, the -landlady. It had been embellished, perhaps, by a warm hearthrug--not -Persian, however, by any means--and made comfortable by a few easy -chairs. There were a number of books about, and there was one glass full -of wallflowers on the table, very sweet in sober colours--a flower that -rather corresponds with the mahogany, and the old-fashioned indifference -to ornament and love of use. You would have thought, had you looked into -this room, which was full of spring sunshine, bringing out the golden -tints in the wallflower, and reflected in the big mirror above the -fireplace, that it was empty after young Gordon had gone. But it was not -empty. It was occupied instead by a human heart, so overbursting with -passionate hope, love, suspense, and anxiety, that it was a wonder the -silence did not tinge, and the quiet atmosphere betray that strain and -stress of feeling. Miss Bethune sat in the shadowed corner between the -fireplace and the farther window, with the whiteness of the curtains -blowing softly in her face as the air came in. That flutter dazzled the -beholder, and made Gilchrist think when she entered that there was -nobody there. The maid looked round, and then clasped her hands and said -to herself softly: “She’ll be gane into her bedroom to greet there". - -“And why should I greet, you foolish woman?” cried Miss Bethune from her -corner, with a thrill in her voice which betrayed the commotion in her -mind. - -Gilchrist started so violently that the bundle of clean “things,” fresh -and fragrant from the country cart which had brought home the washing, -fell from her arms. “Oh, mem, if I had kent you were there.” - -“My bonnie clean things!” cried Miss Bethune, “with the scent of the -grass upon them--and now they’re all spoiled with the dust of -Bloomsbury! Gather them up and carry them away, and then you can come -back here.” She remained for a moment as quiet as before, after -Gilchrist had hurried away; but any touch would have been sufficient to -move her in her agitation, and presently she rose and began to pace -about the room. “Gone to my room to greet there, is that what she -thinks? Like Mary going to the grave to weep there. No, no, that’s not -the truth. It’s the other way. I might be going to laugh, and to clap my -hands, as they say in the Psalms. But laughing is not the first -expression of joy. I would maybe be more like greeting, as she says. A -person laughs in idleness, for fun, not for joy. Joy has nothing, -nothing but the old way of tears, which is just a contradiction. And -maybe, after all, she was right. I’ll go to my room and weep for -thankfulness, and lightheartedness, and joy.” - -“Oh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, coming in, “gang softly, gang softly! You’re -more sure than any mortal person has a right to be.” - -“Ye old unbeliever,” cried Miss Bethune, pausing in the midst of her -sob. “What has mortality to do with evidence? It would be just as true -if I were to die to-morrow, for that matter.” - -“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist again, “ye’re awfu’ easy to please in the way -of evidence. What do you call evidence? A likeness ye think ye see, but -I canna; and there’s naething in a likeness. Miss Dora is no more like -her papaw than me, there is nothing to be lippened to in the like of -that. And then the age--that would maybe be about the same, I grant ye -that, so much as it comes to; and a name that is no’ the right name, but -a kind of an approach to it.” - -“You are a bonnie person,” cried Miss Bethune, “to take authority upon -you about names, and never to think of the commonest old Scotch custom, -that the son drops or turns the other way the name the father has taken -to his own. I hope I know better! If nothing had ever happened, if the -lad had been bred and trained at home, he would be Gordon, just as sure -as he is Gordon now.” - -“I’m no’ a person of quality, mem,” said Gilchrist, holding her ground. -“I have never set up for being wan of the gentry: it would ill become -me, being just John Gilchrist the smith’s daughter, and your -servant-woman, that has served you this five and twenty years. But there -are as many Gordons in Aberdeen as there are kirk steeples in this weary -London town.” - -Miss Bethune made an impatient gesture. “You’re a sagacious person, -Gilchrist, altogether, and might be a ruling elder if you were but a -man: but I think perhaps I know what’s in it as well as you do, and if -I’m satisfied that a thing is, I will not yield my faith, as you might -know by this time, neither to the Lord President himself, nor even to -you.” - -“Eh, bless me, mem, but I ken that weel!” cried Gilchrist; “and if I had -thought you were taking it on that high line, never word would have -come out of my mouth.” - -“I am taking it on no high line--but I see what is for it as well as -what is against it. I have kept my head clear,” said Miss Bethune. “On -other occasions, I grant you, I may have let myself go: but in all this -I have been like a judge, and refused to listen to the voice in my own -heart. But it was there all the time, though I crushed it down. How can -the like of you understand? You’ve never felt a baby’s cry go into the -very marrow of your bones. I’ve set the evidence all out, and pled the -cause before my own judgment, never listening one word to the voice in -my heart.” Miss Bethune spoke with greater and greater vehemence, but -here paused to calm herself. “The boy that was carried off would have -been twenty-five on the eighteenth of next month (as well you know), and -this boy is just on five and twenty, he told me with his own lips; and -his father told him with his dying breath that he had a mother living. -He had the grace to do that! Maybe,” said Miss Bethune, dropping her -voice, which had again risen in excitement, “he was a true penitent when -it came to that. I wish no other thing. Much harm and misery, God -forgive him, has he wrought; but I wish no other thing. It would have -done my heart good to think that his was touched and softened at the -last, to his Maker at least, if no more.” - -“Oh, mem, the one would go with the other, if what you think is true.” - -“No,” said Miss Bethune, shutting her lips tight, “no, there’s no -necessity. If it had been so what would have hindered him to give the -boy chapter and verse? Her name is So-and-so, you will hear of her at -such a place. But never that--never that, though it would have been so -easy! Only that he had a mother living, a mother that the guardian man -and the lad himself divined must have been a ---- Do you not call that -evidence?” cried Miss Bethune, with a harsh triumph. “Do you not divine -our man in that? Oh, but I see him as clear as if he had signed his -name.” - -“Dear mem,” cried Gilchrist, with a “tchick, tchick,” of troubled -sympathy and spectatorship, “you canna wish he had been a true penitent -and yet think of him like that.” - -“And who are you to lay down the law and say what I can do?” cried the -lady. She added, with a wave of her hand and her head: “We’ll not argue -that question: but if there ever was an action more like the man!--just -to give the hint and clear his conscience, but leave the woman’s name to -be torn to pieces by any dozen in the place! If that is not evidence, I -don’t know what evidence is.” - -Gilchrist could say nothing in reply. She shook her head, though whether -in agreement or in dissidence it would have been difficult to tell, and -folded hem upon hem on her apron, with her eyes fixed upon that, as if -it had been the most important of work. “I was wanting to speak,” she -said, “when you had a moment to listen to me, about two young folk.” - -“What two young folk?” Miss Bethune’s eyes lighted up with a gleam of -soft light, her face grew tender in every line. “But Dora is too young, -she is far too young for anything of the kind,” she said. - -“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, with a mingling of astonishment, admiration, -and pity, “can ye think of nothing but yon strange young man?” - -“I am thinking of nothing but the bairn, the boy that was stolen away -before he knew his right hand from his left, and now is come home.” - -“Aweel, aweel,” said Gilchrist, “we will just have to put up with it, as -we have put up with it before. And sooner or later her mind will come -back to what’s reasonable and true. I was speaking not of the young -gentleman, or of any like him, but of the two who were up in the attics -that you were wanting to save, if save them ye can. They are just -handless creatures, the one and the other; but the woman’s no’ an ill -person, poor thing, and would do well if she knew the way. And a baby -coming, and the man just a weirdless, feckless, ill man.” - -“He cannot help it if he is ill, Gilchrist.” - -“Maybe no’,” said Gilchrist cautiously. “I’m never just so sure of that; -but, anyway, he’s a delicate creature, feared for everything, and for a -Christian eye upon him, which is the worst of all; and wherefore we -should take them upon our shoulders, folk that we have nothing to do -with, a husband and wife, and the family that’s coming----” - -“Oh, woman,” said her mistress, “if they have got just a step out of -the safe way in the beginning, is that not reason the more for helping -them back? And how can I ever know what straits _he_ might have been put -to, and his mother ignorant, and not able to help him?” - -“Eh, but I’m thankful to hear you say that again!” Gilchrist cried. - -“Not that I can ever have that fear now, for a finer young man, or a -more sweet ingenuous look! But no credit to any of us, Gilchrist. I’m -thankful to those kind people that have brought him up; but it will -always be a pain in my heart that I have had nothing to do with the -training of him, and will never be half so much to him as that--that -lady, who is in herself a poor, weakly woman, if I may say such a word.” - -“It is just a very strange thing,” said Gilchrist, “that yon lady is as -much taken up about our Miss Dora as you are, mem, about the young lad.” - -“Ah!” said Miss Bethune, with a nod of her head, “but in a different -way. Her mother’s sister--very kind and very natural, but oh, how -different! I am to contrive to take Dora to see her, for I fear she is -not long for this world, Gilchrist. The young lad, as you call him, will -soon have nobody to look to but----” - -“Mem!” cried Gilchrist, drawing herself up, and looking her mistress -sternly in the face. - -Miss Bethune confronted her angrily for a moment, then coloured high, -and flung down, as it were, her arms. “No, no!” she cried--“no, you are -unjust to me, as you have been many times before. I am not glad of her -illness, poor thing. God forbid it! I am not exulting, as you think, -that she will be out of my way. Oh, Gilchrist, do you think so little of -me--a woman you have known this long, long lifetime--as to believe -that?” - -“Eh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “when you and me begin to think ill of each -other, the world will come to an end. We ken each ither far too well for -that. Ye may scold me whiles when I little deserve it, and I put a thing -upon you for a minnit that is nae blame of yours; but na, na, there is -nae misjudging possible between you and me.” - -It will be seen that Gilchrist was very cautious in the confession of -faith just extorted. She was no flatterer. She knew of what her mistress -was capable better than that mistress herself did, and had all her -weaknesses on the tips of her fingers. But she had no intention of -discouraging that faulty but well-beloved woman. She went on in -indulgent, semi-maternal tones: “You’ve had a great deal to excite you -and trouble you, and in my opinion it would do ye a great deal of good, -and help ye to get back to your ordinary, if you would just put -everything else away, and consider with me what was to be done for thae -two feckless young folk. If the man is not put to do anything, he will -be in more trouble than ever, or I’m no judge.” - -“And it might have been him!” said Miss Bethune to herself--the habitual -utterance which had inspired so many acts of charity. “I think you are -maybe right, Gilchrist,” she added; “it will steady me, and do me good. -Run downstairs and see if the doctor is in. He knows more about him than -we do, and we’ll just have a good consultation and see what is the best -to be done.” - -The doctor was in, and came directly, and there was a very anxious -consultation about the two young people, to whose apparently simple, -commonplace mode of life there had come so sudden an interruption. Dr. -Roland had done more harm than good by his action in the matter. He -confessed that had he left things alone, and not terrified the young -coward on the verge of crime, the catastrophe might perhaps, by more -judicious ministrations, have been staved off. Terror of being found out -is not always a preservative, it sometimes hurries on the act which it -ought to prevent; and the young man who had been risking his soul in -petty peculations which he might have made up for, fell over the -precipice into a great one in sheer cowardice, when the doctor’s keen -eye read him, and made him tremble. Dr. Roland took blame to himself. He -argued that it was of no use trying to find Hesketh another situation. -“He has no character, and no one will take him without a character: or -if some Quixote did, on your word, Miss Bethune, or mine, who are very -little to be trusted in such a case, the unfortunate wretch would do the -same again. It’s not his fault, he cannot help himself. His grandfather, -or perhaps a more distant relation----” - -“Do not speak nonsense to me, doctor, for I will not listen to it,” said -Miss Bethune. “When there’s a poor young wife in the case, and a baby -coming, how dare you talk about the fool’s grandfather?” - -“Mem and sir,” said Gilchrist, “if you would maybe listen for a moment -to me. My mistress, she has little confidence in my sense, but I have -seen mony a thing happen in my day, and twenty years’ meddlin’ and -mellin’ with poor folk under her, that is always too ready with her -siller, makes ye learn if ye were ever sae silly. Now, here is what I -would propose. He’s maybe more feckless than anything worse. He will get -no situation without a character, and it will not do for you--neither -her nor you, sir, asking your pardon--to make yourselves caution for a -silly gowk like yon. But set him up some place in a little shop of his -ain. He’ll no cheat himsel’, and the wife she can keep an eye on him. If -it’s in him to do weel, he’ll do weel, or at least we’ll see if he -tries; and if no’, in that case ye’ll ken just what you will lose. That -is what I would advise, if you would lippen to me, though I am not -saying I am anything but a stupid person, and often told so,” Gilchrist -said. - -“It is not a bad idea, however,” said Dr. Roland. - -“Neither it is. But the hussy, to revenge herself on me like that!” her -mistress cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Young Gordon left the house in Bloomsbury after he had delivered the -message which was the object of his visit, but which he had forgotten in -the amusement of seeing Dora, and the interest of these new scenes which -had so suddenly opened up in his life. His object had been to beg that -Miss Bethune would visit the lady for whom it had been his previous -object to obtain an entrance into the house in which Dora was. Mrs. -Bristow was ill, and could not go again, and she wanted to see Dora’s -friend, who could bring Dora herself, accepting the new acquaintance for -the sake of the child on whom her heart was set, but whom for some -occult reason she would not call to her in the more natural way. Gordon -did not believe in occult reasons. He had no mind for mysteries; and was -fully convinced that whatever quarrel there might have been, no man -would be so ridiculously vindictive as to keep his child apart from a -relation, her mother’s sister, who was so anxious to see her. - -But he was the kindest-hearted youth in the world, and though he smiled -at these mysteries he yet respected them in the woman who had been -everything to him in his early life, his guardian’s wife, whom he also -called aunt in the absence of any other suitable title. She liked that -sort of thing--to make mountains of molehills, and to get over them -with great expenditure of strategy and sentiment, when he was persuaded -she might have marched straight forward and found no difficulty. But it -was her way, and it had always been his business to see that she had her -way and was crossed by nobody. He was so accustomed to her in all her -weaknesses that he accepted them simply as the course of nature. Even -her illness did not alarm or trouble him. She had been delicate since -ever he could remember. From the time when he entered upon those duties -of son or nephew which dated so far back in his life, he had always been -used to make excuses to her visitors on account of her delicacy, her -broken health, her inability to bear the effects of the hot climate. -This was her habit, as it was the habit of some women to ride and of -some to drive; and as it was the habit of her household to accept -whatever she did as the only things for her to do, he had been brought -up frankly in that faith. - -His own life, too, had always appeared very simple and natural to Harry, -though perhaps it scarcely seemed so to the spectator. His childhood had -been passed with his father, who was more or less of an adventurer, and -who had accustomed his son to ups and downs which he was too young to -heed, having always his wants attended to, and somebody to play with, -whatever happened. Then he had been transferred to the house of his -guardian on a footing which he was too young to inquire into, which was -indeed the simple footing of a son, receiving everything from his new -parents, as he had received everything from his old. To find on his -guardian’s death that he had nothing, that no provision was made for -him, was something of a shock; as had been the discovery on his -twenty-first birthday that his guardian was simply his benefactor, and -had no trust in respect to him. It came over Harry like a cloud on both -occasions that he had no profession, no way of making his own living; -and that a state of dependence like that in which he had been brought up -could not continue. But the worst time in the world to break the link -which had subsisted so long, or to take from his aunt, as he called her, -the companion upon whom she leant for everything, was at the moment when -her husband was gone, and there was nobody else except a maid to take -care of her helplessness. He could not do this; he was as much bound to -her, to provide for all her wants, and see that she missed nothing of -her wonted comforts; nay, almost more than if he had been really her -son. If it had not been for his easy nature, the light heart which goes -with perfect health, great simplicity of mind, and a thoroughly generous -disposition, young Gordon had enough of uncertainty in his life to have -made him very serious, if not unhappy. But, as a matter of fact, he was -neither. He took the days as they came, as only those can do who are to -that manner born. When he thought on the subject, he said to himself -that should the worst come to the worst, a young fellow of his age, with -the use of his hands and a head on his shoulders, could surely find -something to do, and that he would not mind what it was. - -This was very easy to say, and Gordon was not at all aware what the real -difficulties are in finding something to do. But had he known better, it -would have done him no good; and his ignorance, combined as it was with -constant occupations of one kind or another, was a kind of bliss. There -was a hope, too, in his mind, that merely being in England would mend -matters. It must open some mode of independence for him. Mrs. Bristow -would settle somewhere, buy a “place,” an estate, as it had always been -the dream of her husband to do, and so give him occupation. Something -would come of it that would settle the question for him; the mere -certainty in his mind of this cleared away all clouds, and made the -natural brightness of his temperature more assured than ever. - -This young man had no education to speak of. He had read innumerable -books, which do not count for very much in that way. He had, however, -been brought up in what was supposed “the best” of society, and he had -the advantage of that, which is no small advantage. He was at his ease -in consequence, wherever he went, not supposing that any one looked down -on him, or that he could be refused admittance anywhere. As he walked -back with his heart at ease--full of an amused pleasure in the thought -of Dora, whom he had known for years, and who had been, though he had -never till to-day seen her, a sort of little playfellow in his -life--walking westward from the seriousness of Bloomsbury, through the -long line of Oxford Street, and across Hyde Park to the great hotel in -which Mrs. Bristow had established herself, the young man, though he had -not a penny, and was a mere colonial, to say the best of him, felt -himself returning to a more congenial atmosphere, the region of ease and -leisure, and beautiful surroundings, to which he had been born. He had -not any feature of the man of fashion, yet he belonged instinctively to -the _jeunesse dorée_ wherever he went. He went along, swinging his cane, -with a relief in his mind to be delivered from the narrow and noisy -streets. He had been accustomed all his life to luxury, though of a -different kind from that of London, and he smiled at the primness and -respectability of Bloomsbury by instinct, though he had no right to do -so. He recognised the difference of the traffic in Piccadilly, and -distinguished between that great thoroughfare and the other with purely -intuitive discrimination. Belgravia was narrow and formal to the -Southerner, but yet it was different. All these intuitions were in him, -he could not tell how. - -He went back to his aunt with the pleasure of having something to say -which he knew would please her. Dora, as has been said, had been their -secret between them for many years. He had helped to think of toys and -pretty trifles to send her, and the boxes had been the subject of many a -consultation, calling forth tears from Mrs. Bristow, but pure fun to the -young man, who thought of the unknown recipient as of a little sister -whom he had never seen. He meant to please the kind woman who had been -a mother to him, by telling her about Dora, how pretty she was, how -tall, how full of character, delightful and amusing to behold, how she -was half angry with him for knowing so much of her, half pleased, how -she flashed from fun to seriousness, from kindness to quick indignation, -and on the whole disapproved of him, but only in a way that was amusing, -that he was not afraid of. Thus he went in cheerful, and intent upon -making the invalid cheerful too. - -A hotel is a hotel all the world over, a place essentially vulgar, -commonplace, venal, the travesty of a human home. This one, however, was -as stately as it could be, with a certain size about the building, big -stairs, big rooms, at the end of one of which he found his patroness -lying, in an elaborate dressing-gown, on a large sofa, with the vague -figure of a maid floating about in the semi-darkness. The London sun in -April is not generally violent; but all the blinds were down, the -curtains half drawn over the windows, and the room so deeply shadowed -that even young Gordon’s sharp eyes coming out of the keen daylight did -not preserve him from knocking against one piece of furniture after -another as he made his way to the patient’s side. - -“Well, Harry dear, is she coming?” a faint voice said. - -“I hope so, aunt. She was sorry to know you were ill. I told her you -were quite used to being ill, and always patient over it. Are things -going any better to-day?” - -“They will never be better, Harry.” - -“Don’t say that. They have been worse a great many times, and then -things have always come round a little.” - -“He doesn’t believe me, Miller. That is what comes of health like mine; -nobody will believe that I am worse now than I have ever been before.” -Gordon patted the thin hand that lay on the bed. He had heard these -words _many_ times, and he was not alarmed by them. - -“This lady is rather a character,” he said; “she will amuse you. She is -Scotch, and she is rather strong-minded, and----” - -“I never could bear strong-minded women,” cried the patient with some -energy. “But what do I care whether she is Scotch or Spanish, or what -she is? Besides that, she has helped me already, and all I want is Dora. -Oh, Harry, did you see Dora?--my Dora, my little girl! And so tall, and -so well grown, and so sweet! And to think that I cannot have her, cannot -see her, now that I am going to die!” - -“Why shouldn’t you have her?” he said in his calm voice. “Her father is -better; and no man, however unreasonable, would prevent her coming to -see her own relation. You don’t understand, dear aunt. You won’t believe -that people are all very like each other, not so cruel and hard-hearted -as you suppose. You would not be unkind to a sick person, why should -he?” - -“Oh, it’s different--very different!” the sick woman said. - -“Why should it be different? A quarrel that is a dozen years old could -never be so bitter as that.” - -“It is you who don’t understand. I did him harm--oh, such harm! Never, -never could he forgive me! I never want him to hear my name. And to ask -Dora from him--oh no, no! Don’t do it, Harry--not if I was at my last -breath!” - -“If you ever did him harm as you say--though I don’t believe you ever -did any one harm--that is why you cannot forgive him. Aunt, you may be -sure he has forgiven you.” - -“I--I--forgive? Oh, never, never had I anything to forgive--never! I--oh -if you only knew!” - -“I wouldn’t say anything to excite her, Mr. Harry,” said the maid. “She -isn’t so well, really; she’s very bad, as true as can be. I’ve sent for -the doctor.” - -“Yes, tell him!” cried the poor lady eagerly; “tell him that you have -never seen me so ill. Tell him, Miller, that I’m very bad, and going to -die!” - -“We’ll wait and hear what the doctor says, ma’am,” said the maid -cautiously. - -“But Dora, Harry--oh, bring her, bring her! How am I to die without my -Dora? Oh, bring her! Ask this lady--I don’t mind her being strong-minded -or anything, if she will bring my child. Harry, you must steal her away, -if he will not let her come. I have a right to her. It is--it is her -duty to come to me when I am going to die!” - -“Don’t excite her, sir, for goodness’ sake; promise anything,” whispered -the maid. - -“I will, aunt. I’ll run away with her. I’ll have a carriage with a -couple of ruffians to wait round the corner, and I’ll throw something -over her head to stifle her cries, and then we’ll carry her away.” - -“It isn’t any laughing matter,” she said, recovering her composure a -little. “If you only knew, Harry! But I couldn’t, I couldn’t tell -you--or any one. Oh, Harry, my poor boy, you’ll find out a great many -things afterwards, and perhaps you’ll blame me. I know you’ll blame me. -But remember I was always fond of you, and always kind to you all the -same. You won’t forget that, however badly you may think of me. Oh, -Harry, my dear, my dear!” - -“Dear aunt, as if there could ever be any question of blame from me to -you!” he said, kissing her hand. - -“But there will be a question. Everybody will blame me, and you will be -obliged to do it too, though it goes against your kind heart. I seem to -see everything, and feel what’s wrong, and yet not be able to help it. -I’ve always been like that,” she said, sobbing. “Whatever I did, I’ve -always known it would come to harm; but I’ve never been able to stop it, -to do different. I’ve done so many, many things! Oh, if I could go back -and begin different from the very first! But I shouldn’t. I am just as -helpless now as then. And I know just how you will look, Harry, and try -not to believe, and try not to say anything against me----” - -“If you don’t keep quiet, ma’am, I’ll have to go and leave you! and a -nurse is what you will get--a nurse out of the hospital, as will stand -no nonsense.” - -“Oh, Miller, just one word! Harry, promise me you’ll think of what I -said, and that you will not blame----” - -“Never,” he said, rising from her side. “I acquit you from this moment, -aunt. You can never do anything that will be evil in my eyes. But is not -the room too dark, and don’t you mean to have any lunch? A little light -and a little cutlet, don’t you think, Miller? No? Well, I suppose you -know best, but you’ll see that is what the doctor will order. I’m going -to get mine, anyhow, for I’m as hungry as a hunter. Blame you? Is it -likely?” he said, stooping to kiss her. - -Notwithstanding his affectionate fidelity, he was glad to be free of the -darkened room and oppressive atmosphere and troubled colloquy. To return -to ordinary daylight and life was a relief to him. But he had no very -serious thoughts, either about the appeal she had made to him or her -condition. He had known her as ill and as hysterical before. When she -was ill she was often emotional, miserable, fond of referring to -mysterious errors in her past. Harry thought he knew very well what -these errors were. He knew her like the palm of his hand, as the French -say. He knew the sort of things she would be likely to do, foolish -things, inconsiderate, done in a hurry--done, very likely, as she said, -with a full knowledge that they ought not to be done, yet that she -could not help it. Poor little aunt! he could well believe in any sort -of silly thing, heedless, and yet not altogether heedless either, -disapproved of in her mind even while she did it. Our children know us -better than any other spectators know us. They know the very moods in -which we are likely to do wrong. What a good thing it is that with that -they love us all the same, more or less, as the case may be! And that -their eyes, though so terribly clear-sighted, are indulgent too; or, if -not indulgent, yet are ruled by the use and wont, the habit of us, and -of accepting us, whatever we may be. Young Gordon knew exactly, or -thought he knew, what sort of foolish things she might have done, or -even yet might be going to do. Her conscience was evidently very keen -about this Mr. Mannering, this sister’s husband, as he appeared to be; -perhaps she had made mischief, not meaning it and yet half meaning it, -between him and his wife, and could not forgive herself, or hope to be -forgiven. Her own husband had been a grave man, very loving to her, yet -very serious with her, and he knew that there had never been mention of -Dora between these two. Once, he remembered, his guardian had seen the -box ready to be despatched, and had asked no questions, but looked for a -moment as if he would have pushed it out of the way with his foot. -Perhaps he had disapproved of these feeble attempts to make up to the -sister’s child for harm done to her mother. Perhaps he had felt that the -wrong was unforgiveable, whatever it was. He had taken it for granted -that after his death his wife would go home; and Harry remembered a -wistful strange look which he cast upon her when he was dying. But the -young man gave himself a little shake to throw off these indications of -a secret which he did not know. His nature, as had been said, was averse -to secrets; he refused to have anything to do with a mystery. Everything -in which he was concerned was honest and open as the day. He did not -dwell on the fact that he had a mystery connected with himself, and was -in the curious circumstance of having a mother whom he did not know. It -was very odd, he admitted, when he thought of it; but as he spent his -life by the side of a woman who was in all respects exactly like his -mother to him, perhaps it is not so wonderful that his mind strayed -seldom to that thought. He shook everything off as he went downstairs, -and sat down to luncheon with the most hearty and healthy appetite in -the world. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“Dora,” said Mr. Mannering, half raising his head from the large folio -which had come from the old book dealer during his illness, and which, -in these days of his slow convalescence, had occupied much of his time. -After he had spoken that word he remained silent for some time, his head -slightly raised, his shoulders bent over the big book. Then he repeated -“Dora” again. “Do you think,” he said, “you could carry one of these -volumes as far as Fiddler’s, and ask if he would take it back?” - -“Take it back!” Dora cried in surprise. - -“You can tell him that I do not find it as interesting as I -expected--but no; for that might do it harm, and it is very interesting. -You might say our shelves are all filled up with big books, and that I -have really no room for it at present, which,” he added, looking -anxiously up into her face, “is quite true; for, you remember, when I -was so foolish as to order it, we asked ourselves how it would be -possible to find a place for it? But no, no,” he said, “these are -inventions, and I see your surprise in your face that I should send you -with a message that is not genuine. It is true enough, you know, that I -am much slackened in the work I wanted this book for. I am slackened in -everything. I doubt if I can take up any piece of work again to do any -good. I’m old, you see, to have such a long illness,” he said, looking -at her almost apologetically; “and, unless it had been with an idea of -work, I never could have had any justification in ordering such an -expensive book as this.” - -“You never used to think of that, father,” Dora said. - -“No, I never used to think of that; but I ought to have done so. I’m -afraid I’ve been very extravagant. I could always have got it, and -consulted it as much as I pleased at the Museum. It is a ridiculous -craze I have had for having the books in my own possession. Many men -cannot understand it. Williamson, for instance. He says: ‘In your place -I would never buy a book. Why, you have the finest library in the world -at your disposal.’ And it’s quite true. There could not be a more -ridiculous extravagance on my part, and pride, I suppose to be able to -say I had it.” - -“I don’t think that’s the case at all,” cried Dora. “What do you care -for, father, except your library? You never go anywhere, you have no -amusements like other people. You don’t go into society, or go abroad, -or--anything that the other people do.” - -“That is true enough,” he said, with a little gleam of pleasure. Then, -suddenly taking her hand as she stood beside him: “My poor child, you -say that quite simply, without thinking what a terrible accusation it -would be if it went on,--a sacrifice of your young life to my old one, -and forgetfulness of all a girl’s tastes and wishes. We’ll try to put -that right at least, Dora,” he said, with a slight quiver in his lip, -“in the future--if there is any future for me.” - -“Father!” she said indignantly, “as if I didn’t like the books, and was -not more proud of your work that you are doing----” - -“And which never comes to anything,” he interjected, sadly shaking his -head. - -“---- than of anything else in the world! I am very happy as I am. I -have no tastes or pleasures but what are yours. I never have wanted -anything that you did not get for me. You should see,” cried Dora, with -a laugh, “what Janie and Molly think downstairs. They think me a -princess at the least, with nothing to do, and all my fine clothes!” - -“Janie and Molly!” he said,--“Janie and Molly! And these are all that my -girl has to compare herself with--the landlady’s orphan granddaughters! -You children make your arrows very sharp without knowing it. But it -shall be so no more. Dora, more than ever I want you to go to Fiddler’s; -but you shall tell him what is the simple truth--that I have had a long -illness, which has been very expensive, and that I cannot afford any -more expensive books. He might even, indeed, be disposed to buy back -some that we have. That is one thing,” he added, with more animation, -“all the books are really worth their price. I have always thought they -would be something for you, whether you sold them or kept them, when I -am gone. Do you think you could carry one of them as far as Fiddler’s, -Dora? They are in such excellent condition, and it would show him no -harm had come to them. One may carry a book anywhere, even a young lady -may. And it is not so very heavy.” - -“It is no weight at all,” cried Dora, who never did anything by halves. -“A little too big for my pocket, father; but I could carry it anywhere. -As if I minded carrying a book, or even a parcel! I like it--it looks as -if one had really something to do.” - -She went out a few minutes after, lightly with great energy and -animation, carrying under one arm the big book as if it had been a -feather-weight. It was a fine afternoon, and the big trees in the Square -were full of the rustle and breath of life--life as vigorous as if their -foliage waved in the heart of the country and not in Bloomsbury. There -had been showers in the morning; but now the sun shone warm, and as it -edged towards the west sent long rays down the cross streets, making -them into openings of pure light, and dazzling the eyes of the -passers-by. Dora was caught in this illumination at every street corner, -and turned her face to it as she crossed the opening, not afraid, for -either eyes or complexion, of that glow “angry and brave". The great -folio, with its worn corners and its tarnished gilding, rather added to -the effect of her tall, slim, young figure, strong as health and youth -could make it, with limbs a little too long, and joints a little too -pronounced, as belonged to her age. She carried her head lightly as a -flower, her step was free and light; she looked, as she said, “as if -she had something to do,” and was wholly capable of doing it, which is a -grace the more added, not unusually in these days, to the other graces -of early life in the feminine subject. But it is not an easy thing to -carry a large folio under your arm. After even a limited stretch of -road, the lamb is apt to become a sheep: and to shift such a cumbrous -volume from one arm to another is not an easy matter either, especially -while walking along the streets. Dora held on her way as long as she -could, till her wrist was like to break, and her shoulder to come out of -its socket. Neither she nor her father had in the least realised what -the burden was. Then she turned it over with difficulty in both arms, -and transferred it to the other side, speedily reducing the second arm -to a similar condition, while the first had as yet barely recovered. - -It is not a very long way from the corner of the Square to those -delightful old passages full of old book-shops, which had been the -favourite pasturage of Mr. Mannering, and where Dora had so often -accompanied her father. On ordinary occasions she thought the distance -to Fiddler’s no more than a few steps, but to-day it seemed miles long. -And she was too proud to give in, or to go into a shop to rest, while it -did not seem safe to trust a precious book, and one that she was going -to give back to the dealer, to a passing boy. She toiled on accordingly, -making but slow progress, and very much subdued by her task, her cheeks -flushed, and the tears in her eyes only kept back by pride, when she -suddenly met walking quickly along, skimming the pavement with his light -tread, the young man who had so wounded and paralysed her in Miss -Bethune’s room, whom she had seen then only for the first time, but who -had claimed her so cheerfully by her Christian name as an old friend. - -She saw him before he saw her, and her first thought was the quick -involuntary one, that here was succour coming towards her; but the -second was not so cheerful. The second was, that this stranger would -think it his duty to help her; that he would conceive criticisms, even -if he did not utter them, as to the mistake of entrusting her with a -burden she was not equal to; that he would assume more and more -familiarity, perhaps treat her altogether as a little girl--talk again -of the toys he had helped to choose, and all those injurious revolting -particulars which had filled her with so much indignation on their -previous meeting. The sudden rush and encounter of these thoughts -distracting her mind when her body had need of all its support, made -Dora’s limbs so tremble, and the light so go out of her eyes, that she -found herself all at once unable to carry on her straight course, and -awoke to the humiliating fact that she had stumbled to the support of -the nearest area railing, that the book had slipped from under her tired -arm, and that she was standing there, very near crying, holding it up -between the rail and her knee. - -“Why, Miss Dora!” cried that young man. He would have passed, had it not -been for that deplorable exhibition of weakness. But when his eye -caught the half-ridiculous, wholly overwhelming misery of the slipping -book, the knee put forth to save it, the slim figure bending over it, he -was beside her in a moment. “Give it to me,” he cried, suiting the -action to the word, and taking it from her as if it had been a feather. -Well, she had herself said it was a feather at first. - -Dora, relieved, shook her tired arms, straightened her figure, and -raised her head; with all her pride coming back. - -“Oh, please never mind. I had only got it out of balance. I am quite, -quite able to carry it,” she cried. - -“Are you going far? And will you let me walk with you? It was indeed to -see you I was going--not without a commission.” - -“To see me?” - -The drooping head was thrown back with a pride that was haughty and -almost scornful. A princess could not have treated a rash intruder more -completely _de haut en bas_. “To me! what could you have to say to me?” -the girl seemed to say, in the tremendous superiority of her sixteen -years. - -The young man laughed a little--one is not very wise at five and twenty -on the subject of girls, yet he had experience enough to be amused by -these remnants of the child in this half-developed maiden. “You are -going this way?” he said, turning in the direction in which she had been -going. “Then let me tell you while we walk. Miss Dora, you must remember -this is not all presumption or intrusion on my side. I come from a lady -who has a right to send you a message.” - -“I did not say you were intrusive,” cried Dora, blushing for shame. - -“You only looked it,” said young Gordon; “but you know that lady is my -aunt too--at least, I have always called her aunt, for many, many -years.” - -“Ought I to call her aunt?” Dora said. “I suppose so indeed, if she is -my mother’s sister.” - -“Certainly you should, and you have a right; but I only because she -allows me, because they wished it, to make me feel no stranger in the -house. My poor dear aunt is very ill--worse, they say, than she has ever -been before.” - -“Ill?” Dora seemed to find no words except these interjections that she -could say. - -“I hope perhaps they may be deceived. The doctors don’t know her -constitution. I think I have seen her just as bad and come quite round -again. But even Miller is frightened: she may be worse than I think, and -she has the greatest, the most anxious desire to see you, as she says, -before she dies.” - -“Dies?” cried Dora. “But how can she die when she has only just come -home?” - -“That is what I feel, too,” cried the young man, with eagerness. “But -perhaps,” he added, “it is no real reason; for doesn’t it often happen -that people break down just at the moment when they come in sight of -what they have wished for for years and years?” - -“I don’t know,” said Dora, recovering her courage. “I have not heard of -things so dreadful as that. I can’t imagine that it could be permitted -to be; for things don’t happen just by chance, do they? They are,” she -added quite inconclusively, “as father says, all in the day’s work.” - -“I don’t know either,” said young Gordon; “but very cruel things do -happen. However, there is nothing in the world she wishes for so much as -you. Will you come to her? I am sure that you have never been out of her -mind for years. She used to talk to me about you. It was our secret -between us two. I think that was the chief thing that made her take to -me as she did, that she might have some one to speak to about Dora. I -used to wonder what you were at first,--an idol, or a prodigy, or a -princess.” - -“You must have been rather disgusted when you found I was only a girl,” -Dora cried, in spite of herself. - -He looked at her with a discriminative gaze, not uncritical, yet full of -warm light that seemed to linger and brighten somehow upon her, and -which, though Dora was looking straight before her, without a glance to -the right or left, or any possibility of catching his eye, she -perceived, though without knowing how. - -“No,” he said, with a little embarrassed laugh, “quite the reverse, and -always hoping that one day we might be friends.” - -Dora made no reply. For one thing they had now come (somehow the walk -went much faster, much more easily, when there was no big book to -carry) to the passage leading to Holborn, a narrow lane paved with big -flags, and with dull shops, principally book-shops, on either side, -where Fiddler, the eminent old bookseller and collector, lived. Her mind -had begun to be occupied by the question how to shake this young man off -and discharge her commission, which was not an easy one. She hardly -heard what he last said. She said to him hastily, “Please give me back -the book, this is where I am going,” holding out her hands for it. She -added, “Thank you very much,” with formality, but yet not without -warmth. - -“Mayn’t I carry it in?” He saw by her face that this request was -distasteful, and hastened to add, “I’ll wait for you outside; there are -quantities of books to look at in the windows,” giving it back to her -without a word. - -Dora was scarcely old enough to appreciate the courtesy and good taste -of his action altogether, but she was pleased and relieved, though she -hardly knew why. She went into the shop, very glad to deposit it upon -the counter, but rather troubled in mind as to how she was to accomplish -her mission, as she waited till Mr. Fiddler was brought to her from the -depths of the cavern of books. He began to turn over the book with -mechanical interest, thinking it something brought to him to sell, then -woke up, and said sharply: “Why, this is a book I sent to Mr. Mannering -of the Museum a month ago". - -“Yes,” said Dora, breathless, “and I am Mr. Mannering’s daughter. He -has been very ill, and he wishes me to ask if you would be so good as to -take it back. It is not likely to be of so much use to him as he -thought. It is not quite what he expected it to be.” - -“Not what he expected it to be? It is an extremely fine copy, in perfect -condition, and I’ve been on the outlook for it to him for the past -year.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Dora, speaking like a bookman’s daughter, “even I -can see it is a fine example, and my father would like to keep it. -But--but--he has had a long illness, and it has been very expensive, and -he might not be able to pay for it for a long time. He would be glad if -you would be so very obliging as to take it back.” - -Then Mr. Fiddler began to look blank. He told Dora that two or three -people had been after the book, knowing what a chance it was to get a -specimen of that edition in such a perfect state, and how he had shut -his ears to all fascinations, and kept it for Mr. Mannering. Mr. -Mannering had indeed ordered the book. It was not a book that could be -picked up from any ordinary collection. It was one, as a matter of fact, -which he himself would not have thought of buying on speculation, had it -not been for a customer like Mr. Mannering. Probably it might lie for -years on his hands, before he should have another opportunity of -disposing of it. These arguments much intimidated Dora, who saw, but had -not the courage to call his attention to, the discrepancy between the -two or three people who had wanted it, and the unlikelihood of any one -wanting it again. - -The conclusion was, however, that Mr. Fiddler politely, but firmly, -declined to take the book back. He had every confidence in Mr. Mannering -of the Museum. He had not the slightest doubt of being paid. The smile, -with which he assured her of this, compensated the girl, who was so -little more than a child, for the refusal of her request. Of course Mr. -Mannering of the Museum would pay, of course everybody had confidence in -him. After her father’s own depressed looks and anxiety, it comforted -Dora’s heart to make sure in this way that nobody outside shared these -fears. She put out her arms, disappointed, yet relieved, to take back -the big book again. - -“Have you left it behind you?” cried young Gordon, who, lingering at the -window outside, without the slightest sense of honour, had listened -eagerly and heard a portion of the colloquy within. - -“Mr. Fiddler will not take it back. He says papa will pay him sooner or -later. He is going to send it. It is no matter,” Dora said, with a -little wave of her hand. - -“Oh, let me carry it back,” cried the young man, with a sudden dive into -his pocket, and evident intention in some rude colonial way of solving -the question of the payment there and then. - -Dora drew herself up to the height of seven feet at least in her shoes. -She waved him back from Mr. Fiddler’s door with a large gesture. - -“You may have known me for a long time,” she said, “and you called me -Dora, though I think it is a liberty; but I don’t know you, not even -your name.” - -“My name is Harry Gordon,” he said, with something between amusement and -deference, yet a twinkle in his eye. - -Dora looked at him very gravely from head to foot, making as it were a -_résumé_ of him and the situation. Then she gave forth her judgment -reflectively, as of a thing which she had much studied. “It is not an -ugly name,” she said, with a partially approving nod of her head. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -“No, Mannering,” said Dr. Roland, “I can’t say that you may go back to -the Museum in a week. I don’t know when you will be up to going. I -should think you had a good right to a long holiday after working there -for so many years.” - -“Not so many years,” said Mr. Mannering, “since the long break which you -know of, Roland.” - -“In the interest of science,” cried the doctor. - -The patient shook his head with a melancholy smile. “Not in my own at -least,” he said. - -“Well, it is unnecessary to discuss that question. Back you cannot go, -my good fellow, till you have recovered your strength to a very -different point from that you are at now. You can’t go till after you’ve -had a change. At present you’re nothing but a bundle of tendencies ready -to develop into anything bad that’s going. That must be stopped in the -first place, and you must have sea air, or mountain air, or country air, -whichever you fancy. I won’t be dogmatic about the kind, but the thing -you must have.” - -“Impossible, impossible, impossible!” Mannering had begun to cry out -while the other was speaking. “Why, man, you’re raving,” he said. “I--so -accustomed to the air of Bloomsbury, and that especially fine sort which -is to be had at the Museum, that I couldn’t breathe any other--I to -have mountain air or sea air or country air! Nonsense! Any of them would -stifle me in a couple of days.” - -“You will have your say, of course. And you are a great scientific gent, -I’m aware; but you know as little about your own health and what it -wants as this child with her message. Well, Janie, what is it, you -constant bother? Mr. Mannering? Take it to Miss Bethune, or wait till -Miss Dora comes back.” - -“Please, sir, the gentleman is waiting, and he says he won’t go till -he’s pyed.” - -“You little ass!” said the doctor. “What do you mean by coming with your -ridiculous stories here?” - -Mannering stretched out his thin hand and took the paper. “You see,” he -said, with a faint laugh, “how right I was when I said I would have -nothing to do with your changes of air. It is all that my pay will do to -settle my bills, and no overplus for such vanities.” - -“Nonsense, Mannering! The money will be forthcoming when it is known to -be necessary.” - -“From what quarter, I should be glad to hear? Do you think the Museum -will grant me a premium for staying away, for being of no use? Not very -likely! I shall not be left in the lurch; they will grant me three -months’ holiday, or even six months’ holiday, and my salary as usual. -But we shall have to reduce our expenses, Dora and I, and to live as -quietly as possible, instead of going off like millionaires to revel -upon fresh tipples of fancy air. No, no, nothing of the kind. And, -besides, I don’t believe in them. I have made myself, as the French say, -to the air of Bloomsbury, and in that I shall live or die.” - -“You don’t speak at all, my dear fellow, like the man of sense you are,” -said the doctor. “Fortunately, I can carry things with a high hand. When -I open my mouth let no patient venture to contradict. You are going away -to the country now. If you don’t conform to my rules, I am not at all -sure I may not go further, and ordain that there is to be no work for -six months, a winter on the Riviera, and so forth. I have got all these -pains and penalties in my hand.” - -“Better and better,” said Mannering, “a palace to live in, and a _chef_ -to cook for us, and our dinner off gold plate every day.” - -“There is no telling what I may do if you put me to it,” Dr. Roland -said, with a laugh. “But seriously, if it were my last word, you must -get out of London. Nothing that you can do or say will save you from -that.” - -“We shall see,” said Mr. Mannering. “The sovereign power of an empty -purse does great wonders. But here is Dora back, and without the big -book, I am glad to see. What did Fiddler say?” - -“I will tell you afterwards, father,” said Dora, developing suddenly a -little proper pride. - -“Nonsense! You can tell me now--that he had two or three people in his -pocket who would have bought it willingly if he had not reserved it for -me, and that it was a book that nobody wanted, and would be a drug on -his hands.” - -“Oh, father, how clever you are! That was exactly what he said: and I -did not point out that he was contradicting himself, for fear it should -make him angry. But he did not mind me. He said he could trust Mr. -Mannering of the Museum; he was quite sure he should get paid; and he is -sending it back by one of the young men, because it was too heavy for -me.” - -“My poor little girl! I ought to have known it would be too heavy for -you.” - -“Oh, never mind,” said Dora. “I only carried it half the way. It was -getting very heavy indeed, I will not deny, when I met Mr. Gordon, and -he carried it for me to Fiddler’s shop.” - -“Who is Mr. Gordon?” said Mr. Mannering, raising his head. - -“He is a friend of Miss Bethune’s,” said Dora, with something of -hesitation in her voice which struck her father’s ear. - -Dr. Roland looked very straight before him, taking care to make no -comment, and not to meet Dora’s eye. There was a tacit understanding -between them now on several subjects, which the invalid felt vaguely, -but could not explain to himself. Fortunately, however, it had not even -occurred to him that there was anything more remarkable in the fact of a -young man, met at hazard, carrying Dora’s book for her, than if the -civility had been shown to himself. - -“You see,” he said, “it is painful to have to make you aware of all my -indiscretions, Roland. What has a man to do with rare editions, who has -a small income and an only child like mine? The only thing is,” he -added, with a short laugh, “they should bring their price when they come -to the hammer,--that has always been my consolation.” - -“They are not coming to the hammer just yet,” said the doctor. He -possessed himself furtively, but carelessly, of the piece of paper on -the table--the bill which, as Janie said, was wanted by a gentleman -waiting downstairs. “You just manage to get over this thing, Mannering,” -he said, in an ingratiating tone, “and I’ll promise you a long bill of -health and plenty of time to make up all your lost way. You don’t live -in the same house with a doctor for nothing. I have been waiting for -this for a long time. I could have told Vereker exactly what course it -would take if he hadn’t been an ass, as all these successful men are. He -did take a hint or two in spite of himself; for a profession is too much -for a man, it gives a certain fictitious sense in some cases, even when -he is an ass. Well, Mannering, of course I couldn’t prophesy what the -end would be. You might have succumbed. With your habits, I thought it -not unlikely.” - -“You cold-blooded practitioner! And what do you mean by my habits? I’m -not a toper or a reveller by night.” - -“You are almost worse. You are a man of the Museum, drinking in bad air -night and day, and never moving from your books when you can help it. It -was ten to one against you; but some of you smoke-dried, gas-scented -fellows have the devil’s own constitution, and you’ve pulled through.” - -“Yes,” said Mannering, holding up his thin hand to the light, and -thrusting forth a long spindle-shank of a leg, “I’ve pulled through--as -much as is left of me. It isn’t a great deal to brag of.” - -“Having done that, with proper care I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a -long spell of health before you--as much health as a man can expect who -despises all the laws of nature--and attain a very respectable age -before you die.” - -“Here’s promises!” said Mannering. He paused and laughed, and then added -in a lower tone: “Do you think that’s so very desirable, after all?” - -“Most men like it,” said the doctor; “or, at least, think they do. And -for you, who have Dora to think of----” - -“Yes, there’s Dora,” the patient said as if to himself. - -“That being the case, you are not your own property, don’t you see? You -have got to take care of yourself, whether you will or not. You have got -to make life livable, now that it’s handed back to you. It’s a -responsibility, like another. Having had it handed back to you, as I -say, and being comparatively a young man--what are you, fifty?” - -“Thereabout; not what you would call the flower of youth.” - -“But a very practical, not disagreeable age--good for a great deal yet, -if you treat it fairly; but, mind you, capable of giving you a great -deal of annoyance, a great deal of trouble, if you don’t.” - -“No more before the child,” said Mannering hastily. “We must cut our -coat according to our cloth, but she need not be in all our secrets. -What! turtle-soup again? Am I to be made an alderman of in spite of -myself? No more of this, Hal, if you love me,” he said, shaking his -gaunt head at the doctor, who was already disappearing downstairs. - -Dr. Roland turned back to nod encouragingly to Dora, and to say: “All -right, my dear; keep it up!” But his countenance changed as he turned -away again, and when he had knocked and been admitted at Miss Bethune’s -door, it was with a melancholy face, and a look of the greatest -despondency, that he flung himself into the nearest chair. - -“It will be all of no use,” he cried,--“of no use, if we can’t manage -means and possibilities to pack them off somewhere. He will not hear of -it! Wants to go back to the Museum next week--in July!--and to go on in -Bloomsbury all the year, as if he had not been within a straw’s breadth -of his life.” - -“I was afraid of that,” said Miss Bethune, shaking her head. - -“He ought to go to the country now,” said the doctor, “then to the sea, -and before the coming on of winter go abroad. That’s the only programme -for him. He ought to be a year away. Then he might come back to the -Museum like a giant refreshed, and probably write some book, or make -some discovery, or do some scientific business, that would crown him -with glory, and cover all the expenses; but the obstinate beast will -not see it. Upon my word!” cried Dr. Roland, “I wish there could be made -a decree that only women should have the big illnesses; they have such -faith in a doctor’s word, and such a scorn of possibilities: it always -does them good to order them something that can’t be done, and then do -it in face of everything--that’s what I should like for the good of the -race.” - -“I can’t say much for the good of the race,” said Miss Bethune; “but -you’d easily find some poor wretch of a woman that would do it for the -sake of some ungrateful brute of a man.” - -“Ah, we haven’t come to that yet,” said the doctor regretfully; “the -vicarious principle has not gone so far. If it had I daresay there would -be plenty of poor wretches ready to bear their neighbours’ woes for a -consideration. The simple rules of supply and demand would be enough to -provide us proxies without any stronger sentiment: but philosophising -won’t do us any good; it won’t coin money, or if it could, would not -drop it into his pocket, which after all is the chief difficulty. He is -not to be taken in any longer by your fictions about friendly offerings -and cheap purchases. Here is a bill which that little anæmic nuisance -Janie brought in, with word that a gentleman was ‘wyaiting’ for the -payment.” - -“We’ll send for the gentleman, and settle it,” said Miss Bethune -quietly, “and then it can’t come up to shame us again.” - -The gentleman sent for turned up slowly, and came in with reluctance, -keeping his face as much as possible averted. He was, however, too -easily recognisable to make this contrivance available. - -“Why, Hesketh, have you taken service with Fortnum and Mason?” the -doctor cried. - -“I’m in a trade protection office, sir,” said Hesketh. “I collect bills -for parties.” He spoke with his eyes fixed on a distant corner, avoiding -as much as possible every glance. - -“In a trade protection office? And you mean to tell me that Fortnum and -Mason, before even the season is over, collect their bills in this way?” - -“They don’t have not to say so many customers in Bloomsbury, sir,” said -the young man, with that quickly-conceived impudence which is so -powerful a weapon, and so congenial to his race. - -“Confound their insolence! I have a good mind to go myself and give them -a bit of my mind,” cried Dr. Roland. “Bloomsbury has more sense, it -seems, than I gave it credit for, and your pampered tradesman more -impudence.” - -“I would just do that,” said Miss Bethune. “And will it be long since -you took to this trade protection, young man?--for Gilchrist brought me -word you were ill in your bed not a week ago.” - -“A man can’t stay in bed, when ’e has a wife to support, and with no -’ealth to speak of,” Hesketh replied, with a little bravado; but he was -very pale, and wiped the unwholesome dews from his forehead. - -“Anæmia, body and soul,” said the doctor to the lady, in an undertone. - -“You’ll come to his grandfather again in a moment,” said the lady to the -doctor. “Now, my lad, you shall just listen to me. Put down this moment -your trade protections, and all your devices. Did you not hear, by -Gilchrist, that we were meaning to give you a new chance? Not for your -sake, but for your wife’s, though she probably is just tarred with the -same stick. We were meaning to set you up in a little shop in a quiet -suburb.” - -Here the young fellow made a grimace, but recollected himself, and said -no word. - -“Eh!” cried Miss Bethune, “that wouldn’t serve your purposes, my fine -gentleman?” - -“I never said so,” said the young man. “It’s awfully kind of you. Still, -as I’ve got a place on my own hook, as it were--not that we mightn’t -combine the two, my wife and I. She ain’t a bad saleswoman,” he added, -with condescension. “We was in the same house of business before we was -married--not that beastly old shop where they do nothing but take away -the young gentlemen’s and young ladies’ characters. It’s as true as life -what I say. Ask any one that has ever been there.” - -“Anæmia,” said Miss Bethune, to the doctor, aside, “would not be proof -enough, if there were facts on the other hand.” - -“I always mistrust facts,” the doctor replied. - -“Here is your money,” she resumed. “Write me out the receipt, or rather, -put your name to it. Now mind this, I will help you if you’re meaning -to do well; but if I find out anything wrong in this, or hear that -you’re in bed again to-morrow, and not fit to lift your head----” - -“No man can answer for his health,” said young Hesketh solemnly. “I may -be bad, I may be dead to-morrow, for anything I can tell.” - -“That is true.” - -“And my poor wife a widder, and the poor baby not born.” - -“In these circumstances,” said Dr. Roland, “we’ll forgive her for what -wasn’t her fault, and look after her. But that’s not likely, unless you -are fool enough to let yourself be run over, or something of that sort, -going out from here.” - -“Which I won’t, sir, if I can help it.” - -“And no great loss, either,” the doctor said in his undertone. He -watched the payment grimly, and noticed that the young man’s hand shook -in signing the receipt. What was the meaning of it? He sat for a moment -in silence, while Hesketh’s steps, quickening as he went farther off, -were heard going downstairs and towards the door. “I wish I were as sure -that money would find its way to the pockets of Fortnum and Mason, as I -am that yonder down-looking hound had a criminal grandfather,” he said. - -“Well, there is the receipt, anyhow. Will you go and inquire?” - -“To what good? There would be a great fuss, and the young fool would get -into prison probably; whereas we may still hope that it is all right, -and that he has turned over a new leaf.” - -“I should not be content without being at the bottom of it,” said Miss -Bethune; and then, after a pause: “There is another thing. The lady from -South America that was here has been taken ill, Dr. Roland.” - -“Ah, so!” cried the doctor. “I should like to go and see her.” - -“You are not wanted to go and see her. It is I--which you will be -surprised at--that is wanted, or, rather, Dora with me. I have had an -anxious pleader here, imploring me by all that I hold dear. You will say -that is not much, doctor.” - -“I will say nothing of the kind. But I have little confidence in that -lady from South America, or her young man.” - -“The young man is just as fine a young fellow! Doubt as you like, there -is no deceit about him; a countenance like the day, and eyes that meet -you fair, look at him as you please. Doctor,” said Miss Bethune, -faltering a little, “I have taken a great notion into my head that he -may turn out to be a near relation of my own.” - -“A relation of yours?” cried Dr. Roland, suppressing a whistle of -astonishment. “My thoughts were going a very different way.” - -“I know, and your thoughts are justified. The lady did not conceal that -she was Mrs. Mannering’s sister: but the one thing does not hinder the -other.” - -“It would be a very curious coincidence--stranger, even, than usual.” - -“Everything that’s strange is usual,” cried Miss Bethune vehemently. -“It is we that have no eyes to see.” - -“Perhaps,” said the doctor, who loved a paradox. “I tell you what,” he -added briskly, “let me go and see this lady. I am very suspicious about -her. I should like to make her out a little before risking it for Dora, -even with you.” - -“You think, perhaps, you would make it out better than I should,” said -Miss Bethune, with some scorn. “Well, there is no saying. You would, no -doubt, make out what is the matter with her, which is always the first -thing that interests you.” - -“It explains most things, when you know how to read it,” the doctor -said; but in this point his opponent did not give in to him, it is -hardly necessary to say. She was very much interested about Dora, but -she was still more interested in the question which moved her own heart -so deeply. The lady from South America might be in command of many facts -on that point; and prudence seemed to argue that it was best to see and -understand a little more about her first, before taking Dora, without -her father’s knowledge, to a stranger who made such a claim upon her. - -“Though if it is her mother’s sister, I don’t know who could have a -stronger claim upon her,” said Miss Bethune. - -“Provided her mother had a sister,” the doctor said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Miss Bethune set out accordingly, without saying anything further, to -see the invalid. She took nobody into her confidence, not even -Gilchrist, who had much offended her mistress by her scepticism. Much as -she was interested in every unusual chain of circumstances, and much -more still in anything happening to Dora Mannering, there was a still -stronger impulse of personal feeling in her present expedition. It had -gone to her head like wine; her eyes shone, and there was a nervous -energy in every line of her tall figure in its middle-aged boniness and -hardness. She walked quickly, pushing her way forward when there was any -crowd with an unconscious movement, as of a strong swimmer dividing the -waves. Her mind was tracing out every line of the supposed process of -events known to herself alone. It was her own story, and such a strange -one as occurs seldom in the almost endless variety of strange stories -that are about the world--a story of secret marriage, secret birth, and -sudden overwhelming calamity. She had as a young woman given herself -foolishly and hastily to an adventurer: for she was an heiress, if she -continued to please an old uncle who had her fate in his hands. The news -of the unexpected approach of this old man brought the sudden crisis. -The husband, who had been near her in the profound quiet of the -country, fled, taking with him the child, and after that no more. The -marriage was altogether unknown, except to Gilchrist, and a couple of -old servants in the small secluded country-house where the strange -little tragedy had taken place; and the young wife, who had never borne -her husband’s name, came to life again after a long illness, to find -every trace of her piteous story, and of the fate of the man for whom -she had risked so much, and the child whom she had scarcely seen, -obliterated. The agony through which she had lived in that first period -of dismay and despair, the wild secret inquiries set on foot with so -little knowledge of how to do anything of the kind, chiefly by means of -the good and devoted Gilchrist, who, however, knew still less even than -her mistress the way to do it--the long, monotonous years of living with -the old uncle to whom that forlorn young woman in her secret anguish had -to be nurse and companion; the dreadful freedom afterwards, when the -fortune was hers, and the liberty so long desired--but still no clue, no -knowledge whether the child on whom she had set her passionate heart -existed or not. The hero, the husband, existed no longer in her -imagination. That first year of furtive fatal intercourse had revealed -him in his true colours as an adventurer, whose aim had been her -fortune. But why had he not revealed himself when that fortune was -secure? Why had he not brought back the child who would have secured his -hold over her whatever had happened? These questions had been discussed -between Miss Bethune and her maid, till there was no longer any -contingency, any combination of things or theories possible, which had -not been torn to pieces between them, with reasonings sometimes as acute -as mother’s wit could make them, sometimes as foolish as ignorance and -inexperience suggested. - -They had roamed all over the world in an anxious quest after the -fugitives who had disappeared so completely into the darkness. What wind -drifted them to Bloomsbury it would be too long to inquire. The wife of -one furtive and troubled year, the mother of one anxious but heavenly -week, had long, long ago settled into the angular, middle-aged unmarried -lady of Mrs. Simcox’s first floor. She had dropped all her former -friends, all the people who knew about her. And those people who once -knew her by her Christian name, and as they thought every incident in -her life, in reality knew nothing, not a syllable of the brief romance -and tragedy which formed its centre. She had developed, they all -thought, into one of those eccentrics who are so often to be found in -the loneliness of solitary life, odd as were all the Bethunes, with -something added that was especially her own. By intervals an old friend -would appear to visit her, marvelling much at the London lodging in -which the mistress of more than one old comfortable house had chosen to -bury herself. But the Bethunes were all queer, these visitors said; -there was a bee in their bonnet, there was a screw loose somewhere. It -is astonishing the number of Scotch families of whom this is said to -account for everything their descendants may think or do. - -This was the woman who marched along the hot July streets with the same -vibration of impulse and energy which had on several occasions led her -half over the world. She had been disappointed a thousand times, but -never given up hope; and each new will-o’-the-wisp which had led her -astray had been welcomed with the same strong confidence, the same -ever-living hope. Few of them, she acknowledged to herself now, had -possessed half the likelihood of this; and every new point of certitude -grew and expanded within her as she proceeded on her way. The same age, -the same name (more or less), a likeness which Gilchrist, fool that she -was, would not see; and then the story, proving everything of the mother -who was alive but unknown. - -Could anything be more certain? Miss Bethune’s progress through the -streets was more like that of a bird on the wing, with that floating -movement which is so full at once of strength and of repose, and wings -ever ready for a swift _coup_ to increase the impulse and clear the way, -than of a pedestrian walking along a hot pavement. A strange -coincidence! Yes, it would be a very strange coincidence if her own very -unusual story and that of the poor Mannerings should thus be twined -together. But why should it not be so? Truth is stranger than fiction. -The most marvellous combinations happen every day. The stranger things -are, the more likely they are to happen. This was what she kept saying -to herself as she hurried upon her way. - -She was received in the darkened room, in the hot atmosphere perfumed -and damped by the spray of some essence, where at first Miss Bethune -felt she could scarcely breathe. When she was brought in, in the gleam -of light made by the opened door, there was a little scream of eagerness -from the bed at the other end of the long room, and then a cry: “But -Dora? Where is Dora? It is Dora, Dora, I want!” in a voice of -disappointment and irritation close to tears. - -“You must not be vexed that I came first by myself,” Miss Bethune said. -“To bring Dora without her father’s knowledge is a strong step.” - -“But I have a right--I have a right!” cried the sick woman. “Nobody--not -even he--could deny me a sight of her. I’ve hungered for years for a -sight of her, and now that I am free I am going to die.” - -“No, no! don’t say that,” said Miss Bethune, with the natural instinct -of denying that conclusion. “You must not let your heart go down, for -that is the worst of all.” - -“It is perhaps the best, too,” said the patient. “What could I have -done? Always longing for her, never able to have her except by stealth, -frightened always that she would find out, or that he should find out. -Oh, no, it’s better as it is. Now I can provide for my dear, and nobody -to say a word. Now I can show her how I love her. And she will not judge -me. A child like that doesn’t judge. She will learn to pity her poor, -poor ---- Oh, why didn’t you bring me my Dora? I may not live another -day.” - -In the darkness, to which her eyes gradually became accustomed, Miss -Bethune consulted silently with a look the attendant by the bed; and -receiving from her the slight, scarcely distinguishable, answer of a -shake of the head, took the sufferer’s hand, and pressed it in her own. - -“I will bring her,” she said, “to-night, if you wish it, or to-morrow. I -give you my word. If you think of yourself like that, whether you are -right or not, I am not the one to disappoint you. To-night, if you wish -it.” - -“Oh, to-night, to-night! I’ll surely live till to-night,” the poor woman -cried. - -“And many nights more, if you will only keep quite quiet, ma’am. It -depends upon yourself,” said the maid. - -“They always tell you,” said Mrs. Bristow, “to keep quiet, as if that -was the easiest thing to do. I might get up and walk all the long way to -see my child; but to be quiet without her--that is what is -impossible--and knowing that perhaps I may never see her again!” - -“You shall--you shall,” said Miss Bethune soothingly. “But you have a -child, and a good child--a son, or as like a son as possible.” - -“I a son? Oh, no, no--none but Dora! No one I love but Dora.” The poor -lady paused then with a sob, and said in a changed voice: “You mean -Harry Gordon? Oh, it is easy to see you are not a mother. He is very -good--oh, very good. He was adopted by Mr. Bristow. Oh,” she cried, with -a long crying breath, “Mr. Bristow ought to have done something for -Harry. He ought to--I always said so. I did not want to have everything -left to me.” - -She wrung her thin hands, and a convulsive sob came out of the darkness. - -“Ma’am,” said the maid, “I must send this lady away, and put a stop to -everything, if you get agitated like this.” - -“I’ll be quite calm, Miller--quite calm,” the patient cried, putting out -her hand and clutching Miss Bethune’s dress. - -“To keep her calm I will talk to her of this other subject,” said Miss -Bethune, with an injured tone in her voice. She held her head high, -elevating her spare figure, as if in disdain. “Let us forget Dora for -the moment,” she said, “and speak of this young man that has only been a -son to you for the most of his life, only given you his affection and -his services and everything a child could do--but is nothing, of course, -in comparison with a little girl you know nothing about, who is your -niece in blood.” - -“Oh, my niece, my niece!” the poor lady murmured under her breath. - -“Tell me something about this Harry Gordon; it will let your mind down -from the more exciting subject,” said Miss Bethune, still with great -dignity, as if of an offended person. “He has lived with you for years. -He has shared your secrets.” - -“I have talked to him about Dora,” she faltered. - -“But yet,” said the stern questioner, more and more severely, “it does -not seem you have cared anything about him all these years?” - -“Oh, don’t say that! I have always been fond of him, always--always! He -will never say I have not been kind to him,” the invalid cried. - -“Kind?” cried Miss Bethune, with an indignation and scorn which nothing -could exceed. Then she added more gently, but with still the injured -tone in her voice: “Will you tell me something about him? It will calm -you down. I take an interest in the young man. He is like somebody I -once knew, and his name recalls----” - -“Perhaps you knew his father?” said Mrs. Bristow. - -“Perhaps. I would like to hear more particulars. He tells me his mother -is living.” - -“The father was very foolish to tell him. Mr. Bristow always said so. It -was on his deathbed. I suppose,” cried the poor lady, with a deep sigh, -“that on your deathbed you feel that you must tell everything. Oh, I’ve -been silent, silent, so long! I feel that too. She is not a mother that -it would ever be good for him to find. Mr. Bristow wished him never to -come back to England, only for that. He said better be ignorant--better -know nothing.” - -“And why was the poor mother so easily condemned?” - -“You would be shocked--you an unmarried lady--if I told you the story. -She left him just after the boy was born. She fell from one degradation -to another. He sent her money as long as he could keep any trace of her. -Poor, poor man!” - -“And his friends took everything for gospel that this man said?” - -“He was an honest man. Why should he tell Mr. Bristow a lie? I said it -was to be kept from poor Harry. It would only make him miserable. But -there was no doubt about the truth of it--oh, none.” - -“I tell you,” cried Miss Bethune, “that there is every doubt of it. His -mother was a poor deceived girl, that was abandoned, deserted, left to -bear her misery as she could.” - -“Did you know his mother?” said the patient, showing out of the darkness -the gleam of eyes widened by astonishment. - -“It does not matter,” cried Miss Bethune. “I know this, that the -marriage was in secret, and the boy was born in secret; and while she -was ill and weak there came the news of some one coming that might leave -her penniless; and for the sake of the money, the wretched money, this -man took the child up in his arms out of her very bed, and carried it -away.” - -The sick woman clutched the arm of the other, who sat by her side, -tragic and passionate, the words coming from her lips like sobs. “Oh, my -poor lady,” she said, “if that is your story! But it was not that. My -husband, Mr. Bristow, knew. He knew all about Gordon from the beginning. -It was no secret to him. He did not take the child away till the mother -had gone, till he had tried every way to find her, even to bring her -back. He was a merciful man. I knew him too. Oh, poor woman, poor woman, -my heart breaks for that other you knew. She is like me, she is worse -off than me: but the one you know was not Harry’s mother--oh, no, -no--Harry’s mother! If she is living it is--it is--in misery, and worse -than misery.” - -“He said,” uttered a hoarse voice, breathless, out of the dimness, which -nobody could have recognised for Miss Bethune’s, “that you said there -was no such woman.” - -“I did--to comfort him, to make him believe that it was not true.” - -“By a lie! And such a lie--a shameful lie, when you knew so different! -And how should any one believe now a word you say?” - -“Oh, don’t let her say such things to me, Miller, Miller!” cried the -patient, with the cry of a sick child. - -“Madam,” said the maid, “she’s very bad, as you see, and you’re making -her every minute worse. You can see it yourself. It’s my duty to ask you -to go away.” - -Miss Bethune rose from the side of the bed like a ghost, tall and stern, -and towering over the agitated, weeping woman who lay back on the white -pillows, holding out supplicating hands and panting for breath. She -stood for a moment looking as if she would have taken her by the throat. -Then she gave herself a little shake, and turned away. - -Once more the invalid clutched at her dress and drew her back. “Oh,” she -cried, “have mercy upon me! Don’t go away--don’t go away! I will bear -anything. Say what you like, but bring me Dora--bring me Dora--before I -die.” - -“Why should I bring you Dora? Me to whom nobody brings---- What is it to -me if you live or if you die?” - -“Oh, bring me Dora--bring me Dora!” the poor woman wailed, holding fast -by her visitor’s dress. She flung herself half out of the bed, drawing -towards her with all her little force the unwilling, resisting figure. -“Oh, for the sake of all you wish for yourself, bring me -Dora--Dora--before I die!” - -“What have you left me to wish for?” cried the other woman; and she drew -her skirts out of the patient’s grasp. - -No more different being from her who had entered an hour before by the -long passages and staircases of the great hotel could have been than she -who now repassed through them, looking neither to the right nor to the -left--a woman like a straight line of motion and energy, as strong and -stiff as iron, with expression banished from her face, and elasticity -from her figure. She went back by the same streets she had come by, -making her way straight through the crowd, which seemed to yield before -the strength of passion and pain that was in her. There was a singing in -her ears, and a buzzing in her head, and her heart was in her breast as -if it had been turned to stone. Oh, she was not at her first shock of -disappointment and despair. She had experienced it before; but never, -she thought, in such terrible sort as now. She had so wrapped herself in -this dream, which had been suggested to her by nothing but her own -heart, what she thought her instinct, a sudden flash of divination, the -voice of nature. She had felt sure of it the first glimpse she had of -him, before he had even told her his name. She had been sure that this -time it was the voice of nature, that intuition of a mother which could -not be deceived. So many likenesses seemed to meet in Harry Gordon’s -face, so many circumstances to combine in establishing the likelihood, -at least, that this was he. South America, the very ideal place for an -adventurer, and the strange fact that he had a mother living whom he did -not know. A mother living! These words made a thrill of passion, of -opposition, of unmoved and immovable conviction, rush through all her -veins. A mother living! Who could that be but she? What would such a man -care--a man who had abandoned his wife at the moment of a woman’s -greatest weakness, and taken her child from her when she was helpless to -resist him--for the ruin of her reputation after, for fixing upon her, -among those who knew her not, the character of a profligate? He who had -done the first, why should he hesitate to say the last? The one thing -cost him trouble, the other none. It was easier to believe that than to -give up what she concluded with certainty was her last hope. - -Gilchrist, who had seen her coming, rushed downstairs to open the door -for her. But Gilchrist, at this moment, was an enemy, the last person in -the world in whom her mistress would confide; Gilchrist, who had never -believed in it, had refused to see the likeness, or to encourage any -delusion. She was blind to the woman’s imploring looks, her breathless -“Oh, mem!” which was more than any question, and brushed past her with -the same iron rigidity of pose, which had taken all softness from her -natural angularity. She walked straight into her bedroom, where she took -off her bonnet before the glass, without awaiting Gilchrist’s -ministrations, nay, putting them aside with a quick impatient gesture. -Then she went to her sitting-room, and drew her chair into her favourite -position near the window, and took up the paper and began to read it -with every appearance of intense interest. She had read it through every -word, as is the practice of lonely ladies, before she went out: and she -was profoundly conscious now of Gilchrist following her about, hovering -behind her, and more anxious than words can say. Miss Bethune was an -hour or more occupied about that newspaper, of which she did not see a -single word, and then she rose suddenly to her feet. - -“I cannot do it--I cannot do it!” she cried. “The woman has no claim on -me. Most likely she’s nothing but a fool, that has spoilt everything for -herself, and more. Maybe it will not be good for Dora. But I cannot do -it--I cannot do it. It’s too strong for me. Whatever comes of it, she -must see her child--she must see her child before she passes away and is -no more seen. And oh, I wish--I wish that it was not her, but me!” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -Dora passed the long evening of that day in her father’s room. It was -one of those days in which the sun seems to refuse to set, the daylight -to depart. It rolled out in afternoon sunshine, prolonged as it seemed -for half a year’s time, showing no inclination to wane. When the sun at -last went down, there ensued a long interval of day without it, and -slowly, slowly, the shades of twilight came on. Mr. Mannering had been -very quiet all the afternoon. He had sat brooding, unwilling to speak. -The big book came back with Mr. Fiddler’s compliments, and was replaced -upon his table, where he sat sometimes turning over the pages, not -reading, doing nothing. There are few things more terrible to a -looker-on than this silence, this self-absorption, taking no notice of -anything outside of him, of a convalescent. The attitude of despondency, -the bowed head, the curved shoulders, are bad enough in themselves: but -nothing is so dreadful as the silence, the preoccupation with nothing, -the eyes fixed on a page which is not read, or a horizon in which -nothing is visible. Dora sat by him with a book, too, in which she was -interested, which is perhaps the easiest way of bearing this; but the -book ended before the afternoon did, and then she had nothing to do but -to watch him and wonder what he was thinking of--whether his mind was -roving over lands unknown to her, whether it was about the Museum he was -thinking, or the doctor’s orders, or the bills, two or three of which -had by misadventure fallen into his hands. What was it? He remained in -the same attitude, quite still and steady, not moving a finger. -Sometimes she hoped he might have fallen asleep; sometimes she addressed -to him a faltering question, to which he answered Yes or No. He was not -impatient when she spoke to him. He replied to her in monosyllables, -which are almost worse than silence. And Dora durst not protest, could -not upbraid him with that dreadful silence, as an older person might -have done. “Oh, father, talk to me a little!” she once cried in her -despair; but he said gently that he had nothing to talk about, and -silenced the girl. He had taken the various meals and refreshments that -were ordered for him, when they came, with something that was half a -smile and half a look of disgust; and this was the final exasperation to -Dora. - -“Oh, father! when you know that you must take it--that it is the only -way of getting well again.” - -“I am taking it,” he said, with that twist of the lip at every spoonful -which betrayed how distasteful it was. - -This is hard to bear for the most experienced of nurses, and what should -it be for a girl of sixteen? She clasped her hands together in her -impatience to keep herself down. And then there came a knock at the -door, and Gilchrist appeared, begging that Miss Dora would put on her -hat and go out for a walk with Miss Bethune. - -“I’ll come and sit with my work in a corner, and be there if he wants -anything.” - -Mr. Mannering did not seem to take any notice, but he heard the whisper -at the door. - -“There is no occasion for any one sitting with me. I am quite able to -ring if I want anything.” - -“But, father, I don’t want to go out,” said Dora. - -“I want you to go out,” he said peremptorily. “It is not proper that you -should be shut up here all day.” - -“Let me light the candles, then, father?” - -“I don’t want any candles. I am not doing anything. There is plenty of -light for what I want.” - -Oh, what despair it was to have to do with a man who would not be -shaken, who would take his own way and no other! If he would but have -read a novel, as Dora did--if he would but return to the study of his -big book, which was the custom of his life. Dora felt that it was almost -wicked to leave him: but what could she do, while he sat there absorbed -in his thoughts, which she could not even divine what they were about? - -To go out into the cool evening was a relief to her poor little -exasperated temper and troubled mind. The air was sweet and fresh, even -in Bloomsbury; the trees waved and rustled softly against the blue sky; -there was a young moon somewhere, a white speck in the blue, though the -light of day was not yet gone; the voices were softened and almost -musical in the evening air, and it was so good to be out of doors, to be -removed from the close controlling atmosphere of unaccustomed trouble. -“Out of sight, out of mind,” people say. It was very far from being -that; on the contrary, it was but the natural impatience, the mere -contrariety, that had made the girl ready to cry with a sense of the -intolerable which now was softened and subdued, allowing love and pity -to come back. She could talk of nothing but her father as she went along -the street. - -“Do you think he looks any better, Miss Bethune? Do you think he will -soon be able to get out? Do you think the doctor will let him return -soon to the Museum? He loves the Museum better than anything. He would -have more chance to get well if he might go back.” - -“All that must be decided by time, Dora--time and the doctor, who, -though we scoff at him sometimes, knows better, after all, than you or -me. But I want you to think a little of the poor lady you are going to -see.” - -“What am I going to see? Oh, that lady? I don’t know if father will wish -me to see her. Oh, I did not know what it was you wanted of me. I cannot -go against father, Miss Bethune, when he is ill and does not know.” - -“You will just trust to another than your father for once in your life, -Dora. If you think I am not a friend to your father, and one that would -consider him in all things----” - -The girl walked on silently, reluctantly, for some time without -speaking, with sometimes a half pause, as if she would have turned -back. Then she answered in a low voice, still not very willingly: “I -know you are a friend". - -“You do not put much heart in it,” said Miss Bethune, with a laugh. The -most magnanimous person, when conscious of having been very helpful and -a truly good friend at his or her personal expense to another, may be -pardoned a sense of humour, partially bitter, in the grudging -acknowledgment of ignorance. Then she added more gravely: “When your -father knows--and he shall know in time--where I am taking you, he will -approve; whatever his feelings may be, he will tell you it was right and -your duty: of that I am as sure as that I am living, Dora.” - -“Because she is my aunt? An aunt is not such a very tender relation, -Miss Bethune. In books they are often very cold comforters, not kind to -girls that are poor. I suppose,” said Dora, after a little pause, “that -I would be called poor?” - -“You are just nothing, you foolish little thing! You have no character -of your own; you are your father’s daughter, and no more.” - -“I don’t wish to be anything more,” cried Dora, with her foolish young -head held high. - -“And this poor woman,” said Miss Bethune, exasperated, “will not live -long enough to be a friend to any one--so you need not be afraid either -of her being too tender or unkind. She has come back, poor thing, after -long years spent out of her own country, to die.” - -“To die?” the girl echoed in a horrified tone. - -“Just that, and nothing less or more.” - -Dora walked on by Miss Bethune’s side for some time in silence. There -was a long, very long walk through the streets before they reached the -coolness and freshness of the Park. She said nothing for a long time, -until they had arrived at the Serpentine, which--veiled in shadows and -mists of night, with the stars reflected in it, and the big buildings in -the distance standing up solemnly, half seen, yet with gleams of lamps -and light all over them, beyond, and apparently among the trees--has a -sort of splendour and reality, like a great natural river flowing -between its banks. She paused there for a moment, and asked, with a -quick drawing of her breath: “Is it some one--who is dying--that you are -taking me to see?” - -“Yes, Dora; and next to your father, your nearest relation in the -world.” - -“I thought at one time that he was going to die, Miss Bethune.” - -“So did we all, Dora.” - -“And I was very much afraid--oh, not only heartbroken, but afraid. I -thought he would suffer so, in himself,” she said very low, “and to -leave me.” - -“They do not,” said Miss Bethune with great solemnity, as if not of any -individual, but of a mysterious class of people. “They are delivered; -anxious though they may have been, they are anxious no more; though -their hearts would have broken to part with you a little while before, -it is no longer so; they are delivered. It’s a very solemn thing,” she -went on, with something like a sob in her voice; “but it’s comforting, -at least to the like of me. Their spirits are changed, they are -separated; there are other things before them greater than what they -leave behind.” - -“Oh,” cried the girl, “I should not like to think of that: if father had -ceased to think of me even before----” - -“It is comforting to me,” said Miss Bethune, “because I am of those that -are going, and you, Dora, are of those that are staying. I’m glad to -think that the silver chain will be loosed and the golden bowl -broken--all the links that bind us to the earth, and all the cares about -what is to happen after.” - -“Have you cares about what is to happen after?” cried Dora, “Father has, -for he has me; but you, Miss Bethune?” - -Dora never forgot, or thought she would never forget, the look that was -cast upon her. “And I,” said Miss Bethune, “have not even you, have -nobody belonging to me. Well,” she said, going on with a heavy -long-drawn breath, “it looks as if it were true.” - -This was the girl’s first discovery of what youth is generally so long -in finding out, that in her heedlessness and unconscious conviction that -what related to herself was the most important in the world, and what -befel an elderly neighbour of so much less consequence, she had done, or -at least said, a cruel thing. But she did not know how to mend matters, -and so went on by her friend’s side dumb, confusedly trying to enter -into, now that it was too late, the sombre complications of another’s -thought. Nothing more was said till they were close to the great hotel, -which shone out with its many windows luminous upon the soft background -of the night. Then Miss Bethune put her hand almost harshly upon Dora’s -arm. - -“You will remember, Dora,” she said, “that the person we are going to -see is a dying person, and in all the world it is agreed that where a -dying person is he or she is the chief person, and to be considered -above all. It is, maybe, a superstition, but it is so allowed. Their -wants and their wishes go before all; and the queen herself, if she were -coming into that chamber, would bow to it like all the rest: and so must -you. It is, perhaps, not quite sincere, for why should a woman be more -thought of because she is going to die? That is not a quality, you will -say: but yet it’s a superstition, and approved of by all the civilised -world.” - -“Oh, Miss Bethune,” cried Dora, “I know that I deserve that you should -say this to me: but yet----” - -Her companion made no reply, but led the way up the great stairs. - -The room was not so dark as before, though it was night; a number of -candles were shining in the farther corner near the bed, and the pale -face on the pillow, the nostrils dark and widely opened with the panting -breath, was in full light, turned towards the door. A nurse in her white -apron and cap was near the bed, beside a maid whose anxious face was -strangely contrasted with the calm of the professional person. These -accessories Dora’s quick glance took in at once, while yet her -attention was absorbed in the central figure, which she needed no -further explanation to perceive had at once become the first object, the -chief interest, to all near her. Dying! It was more than mere reigning, -more than being great. To think that where she lay there she was going -fast away into the most august presence, to the deepest wonders! Dora -held her breath with awe. She never, save when her father was swimming -for his life, and her thoughts were concentrated on the struggle with -all the force of personal passion, as if it were she herself who was -fighting against death, had seen any such sight before. - -“Is it Dora?” cried the patient. “Dora! Oh, my child, my child, have you -come at last?” - -And then Dora found arms round her clutching her close, and felt with a -strange awe, not unmingled with terror, the wild beating of a feverish -heart, and the panting of a laborious breath. The wan face was pressed -against hers. She felt herself held for a moment with extraordinary -force, and kisses, tears, and always the beat of that troubled -breathing, upon her cheek. Then the grasp relaxed reluctantly, because -the sufferer could do no more. - -“Oh, gently, gently; do not wear yourself out. She is not going away. -She has come to stay with you,” a soothing voice said. - -“That’s all I want--all I want in this world--what I came for,” gave -forth the panting lips. - -Dora’s impulse was to cry, “No, no!” to rise up from her knees, upon -which she had fallen unconsciously by the sick bed, to withdraw from it, -and if possible get away altogether, terrified of that close vicinity: -but partly what Miss Bethune had said, and partly natural feeling, the -instinct of humanity, kept her in spite of herself where she was. The -poor lady lay with her face intent upon Dora, stroking her hair and her -forehead with those hot thin hands, beaming upon her with that ineffable -smile which is the prerogative of the dying. - -“Oh, my little girl,” she said,--“my only one, my only one! Twelve years -it is--twelve long years--and all the time thinking of this! When I’ve -been ill,--and I’ve been very ill, Miller will tell you,--I’ve kept up, -I’ve forced myself to be better for this--for this!” - -“You will wear yourself out, ma’am,” said the nurse. “You must not talk, -you must be quiet, or I shall have to send the young lady away.” - -“No, no!” cried the dying woman, again clutching Dora with fevered arms. -“For what must I be quiet?--to live a little longer? I only want to live -while she’s here. I only want it as long as I can see her--Dora, you’ll -stay with me, you’ll stay with your poor--poor ----” - -“She shall stay as long as you want her: but for God’s sake think of -something else, woman--think of where you’re going!” cried Miss Bethune -harshly over Dora’s head. - -They disposed of her at their ease, talking over her head, bandying her -about--she who was mistress of her own actions, who had never been made -to stay where she did not wish to stay, or to go where she did not care -to go. But Dora was silent even in the rebellion of her spirit. There -was a something more strong than herself, which kept her there on her -knees in the middle of the circle--all, as Miss Bethune had said, -attending on the one who was dying, the one who was of the first -interest, to whom even the queen would bow and defer if she were to come -in here. Dora did not know what to say to a person in such a position. -She approved, yet was angry that Miss Bethune should bid the poor lady -think where she was going. She was frightened and excited, not knowing -what dreadful change might take place, what alteration, before her very -eyes. Her heart began to beat wildly against her breast; pity was in it, -but fear too, which is masterful and obliterates other emotions: yet -even that was kept in check by the overwhelming influence, the -fascination of the chamber of death. - -Then there was a pause; and Dora, still on her knees by the side of the -bed, met as best she could the light which dazzled her, which enveloped -her in a kind of pale flame, from the eyes preternaturally bright that -were fixed upon her face, and listened, as to a kind of strange lullaby, -to the broken words of fondness, a murmur of fond names, of half -sentences, and monosyllables, in the silence of the hushed room. This -seemed to last for a long time. She was conscious of people passing with -hushed steps behind her, looking over her head, a man’s low voice, the -whisper of the nurses, a movement of the lights; but always that -transfigured face, all made of whiteness, luminous, the hot breath -coming and going, the hands about her face, the murmur of words. The -girl was cramped with her attitude for a time, and then the cramp went -away, and her body became numb, keeping its position like a mechanical -thing, while her mind too was lulled into a curious sense of torpor, yet -spectatorship. This lasted she did not know how long. She ceased to be -aware of what was being said to her. Her own name, “Dora,” over and over -again repeated, and strange words, that came back to her afterwards, -went on in a faltering stream. Hours might have passed for anything she -knew, when at last she was raised, scarcely capable of feeling anything, -and put into a chair by the bedside. She became dimly conscious that the -brilliant eyes that had been gazing at her so long were being veiled as -with sleep, but they opened again suddenly as she was removed, and were -fixed upon her with an anguish of entreaty. “Dora, my child,--my child! -Don’t take her away!” - -“She is going to sit by you here,” said a voice, which could only be a -doctor’s voice, “here by your bedside. It is easier for her. She is not -going away.” - -Then the ineffable smile came back. The two thin hands enveloped Dora’s -wrist, holding her hand close between them; and again there came a -wonderful interval--the dark room, the little stars of lights, the soft -movements of the attendants gradually fixing themselves like a picture -on Dora’s mind. Miss Bethune was behind in the dark, sitting bolt -upright against the wall, and never moving. Shadowed by the curtains at -the foot of the bed was some one with a white and anxious face, whom -Dora had only seen in the cheerful light, and could scarcely identify as -Harry Gordon. A doctor and the white-capped nurse were in front, the -maid crying behind. It seemed to go on again and last for hours this -strange scene--until there suddenly arose a little commotion and -movement about the bed, Dora could not tell why. Her hand was liberated; -the other figures came between her and the wan face on the pillow, and -she found herself suddenly, swiftly swept away. She neither made any -resistance nor yet moved of her own will, and scarcely knew what was -happening until she felt the fresh night air on her face, and found -herself in a carriage, with Harry Gordon’s face, very grave and white, -at the window. - -“You will come to me in the morning and let me know the arrangements,” -Miss Bethune said, in a low voice. - -“Yes, I will come; and thank you, thank you a thousand times for -bringing her,” he said. - -They all talked of Dora as if she were a thing, as if she had nothing to -do with herself. Her mind was roused by the motion, by the air blowing -in her face. “What has happened? What has happened?” she asked as they -drove away. - -“Will she be up yonder already, beyond that shining sky? Will she know -as she is known? Will she be satisfied with His likeness, and be like -Him, seeing Him as He is?” said Miss Bethune, looking up at the stars, -with her eyes full of big tears. - -“Oh, tell me,” cried Dora, “what has happened?” with a sob of -excitement; for whether she was sorry, or only awe-stricken, she did not -know. - -“Just everything has happened that can happen to a woman here. She has -got safe away out of it all; and there are few, few at my time of life, -that would not be thankful to be like her--out of it all: though it may -be a great thought to go.” - -“Do you mean that the lady is dead?” Dora asked in a voice of awe. - -“She is dead, as we say; and content, having had her heart’s desire.” - -“Was that me?” cried Dora, humbled by a great wonder. “Me? Why should -she have wanted me so much as that, and not to let me go?” - -“Oh, child, I know no more than you, and yet I know well, well! Because -she was your mother, and you were all she had in the world.” - -“My mother’s sister,” said Dora, with childish sternness; “and,” she -added after a moment, “not my father’s friend.” - -“Oh, hard life and hard judgment!” cried Miss Bethune. “Your mother’s -own self, a poor martyr: except that at the last she has had, what not -every woman has, for a little moment, her heart’s desire!” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -Young Gordon went into Miss Bethune’s sitting-room next morning so early -that she was still at breakfast, lingering over her second cup of tea. -His eyes had the look of eyes which had not slept, and that air of -mingled fatigue and excitement which shows that a great crisis which had -just come was about his whole person. His energetic young limbs were -languid with it. He threw himself into a chair, as if even that support -and repose were comfortable, and an ease to his whole being. - -“She rallied for a moment after you were gone,” he said in a low voice, -not looking at his companion, “but not enough to notice anything. The -doctor said there was no pain or suffering--if he knows anything about -it.” - -“Ay, if he knows,” Miss Bethune said. - -“And so she is gone,” said the young man with a deep sigh. He struggled -for a moment with his voice, which went from him in the sudden access of -sorrow. After a minute he resumed: “She’s gone, and my occupation, all -my reasons for living, seem to be gone too. I know no more what is going -to happen. I was her son yesterday, and did everything for her; now I -don’t know what I am. I am nobody, with scarcely the right even to be -there.” - -“What do you mean? Everybody must know what you have been to her, and -her to you, all your life.” - -The young man was leaning forward in his chair bent almost double, with -his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes,” he said, “I never understood it -before: but I know now what it is to have no rightful place, to have -been only a dependent on their kindness. When my guardian died I did not -feel it, because she was still there to think of me, and I was her -representative in everything; but now the solicitor has taken the -command, and makes me see I am nobody. It is not for the money,” the -young man said, with a wave of his hand. “Let that go however she -wished. God knows I would never complain. But I might have been allowed -to do something for her, to manage things for her as I have done--oh, -almost ever since I can remember.” He looked up with a pale and troubled -smile, wistful for sympathy. “I feel as if I had been cut adrift,” he -said. - -“My poor boy! But she must have provided for you, fulfilled the -expectations----” - -“Don’t say that!” he cried quickly. “There were no expectations. I can -truly say I never thought upon the subject--never!--until we came here -to London. Then it was forced upon me that I was good for nothing, did -not know how to make my living. It was almost amusing at first, I was so -unused to it; but not now I am afraid I am quite useless,” he added, -with again a piteous smile. “I am in the state of the poor fellow in the -Bible. ‘I can’t dig, and to beg I am ashamed.’ I don’t know,” he cried, -“why I should trouble you with all this. But you said I was to come to -you in the morning, and I feel I can speak to you. That’s about all the -explanation there is.” - -“It’s the voice of nature,” cried Miss Bethune quickly, an eager flush -covering her face. “Don’t you know, don’t you feel, that there is nobody -but me you could come to?--that you are sure of me whoever fails -you--that there’s a sympathy, and more than a sympathy? Oh, my boy, I -will be to you all, and more than all!” - -She was so overcome with her own emotion that she could not get out -another word. - -A flush came also upon Harry Gordon’s pale face, a look abashed and full -of wonder. He felt that this lady, whom he liked and respected, went so -much too far, so much farther than there was any justification for -doing. He was troubled instinctively for her, that she should be so -impulsive, so strangely affected. He shook his head. “Don’t think me -ungrateful,” he cried. “Indeed, I don’t know if you mean all that your -words seem to mean--as how should you indeed, and I only a stranger to -you? But, dear Miss Bethune, that can never be again. It is bad enough, -as I find out, to have had no real tie to her, my dear lady that’s -gone--and to feel that everybody must think my grief for my poor aunt is -partly disappointment because she has not provided for me. But no such -link could be forged again. I was a child when that was made. It was -natural; they settled things for me as they pleased, and I knew nothing -but that I was very happy there, and loved them, and they me. But now I -am a man, and must stand for myself. Don’t think me ungracious. It’s -impossible but that a man with full use of his limbs must be able to -earn his bread. It’s only going back to South America, if the worst -comes to the worst, where everybody knows me,” he said. - -Miss Bethune’s countenance had been like a drama while young Gordon made -this long speech, most of which was uttered with little breaks and -pauses, without looking at her, in the same attitude, with his eyes on -the ground. Yet he looked up once or twice with that flitting sad smile, -and an air of begging pardon for anything he said which might wound her. -Trouble, and almost shame, and swift contradiction, and anger, and -sympathy, and tender pity, and a kind of admiration, all went over her -face in waves. She was wounded by what he said, and disappointed, and -yet approved. Could there be all these things in the hard lines of a -middle-aged face? And yet there were all, and more. She recovered -herself quickly as he came to an end, and with her usual voice -replied:-- - -“We must not be so hasty to begin with. It is more than likely that the -poor lady has made the position clear in her will. We must not jump to -the conclusion that things are not explained in that and set right; it -would be a slur upon her memory even to think that it would not be so.” - -“There must be no slur on her memory,” said young Gordon quickly; “but I -am almost sure that it will not be so. She told me repeatedly that I -was not to blame her--as if it were likely I should blame her!” - -“She would deserve blame,” cried Miss Bethune quickly, “if after all -that has passed she should leave you with no provision, no -acknowledgment----” - -He put up his hand to stop her. - -“Not a word of that! What I wanted was to keep my place until -after--until all was done for her. I am a mere baby,” he cried, dashing -away the tears from his eyes. “It was that solicitor coming in to take -charge of everything, to lock up everything, to give all the orders, -that was more than I could bear.” - -She did not trust herself to say anything, but laid her hand upon his -arm. And the poor young fellow was at the end of his forces, worn out -bodily with anxiety and want of sleep, and mentally by grief and the -conflict of emotions. He bent down his face upon her hand, kissing it -with a kind of passion, and burst out, leaning his head upon her arm, -into a storm of tears, that broke from him against his will. Miss -Bethune put her other hand upon his bowed head; her face quivered with -the yearning of her whole life. “Oh, God, is he my bairn?--Oh, God, that -he were my bairn!” she cried. - -But nobody would have guessed what this crisis had been who saw them a -little after, as Dora saw them, who came into the room pale too with the -unusual vigil of the previous night, but full of an indignant something -which she had to say. “Miss Bethune,” she cried, almost before she had -closed the door, “do you know what Gilchrist told father about last -night?--that I was tired when I came in, and had a headache, and she had -put me to bed! And now I have to tell lies too, to say I am better, and -to agree when he thanks Gilchrist for her care, and says it was the best -thing for me. Oh, what a horrible thing it is to tell lies! To hide -things from him, and invent excuses, and cheat him--cheat him with -stories that are not true!” - -Her hair waved behind her, half curling, crisp, inspired by indignation: -her slim figure seemed to expand and grow, her eyes shone. Miss Bethune -had certainly not gained anything by the deceptions, which were very -innocent ones after all, practised upon Mr. Mannering: but she had to -bear the brunt of this shock with what composure she might. She laughed -a little, half glad to shake off the fumes of deeper emotion in this new -incident. “As soon as he is stronger you shall explain everything to -him, Dora,” she said. “When the body is weak the mind should not be -vexed more than is possible with perplexing things or petty cares. But -as soon as he is better----” - -“And now,” cried Dora, flinging back her hair, all crisped, and almost -scintillating, with anger and distress, her eyes filled with tears, -“here comes the doctor now--far, far worse than any bills or any -perplexities, and tells him straight out that he must ask for a year’s -holiday and go away, first for the rest of the summer, and then for the -winter, as father says, to one of those places where all the fools -go!--father, whose life is in the Museum, who cares for nothing else, -who can’t bear to go away! Oh!” cried Dora, stamping her foot, “to think -I should be made to lie, to keep little, little things from -him--contemptible things! and that then the doctor should come straight -upstairs and without any preface, without any apology, blurt out that!” - -“The doctor must have thought, Dora, it was better for him to know. He -says all will go well, he will get quite strong, and be able to work in -the Museum to his heart’s content, if only he will do this now.” - -“If only he will do this! If only he will invent a lot of money, father -says, which we haven’t got. And how is the money to be invented? It is -like telling poor Mrs. Hesketh not to walk, but to go out in a carriage -every day. Perhaps that would make her quite well, poor thing. It would -make the beggar at the corner quite well if he had turtle soup and -champagne like father. And we must stop even the turtle soup and the -champagne. He will not have them; they make him angry now that he has -come to himself. Cannot you see, Miss Bethune,” cried Dora with youthful -superiority, as if such a thought could never have occurred to her -friend, “that we can only do things which we can do--that there are some -things that are impossible? Oh!” she said suddenly, perceiving for the -first time young Gordon with a start of annoyance and surprise. “I did -not know,” cried Dora, “that I was discussing our affairs before a -gentleman who can’t take any interest in them.” - -“Dora, is that all you have to say to one that shared our watch last -night--that has just come, as it were, from her that is gone? Have you -no thought of that poor lady, and what took place so lately? Oh, my -dear, have a softer heart.” - -“Miss Bethune,” said Dora with dignity, “I am very sorry for the poor -lady of last night. I was a little angry because I was made to deceive -father, but my heart was not hard. I was very sorry. But how can I go on -thinking about her when I have father to think of? I could not be fond -of her, could I? I did not know her--I never saw her but once before. If -she was my mother’s sister, she was--she confessed it herself--father’s -enemy. I must--I must be on father’s side,” cried Dora. “I have had no -one else all my life.” - -Miss Bethune and her visitor looked at each other,--he with a strange -painful smile, she with tears in her eyes. “It is just the common way,” -she said,--“just the common way! You look over the one that loves you, -and you heap love upon the one that loves you not.” - -“It cannot be the common way,” said Gordon, “for the circumstances are -not common. It is because of strange things, and relations that are not -natural. I had no right to that love you speak of, and Dora had. But I -have got all the advantages of it for many a year. There is no injustice -if she who has the natural right to it gets it now.” - -“Oh, my poor boy,” cried Miss Bethune, “you argue well, but you know -better in your heart.” - -“I have not a grudge in my heart,” he exclaimed, “not one, nor a -complaint. Oh, believe me!--except to be put away as if I were nobody, -just at this moment when there was still something to do for her,” he -said, after a pause. - -Dora looked from one to the other, half wondering, half impatient. “You -are talking of Mr. Gordon’s business now,” she said; “and I have nothing -to do with that, any more than he has to do with mine. I had better go -back to father, Miss Bethune, if you will tell Dr. Roland that he is -cruel--that he ought to have waited till father was stronger--that it -was wicked--wicked--to go and pour out all that upon him without any -preparation, when even I was out of the way.” - -“Indeed, I think there is reason in what you say, Dora,” said Miss -Bethune, as the girl went away. - -“It will not matter,” said Gordon, after the door was closed. “That is -one thing to be glad of, there will be no more want of money. Now,” he -said, rising, “I must go back again. It has been a relief to come and -tell you everything, but now it seems as if I had a hunger to go back: -and yet it is strange to go back. It is strange to walk about the -streets and to know that I have nobody to go home to, that she is far -away, and unmoved by anything that can happen to me.” He paused a -moment, and added, with that low laugh which is the alternative of -tears: “Not to say that there is no home to go back to, nothing but a -room in a hotel which I must get out of as soon as possible, and nobody -belonging to me, or that I belong to. It is so difficult to get -accustomed to the idea.” - -Miss Bethune gave a low cry. It was inarticulate, but she could not -restrain it. She put out both her hands, then drew them back again; and -after he had gone away, she went on pacing up and down the room, making -this involuntary movement, murmuring that outcry, which was not even a -word, to herself. She put out her hands, sometimes her arms, then -brought them back and pressed them to the heart which seemed to be -bursting from her breast. “Oh, if it might still be that he were mine! -Oh, if I might believe it (as I do--I do!) and take him to me whether or -no!” Her thoughts shaped themselves as their self-repression gave way to -that uncontrollable tide. “Oh, well might he say that it was not the -common way! the woman that had been a mother to him, thinking no more of -him the moment her own comes in! And might I be like that? If I took him -to my heart, that I think must be mine, and then the other, the true -one--that would know nothing of me! And he, what does he know of -me?--what does he think of me?--an old fool that puts out my arms to him -without rhyme or reason. But then it’s to me he comes when he’s in -trouble; he comes to me, he leans his head on me, just by instinct, by -nature. And nature cries out in me here.” She put her hands once more -with unconscious dramatic action to her heart. “Nature cries out--nature -cries out!” - -Unconsciously she said these words aloud, and herself startled by the -sound of her own voice, looked up suddenly, to see Gilchrist, who had -just come into the room, standing gazing at her with an expression of -pity and condemnation which drove her mistress frantic. Miss Bethune -coloured high. She stopped in a moment her agitated walk, and placed -herself in a chair with an air of hauteur and loftiness difficult to -describe. “Well,” she said, “were you wanting anything?” as if the -excellent and respectable person standing before her had been, as -Gilchrist herself said afterwards, “the scum of the earth". - -“No’ much, mem,” said Gilchrist; “only to know if you were"--poor -Gilchrist was so frightened by her mistress’s aspect that she invented -reasons which had no sound of truth in them--“going out this morning, or -wanting your seam or the stocking you were knitting.” - -“Did you think I had all at once become doited, and did not know what I -wanted?” asked Miss Bethune sternly. - -Gilchrist made no reply, but dropped her guilty head. - -“To think,” cried the lady, “that I cannot have a visitor in the -morning--a common visitor like those that come and go about every idle -person,--nor take a thought into my mind, nor say a word even to myself, -but in comes an intrusive serving-woman to worm out of me, with her -frightened looks and her peety and her compassion, what it’s all about! -Lord! if it were any other than a woman that’s been about me twenty -years, and had just got herself in to be a habit and a custom, that -would dare to come with her soft looks peetying me!” - -Having come to a climax, voice and feeling together, in those words, -Miss Bethune suddenly burst into the tempest of tears which all this -time had been gathering and growing beyond any power of hers to restrain -them. - -“Oh, my dear leddy, my dear leddy!” Gilchrist said; then, gradually -drawing nearer, took her mistress’s head upon her ample bosom till the -fit was over. - -When Miss Bethune had calmed herself again, she pushed the maid away. - -“I’ll have no communication with you,” she said. “You’re a good enough -servant, you’re not an ill woman; but as for real sympathy or support in -what is most dear, it’s no’ you that will give them to any person. I’m -neither wanting to go out nor to take my seam. I will maybe read a book -to quiet myself down, but I’m not meaning to hold any communication with -you.” - -“Oh, mem!” said Gilchrist, in appeal: but she was not deeply cast down. -“If it was about the young gentleman,” she added, after a moment, “I -just think he is as nice a young gentleman as the world contains.” - -“Did I not tell you so?” cried the mistress in triumph. “And like the -gracious blood he’s come of,” she said, rising to her feet again, as if -she were waving a flag of victory. Then she sat down abruptly, and -opened upside down the book she had taken from the table. “But I’ll hold -no communication with you on that subject,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Mr. Mannering had got into his sitting-room the next day, as the first -change for which he was able in his convalescent state. The doctor’s -decree, that he must give up work for a year, and spend the winter -abroad, had been fulminated forth upon him in the manner described by -Dora, as a means of rousing him from the lethargy into which he was -falling. After Dr. Roland had refused to permit of his speedy return to -the Museum, he had become indifferent to everything except the expenses, -concerning which he was now on the most jealous watch, declining to -taste the dainties that were brought to him. “I cannot afford it,” was -his constant cry. He had ceased to desire to get up, to dress, to read, -which, in preparation, as he hoped, for going out again, he had been at -first so eager to do. Then the doctor had delivered his full broadside. -“You may think what you like of me, Mannering; of course, it’s in your -power to defy me and die. You can if you like, and nobody can stop you: -but if you care for anything in this world,--for that child who has no -protector but you,"--here the doctor made a pause full of force, and -fixed the patient with his eyes,--“you will dismiss all other -considerations, and make up your mind to do what will make you well -again, without any more nonsense. You must do it, and nothing less will -do.” - -“Tell the beggar round the corner to go to Italy for the winter,” said -the invalid; “he’ll manage it better than I. A man can beg anywhere, he -carries his profession about with him. That’s, I suppose, what you mean -me to do.” - -“I don’t care what you do,” cried Dr. Roland, “as long as you do what I -say.” - -Mr. Mannering was so indignant, so angry, so roused and excited, that he -walked into his sitting-room that afternoon breathing fire and flame. “I -shall return to the Museum next week,” he said. “Let them do what they -please, Dora. Italy! And what better is Italy than England, I should -like to know? A blazing hot, deadly cold, impudently beautiful country. -No repose in it, always in extremes like a scene in a theatre, or else -like chill desolation, misery, and death. I’ll not hear a word of Italy. -The South of France is worse; all the exaggerations of the other, and a -volcano underneath. He may rave till he burst, I will not go. The Museum -is the place for me--or the grave, which might be better still.” - -“Would you take me there with you, father?” said Dora. - -“Child!” He said this word in such a tone that no capitals in the world -could give any idea of it; and then that brought him to a pause, and -increased the force of the hot stimulant that already was working in his -veins. “But we have no money,” he cried,--“no money--no money. Do you -understand that? I have been a fool. I have been going on spending -everything I had. I never expected a long illness, doctors and nurses, -and all those idiotic luxuries. I can eat a chop--do you hear, Dora?--a -chop, the cheapest you can get. I can live on dry bread. But get into -debt I will not--not for you and all your doctors. There’s that Fiddler -and his odious book--three pounds ten--what for? For a piece of vanity, -to say I had the 1490 edition: not even to say it, for who cares except -some of the men at the Museum? What does Roland understand about the -1490 edition? He probably thinks the latest edition is always the best. -And I--a confounded fool--throwing away my money--your money, my poor -child!--for I can’t take you with me, Dora, as you say. God forbid--God -forbid!” - -“Well, father,” said Dora, who had gone through many questions with -herself since the conversation in Miss Bethune’s room, “suppose we were -to try and think how it is to be done. No doubt, as he is the doctor, -however we rebel, he will make us do it at the last.” - -“How can he make us do it? He cannot put money in my pocket, he cannot -coin money, however much he would like it; and if he could, I suppose he -would keep it for himself.” - -“I am not so sure of that, father.” - -“I am sure of this, that he ought to, if he is not a fool. Every man -ought to who has a spark of sense in him. I have not done it, and you -see what happens. Roland may be a great idiot, but not so great an idiot -as I.” - -“Oh, father, what is the use of talking like this? Let us try and think -how we are to do it,” Dora cried. - -His renewed outcry that he could not do it, that it was not a thing to -be thought of for a moment, was stopped by a knock at the door, at -which, when Dora, after vainly bidding the unknown applicant come in, -opened it, there appeared an old gentleman, utterly unknown to both, and -whose appearance was extremely disturbing to the invalid newly issued -from his sick room, and the girl who still felt herself his nurse and -protector. - -“I hope I do not come at a bad moment,” the stranger said. “I took the -opportunity of an open door to come straight up without having myself -announced. I trust I may be pardoned for the liberty. Mr. Mannering, you -do not recollect me, but I have seen you before. I am Mr. Templar, of -Gray’s Inn. I have something of importance to say to you, which will, I -trust, excuse my intrusion.” - -“Oh,” cried Dora. “I am sure you cannot know that my father has been -very ill. He is out of his room for the first time to-day.” - -The old gentleman said that he was very sorry, and then that he was very -glad. “That means in a fair way of recovery,” he said. “I don’t know,” -he added, addressing Mannering, who was pondering over him with a -somewhat sombre countenance, “whether I may speak to you about my -business, Mr. Mannering, at such an early date: but I am almost forced -to do so by my orders: and whether you would rather hear my commission -in presence of this young lady or not.” - -“Where is it we have met?” Mannering said, with a more and more gloomy -look. - -“I will tell you afterwards, if you will hear me in the first place. I -come to announce to you, Mr. Mannering, the death of a client of mine, -who has left a very considerable fortune to your daughter, Dora -Mannering--this young lady, I presume: and with it a prayer that the -young lady, to whom she leaves everything, may be permitted to--may, -with your consent----” - -“Oh,” cried Dora, “I know! It is the poor lady from South America!” And -then she became silent and grew red. “Father, I have hid something from -you,” she said, faltering. “I have seen a lady, forgive me, who was your -enemy. She said you would never forgive her. Oh, how one’s sins find one -out! It was not my fault that I went, and I thought you would never -know. She was mamma’s sister, father.” - -“She was--who?” Mr. Mannering rose from his chair. He had been pale -before, he became now livid, yellow, his thin cheek-bones standing out, -his hollow eyes with a glow in them, his mouth drawn in. He towered over -the two people beside him--Dora frightened and protesting, the visitor -very calm and observant--looking twice his height in his extreme -leanness and gauntness. “Who--who was it? Who?” His whole face asked the -question. He stood a moment tottering, then dropped back in complete -exhaustion into his chair. - -“Father,” cried Dora, “I did not know who she was. She was very ill and -wanted me. It was she who used to send me those things. Miss Bethune -took me, it was only once, and I--I was there when she died.” The -recollection choked her voice, and made her tremble. “Father, she said -you would not forgive her, that you were never to be told; but I could -not believe,” cried Dora, “that there was any one, ill or sorry, and -very, very weak, and in trouble, whom you would not forgive.” - -Mr. Mannering sat gazing at his child, with his eyes burning in their -sockets. At these words he covered his face with his hands. And there -was silence, save for a sob of excitement from Dora, excitement so long -repressed that it burst forth now with all the greater force. The -visitor, for some time, did not say a word. Then suddenly he put forth -his hand and touched the elbow which rested like a sharp point on the -table. He said softly: “It was the lady you imagine. She is dead. She -has led a life of suffering and trouble. She has neither been well nor -happy. Her one wish was to see her child before she died. When she was -left free, as happened by death some time ago, she came to England for -that purpose. I can’t tell you how much or how little the friends knew, -who helped her. They thought it, I believe, a family quarrel.” - -Mr. Mannering uncovered his ghastly countenance. “It is better they -should continue to think so.” - -“That is as you please. For my own part, I think the child at least -should know. The request, the prayer that was made on her deathbed in -all humility, was that Dora should follow her remains to the grave.” - -“To what good?” he cried, “to what good?” - -“To no good. Have you forgotten her, that you ask that? I told her, if -she had asked to see you, to get your forgiveness----” - -“Silence!” cried Mr. Mannering, lifting his thin hand as if with a -threat. - -“But she had not courage. She wanted only, she said, her own flesh and -blood to stand by her grave.” - -Mannering made again a gesture with his hand, but no reply. - -“She has left everything of which she died possessed--a considerable, I -may say a large fortune--to her only child.” - -“I refuse her fortune!” cried Mannering, bringing down his clenched hand -on the table with a feverish force that made the room ring. - -“You will not be so pitiless,” said the visitor; “you will not pursue an -unfortunate woman, who never in her unhappy life meant any harm.” - -“In her unhappy life!--in her pursuit of a happy life at any cost, that -is what you mean.” - -“I will not argue. She is dead. Say she was thoughtless, fickle. I can’t -tell. She did only what she was justified in doing. She meant no harm.” - -“I will allow no one,” cried Mr. Mannering, “to discuss the question -with me. Your client, I understand, is dead,--it was proper, perhaps, -that I should know,--and has left a fortune to my daughter. Well, I -refuse it. There is no occasion for further parley. I refuse it. Dora, -show this gentleman downstairs.” - -“There is only one thing to be said,” said the visitor, rising, “you -have not the power to refuse it. It is vested in trustees, of whom I am -one. The young lady herself may take any foolish step--if you will allow -me to say so--when she comes of age. But you have not the power to do -this. The allowance to be made to her during her minority and all other -particulars will be settled as soon as the arrangements are sufficiently -advanced.” - -“I tell you that I refuse it,” repeated Mr. Mannering. - -“And I repeat that you have no power to do so. I leave her the -directions in respect to the other event, in which you have full power. -I implore you to use it mercifully,” the visitor said. - -He went away without any further farewell--Mannering, not moving, -sitting at the table with his eyes fixed on the empty air. Dora, who had -followed the conversation with astonished uncomprehension, but with an -acute sense of the incivility with which the stranger had been treated, -hurried to open the door for him, to offer him her hand, to make what -apologies were possible. - -“Father has been very ill,” she said. “He nearly died. This is the first -time he has been out of his room. I don’t understand what it all means, -but please do not think he is uncivil. He is excited, and still ill and -weak. I never in my life saw him rude to any one before.” - -“Never mind,” said the old gentleman, pausing outside the door; “I can -make allowances. You and I may have a great deal to do with each other, -Miss Dora. I hope you will have confidence in me?” - -“I don’t know what it all means,” Dora said. - -“No, but some day you will; and in the meantime remember that some one, -who has the best right to do so, has left you a great deal of money, and -that whenever you want anything, or even wish for anything, you must -come to me.” - -“A great deal of money?” Dora said. She had heard him speak of a -fortune--a considerable fortune, but the words had not struck her as -these did. A great deal of money? And money was all that was wanted to -make everything smooth, and open out vistas of peace and pleasure, where -all had been trouble and care. The sudden lighting up of her countenance -was as if the sun had come out all at once from among the clouds. The -old gentleman, who, like so many old gentlemen, entertained cynical -views, chuckled to see that even at this youthful age, and in -Mannering’s daughter, who had refused it so fiercely, the name of a -great deal of money should light up a girl’s face. “They are all alike,” -he said to himself as he went downstairs. - -When Dora returned to the room, she found her father as she had left -him, staring straight before him, seeing nothing, his head supported on -his hands, his hollow eyes fixed. He did not notice her return, as he -had not noticed her absence. What was she to do? One of those crises -had arrived which are so petty, yet so important, when the wisest of -women are reduced to semi-imbecility by an emergency not contemplated in -any moral code. It was time for him to take his beef tea. The doctor had -commanded that under no circumstances was this duty to be omitted or -postponed; but who could have foreseen such circumstances as these, in -which evidently matters of life and death were going through his mind? -After such an agitating interview he wanted it more and more, the -nourishment upon which his recovery depended. But how suggest it to a -man whose mind was gone away into troubled roamings through the past, or -still more troubled questions about the future? It could have been no -small matters that had been brought back to Mr. Mannering’s mind by that -strange visit. Dora, who was not weak-minded, trembled to approach him -with any prosaic, petty suggestion. And yet how did she dare to pass it -by? Dora went about the room very quietly, longing to rouse yet -unwilling to disturb him. How was she to speak of such a small matter as -his beef tea? And yet it was not a small matter. She heard Gilchrist go -into the other room, bringing it all ready on the little tray, and -hurried thither to inquire what that experienced woman would advise. “He -has had some one to see him about business. He has been very much put -out, dreadfully disturbed. I don’t know how to tell you how much. His -mind is full of some dreadful thing I don’t understand. How can I ask -him to take his beef tea? And yet he must want it. He is looking so -ill. He is so worn out. Oh, Gilchrist, what am I to do?” - -“It is just a very hard question, Miss Dora. He should not have seen any -person on business. He’s no’ in a fit state to see anybody the first day -he is out of his bedroom: though, for my part, I think he might have -been out of his bedroom three or four days ago,” Gilchrist said. - -“As if that was the question now! The question is about the beef tea. -Can I go and say, ‘Father, never mind whatever has happened, there is -nothing so important as your beef tea’? Can I tell him that everything -else may come and go, but that beef tea runs on for ever? Oh, Gilchrist, -you are no good at all! Tell me what to do.” - -Dora could not help being light-hearted, though it was in the present -circumstances so inappropriate, when she thought of that “great deal of -money"--money that would sweep all bills away, that would make almost -everything possible. That consciousness lightened more and more upon -her, as she saw the little bundle of bills carefully labelled and tied -up, which she had intended to remove surreptitiously from her father’s -room while he was out of it. With what comfort and satisfaction could -she remove them now! - -“Just put it down on the table by his side, Miss Dora,” said Gilchrist. -“Say no word, just put it there within reach of his hand. Maybe he will -fly out at you, and ask if you think there’s nothing in the world so -important as your confounded---- But no, he will not say that; he’s no’ a -man that gets relief in that way. But, on the other hand, he will maybe -just be conscious that there’s a good smell, and he will feel he’s -wanting something, and he will drink it off without more ado. But do -not, Miss Dora, whatever you do, let more folk on business bother your -poor papaw, for I could not answer for what might come of it. You had -better let me sit here on the watch, and see that nobody comes near the -door.” - -“I will do what you say, and you can do what you like,” said Dora. She -could almost have danced along the passage. Poor lady from America, who -was dead! Dora had been very sorry. She had been much troubled by the -interview about her which she did not understand: but even if father -were pitiless, which was so incredible, it could do that poor woman no -harm now: and the money--money which would be deliverance, which would -pay all the bills, and leave the quarter’s money free to go to the -country with, to go abroad with! Dora had to tone her countenance down, -not to look too guiltily glad when she went in to where her father was -sitting in the same abstraction and gloom. But this time he observed her -entrance, looking up as if he had been waiting for her. She had barely -time to follow Gilchrist’s directions when he stretched out his hand and -took hers, drawing her near to him. He was very grave and pale, but no -longer so terrible as before. - -“Dora,” he said, “how often have you seen this lady of whom I have heard -to-day?” - -“Twice, father; once in Miss Bethune’s room, where she had come. I don’t -know how.” - -“In this house?” he said with a strong quiver, which Dora felt, as if it -had been communicated to herself. - -“And the night before last, when Miss Bethune took me to where she was -living, a long way off, by Hyde Park. I knelt at the bed a long time, -and then they put me in a chair. She said many things I did not -understand--but chiefly,” Dora said, her eyes filling with tears--the -scene seemed to come before her more touchingly in recollection than -when, to her wonder and dismay, it took place, “chiefly that she loved -me, that she had wanted me all my life, and that she wished for me above -everything before she died.” - -“And then?” he said, with a catch in his breath. - -“I don’t know, father; I was so confused and dizzy with being there so -long. All of a sudden they took me away, and the others all came round -the bed. And then there was nothing more. Miss Bethune brought me home. -I understood that the lady--that my poor--my poor aunt--if that is what -she was--was dead. Oh, father, whatever she did, forgive her now!” - -Dora for the moment had forgotten everything but the pity and the -wonder, which she only now began to realise for the first time, of that -strange scene. She saw, as if for the first time, the dark room, the -twinkling lights, the ineffable smile upon the dying face: and her big -tears fell fast upon her father’s hand, which held hers in a trembling -grasp. The quiver that was in him ran through and through her, so that -she trembled too. - -“Dora,” he said, “perhaps you ought to know, as that man said. The lady -was not your aunt: she was your mother--my"--there seemed a convulsion -in his throat, as though he could not pronounce the word--“my wife. And -yet she was not to blame, as the world judges. I went on a long -expedition after you were born, leaving her very young still, and poor. -I did not mean her to be poor. I did not mean to be long away. But I -went to Africa, which is terrible enough now, but was far more terrible -in those days. I fell ill again and again. I was left behind for dead. I -was lost in those dreadful wilds. It was more than three years before I -came to the light of day at all, and it seemed a hundred. I had been -given up by everybody. The money had failed her, her people were poor, -the Museum gave her a small allowance as to the widow of a man killed in -its service. And there was another man who loved her. They meant no -harm, it is true. She did nothing that was wrong. She married him, -thinking I was dead.” - -“Father!” Dora cried, clasping his arm with both her hands: his other -arm supported his head. - -“It was a pity that I was not dead--that was the pity. If I had known, I -should never have come back to put everything wrong. But I never heard a -word till I came back. And she would not face me--never. She fled as if -she had been guilty. She was not guilty, you know. She had only married -again, which the best of women do. She fled by herself at first, leaving -you to me. She said it was all she could do, but that she never, never -could look me in the face again. It has not been that I could not -forgive her, Dora. No, but we could not look each other in the face -again.” - -“Is it she,” said Dora, struggling to speak, “whose picture is in your -cabinet, on its face? May I take it, father? I should like to have it.” - -He put his other arm round her and pressed her close. “And after this,” -he said, “my little girl, we will never say a word on this subject -again.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -The little old gentleman had withdrawn from the apartment of the -Mannerings very quietly, leaving all that excitement and commotion -behind him; but he did not leave in this way the house in Bloomsbury. He -went downstairs cautiously and quietly, though why he should have done -so he could not himself have told, since, had he made all the noise in -the world, it could have had no effect upon the matter in hand in either -case. Then he knocked at Miss Bethune’s door. When he was bidden to -enter, he opened the door gently, with great precaution, and going in, -closed it with equal care behind him. - -“I am speaking, I think, to Mrs. Gordon Grant?” he said. - -Miss Bethune was alone. She had many things to think of, and very likely -the book which she seemed to be reading was not much more than a -pretence to conceal her thoughts. It fell down upon her lap at these -words, and she looked at her questioner with a gasp, unable to make any -reply. - -“Mrs. Gordon Grant, I believe?” he said again, then made a step farther -into the room. “Pardon me for startling you, there is no one here. I am -a solicitor, John Templar, of Gray’s Inn. Precautions taken with other -persons need not apply to me. You are Mrs. Gordon Grant, I know.” - -“I have never borne that name,” she said, very pale. “Janet Bethune, -that is my name.” - -“Not as signed to a document which is in my possession. You will pardon -me, but this is no doing of mine. You witnessed Mrs. Bristow’s will?” - -She gave a slight nod with her head in acquiescence. - -“And then, to my great surprise, I found this name, which I have been in -search of for so long.” - -“You have been in search of it?” - -“Yes, for many years. The skill with which you have concealed it is -wonderful. I have advertised, even. I have sought the help of old -friends who must see you often, who come to you here even, I know. But I -never found the name I was in search of, never till the other day at the -signing of Mrs. Bristow’s will--which, by the way,” he said, “that young -fellow might have signed safely enough, for he has no share in it.” - -“Do you mean to say that she has left him nothing--nothing, Mr. Templar? -The boy that was like her son!” - -“Not a penny,” said the old gentleman--“not a penny. Everything has gone -the one way--perhaps it was not wonderful--to her own child.” - -“I could not have done that!” cried the lady. “Oh, I could not have done -it! I would have felt it would bring a curse upon my own child.” - -“Perhaps, madam, you never had a child of your own, which would make -all the difference,” he said. - -She looked at him again, silent, with her lips pressed very closely -together, and a kind of defiance in her eyes. - -“But this,” he said again, softly, “is no answer to my question. You -were a witness of Mrs. Bristow’s will, and you signed a certain name to -it. You cannot have done so hoping to vitiate the document by a feigned -name. It would have been perfectly futile to begin with, and no woman -could have thought of such a thing. That was, I presume, your lawful -name?” - -“It is a name I have never borne; that you will very easily ascertain.” - -“Still it is your name, or why should you have signed it--in -inadvertence, I suppose?” - -“Not certainly in inadvertence. Has anything ever made it familiar to -me? If you will know, I had my reasons. I thought the sight of it might -put things in a lawyer’s hands, would maybe guide inquiries, would make -easier an object of my own.” - -“That object,” said Mr. Templar, “was to discover your husband?” - -She half rose to her feet, flushed and angry. - -“Who said I had a husband, or that to find him or lose him was anything -to me?” Then, with a strong effort, she reseated herself in her chair. -“That was a bold guess,” she said, “Mr. Templar, not to say a little -insulting, don’t you think, to a respectable single lady that has never -had a finger lifted upon her? I am of a well-known race enough. I have -never concealed myself. There are plenty of people in Scotland who will -give you full details of me and all my ways. It is not like a lawyer--a -cautious man, bound by his profession to be careful--to make such a -strange attempt upon me.” - -“I make no attempt. I only ask a question, and one surely most -justifiable. You did not sign a name to which you had no right, on so -important a document as a will; therefore you are Mrs. Gordon Grant, and -a person to whom for many years I have had a statement to make.” - -She looked at him again with a dumb rigidity of aspect, but said not a -word. - -“The communication I had to make to you,” he said, “was of a death--not -one, so far as I know, that could bring you any advantage, or harm -either, I suppose. I may say that it took place years ago. I have no -reason, either, to suppose that it would be the cause of any deep -sorrow.” - -“Sorrow?” she said, but her lips were dry, and could articulate no more. - -“I have nothing to do with your reasons for having kept your marriage so -profound a secret,” he said. “The result has naturally been the long -delay of a piece of information which perhaps would have been welcome to -you. Mrs. Grant, your husband, George Gordon Grant, died nearly twenty -years ago.” - -“Twenty years ago!” she cried, with a start, “twenty years?” Then she -raised her voice suddenly and cried, “Gilchrist!” She was very pale, -and her excitement great, her eyes gleaming, her nerves quivering. She -paid no attention to the little lawyer, who on his side observed her so -closely. “Gilchrist,” she said, when the maid came in hurriedly from the -inner room in which she had been, “we have often wondered why there was -no sign of him when I came into my fortune. The reason is he was dead -before my uncle died.” - -“Dead?” said Gilchrist, and put up at once her apron to her eyes, “dead? -Oh, mem, that bonnie young man!” - -“Yes,” said Miss Bethune. She rose up and began to move about the room -in great excitement. “Yes, he would still be a bonnie young man -then--oh, a bonnie young man, as his son is now. I wondered how it was -he made no sign. Before, it was natural: but when my uncle was -dead--when I had come into my fortune! That explains it--that explains -it all. He was dead before the day he had reckoned on came.” - -“Oh, dinna say that, now!” cried Gilchrist. “How can we tell if it was -the day he had reckoned on? Why might it no’ be your comfort he was aye -thinking of--that you might lose nothing, that your uncle might keep his -faith in you, that your fortune might be safe?” - -“Ay, that my fortune might be safe, that was the one thing. What did it -matter about me? Only a woman that was so silly as to believe in -him--and believed in him, God help me, long after he had proved what he -was. Gilchrist, go down on your knees and thank God that he did not live -to cheat us more, to come when you and me made sure he would come, and -fleece us with his fair face and his fair ways, till he had got what he -wanted,--the filthy money which was the end of all.” - -“Oh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, again weeping, “dinna say that now. Even if -it were true, which the Lord forbid, dinna say it now!” - -But her mistress was not to be controlled. The stream of recollection, -of pent-up feeling, the brooding of a lifetime, set free by this sudden -discovery of her story, which was like the breaking down of a dyke to a -river, rushed forth like that river in flood. “I have thought many a -time,” she cried,--“when my heart was sick of the silence, when I still -trembled that he would come, and wished he would come for all that I -knew, like a fool woman that I am, as all women are,--that maybe his not -coming was a sign of grace, that he had maybe forgotten, maybe been -untrue; but that it was not at least the money, the money and nothing -more. To know that I had that accursed siller and not to come for it was -a sign of grace. I was a kind of glad. But it was not that!” she cried, -pacing to and fro like a wild creature,--“it was not that! He would have -come, oh, and explained everything, made everything clear, and told me -to my face it was for my sake!--if it had not been that death stepped in -and disappointed him as he had disappointed me!” - -Miss Bethune ended with a harsh laugh, and after a moment seated herself -again in her chair. The tempest of personal feeling had carried her -away, quenching even the other and yet stronger sentiment, which for so -many years had been the passion of her life. She had been suddenly, -strangely driven back to a period which even now, in her sober middle -age, it was a kind of madness to think of--the years which she had lived -through in awful silence, a wife yet no wife, a mother yet no mother, -cut off from everything but the monotonous, prolonged, unending formula -of a girlhood out of date, the life without individuality, without -meaning, and without hope, of a large-minded and active woman, kept to -the rôle of a child, in a house where there was not even affection to -sweeten it. The recollection of those terrible, endless, changeless -days, running into years as indistinguishable, the falsehood of every -circumstance and appearance, the secret existence of love and sacrifice, -of dread knowledge and disenchantment, of strained hope and failing -illusion, and final and awful despair, of which Gilchrist alone knew -anything,--Gilchrist, the faithful servant, the sole companion of her -heart,--came back upon her with all that horrible sense of the -intolerable which such a martyrdom brings. She had borne it in its -day--how had she borne it? Was it possible that a woman could go through -that and live? her heart torn from her bosom, her baby torn from her -side, and no one, no one but Gilchrist, to keep a little life alive in -her heart! And it had lasted for years--many, many, many years,--all the -years of her life, except those first twenty which tell for so little. -In that rush of passion she did not know how time passed, whether it -was five minutes or an hour that she sat under the inspection of the old -lawyer, whom this puzzle of humanity filled with a sort of professional -interest, and who did not think it necessary to withdraw, or had any -feeling of intrusion upon the sufferer. It was not really a long time, -though it might have been a year, when she roused herself and took hold -of her forces, and the dread panorama rolled away. - -Gradually the familiar things around her came back. She remembered -herself, no despairing girl, no soul in bondage, but a sober woman, -disenchanted in many ways, but never yet cured of those hopes and that -faith which hold the ardent spirit to life. Her countenance changed with -her thoughts, her eyes ceased to be abstracted and visionary, her colour -came back. She turned to the old gentleman with a look which for the -first time disturbed and bewildered that old and hardened spectator of -the vicissitudes of life. Her eyes filled with a curious liquid light, -an expression wistful, flattering, entreating. She looked at him as a -child looks who has a favour to ask, her head a little on one side, her -lips quivering with a smile. There came into the old lawyer’s mind, he -could not tell how, a ridiculous sense of being a superior being, a kind -of god, able to confer untold advantages and favours. What did the woman -want of him? What--it did not matter what she wanted--could he do for -her? Nothing that he was aware of: and a sense of the danger of being -cajoled came into his mind, but along with that, which was ridiculous, -though he could not help it, a sense of being really a superior being, -able to grant favours, and benignant, as he had never quite known -himself to be. - -“Mr. Templar,” she said, “now all is over there is not another word to -say: and now the boy--my boy----” - -“The boy?” he repeated, with a surprised air. - -“My child that was taken from me as soon as he was born, my little -helpless bairn that never knew his mother--my son, my son! Give me a -right to him, give me my lawful title to him, and there can be no more -doubt about it--that nobody may say he is not mine.” - -The old lawyer was more confused than words could say. The very sense -she had managed to convey to his mind of being a superior being, full of -graces and gifts to confer, made his downfall the more ludicrous to -himself. He seemed to tumble down from an altitude quite visionary, yet -very real, as if by some neglect or ill-will of his own. He felt himself -humiliated, a culprit before her. “My dear lady,” he said, “you are -going too fast and too far for me. I did not even know there was any---- -Stop! I think I begin to remember.” - -“Yes,” she said, breathless,--“yes!” looking at him with supplicating -eyes. - -“Now it comes back to me,” he said. “I--I--am afraid I gave it no -importance. There was a baby--yes, a little thing a few weeks, or a few -months old--that died.” - -She sprang up again once more to her feet, menacing, terrible. She was -bigger, stronger, far more full of life, than he was. She towered over -him, her face full of tragic passion. “It is not true--it is not true!” -she cried. - -“My dear lady, how can I know? What can I do? I can but tell you the -instructions given to me; it had slipped out of my mind, it seemed of -little importance in comparison. A baby that was too delicate to bear -the separation from its mother--I remember it all now. I am very sorry, -very sorry, if I have conveyed any false hopes to your mind. The baby -died not long after it was taken away.” - -“It is not true,” Miss Bethune said, with a hoarse and harsh voice. -After the excitement and passion, she stood like a figure cut out of -stone. This statement, so calm and steady, struck her like a blow. Her -lips denied, but her heart received the cruel news. It may be necessary -to explain good fortune, but misery comes with its own guarantee. It -struck her like a sword, like a scythe, shearing down her hopes. She -rose into a brief blaze of fury, denying it. “Oh, you think I will -believe that?” she cried,--“me that have followed him in my thoughts -through every stage, have seen him grow and blossom, and come to be a -man! Do you think there would have been no angel to stop me in my vain -imaginations, no kind creature in heaven or earth that would have -breathed into my heart and said, ‘Go on no more, hope no more’? Oh -no--oh no! Heaven is not like that, nor earth! Pain comes and trouble, -but not cruel fate. No, I do not believe it--I will not believe it! It -is not true.” - -“My dear lady,” said the old gentleman, distressed. - -“I am no dear lady to you. I am nothing to you. I am a poor, deserted, -heartbroken woman, that have lived false, false, but never meant it: -that have had no one to stand by me, to help me out of it. And now you -sit there calm, and look me in the face, and take away my son. My baby -first was taken from me, forced out of my arms, new-born: and now you -take the boy I’ve followed with my heart these long, long years, the -bonnie lad, the young man I’ve seen. I tell you I’ve seen him, then. How -can a mother be deceived? We’ve seen him, both Gilchrist and me. Ask -her, if you doubt my word. We have seen him, can any lie stand against -that? And my heart has spoken, and his heart has spoken; we have sought -each other in the dark, and taken hands. I know him by his bonnie eyes, -and a trick in his mouth that is just my father over again: and he knows -me by nature, and the touch of kindly blood.” - -“Oh, mem,” Gilchrist cried, “I warned ye--I warned ye! What is a -likeness to lippen to? And I never saw it,” the woman said, with tears. - -“And who asked ye to see it, or thought ye could see it, a -serving-woman, not a drop’s blood to him or to me? It would be a bonnie -thing,” said Miss Bethune, pausing, looking round, as if to appeal to an -unseen audience, with an almost smile of scorn, “if my hired woman’s -word was to be taken instead of his mother’s. Did she bear him in pain -and anguish? Did she wait for him, lying dreaming, month after month, -that he was to cure all? She got him in her arms when he was born, but -he had been in mine for long before; he had grown a man in my heart -before ever he saw the light of day. Oh, ask her, and there is many a -fable she will tell ye. But me!"--she calmed down again, a smile came -upon her face,--“I have seen my son. Now, as I have nobody but him, he -has nobody but me: and I mean from this day to take him home and -acknowledge him before all the world.” - -Mr. Templar had risen, and stood with his hand on the back of his chair. -“I have nothing more to say,” he said. “If I can be of any use to you in -any way, command me, madam. It is no wish of mine to take any comfort -from you, or even to dispel any pleasing illusion.” - -“As if you could!” she said, rising again, proud and smiling. “As if any -old lawyer’s words, as dry as dust, could shake my conviction, or -persuade me out of what is a certainty. It is a certainty. Seeing is -believing, the very vulgar say. And I have seen him--do you think you -could make me believe after that, that there is no one to see?” - -He shook his head and turned away. “Good-morning to you, ma’am,” he -said. “I have told you the truth, but I cannot make you believe it, and -why should I try? It may be happier for you the other way.” - -“Happier?” she said, with a laugh. “Ay, because it’s true. Falsehood has -been my fate too long--I am happy because it is true.” - -Miss Bethune sat down again, when her visitor closed the door behind -him. The triumph and brightness gradually died out of her face. “What -are you greetin’ there for, you fool?” she said, “and me the happiest -woman, and the proudest mother! Gilchrist,” she said, suddenly turning -round upon her maid, “the woman that is dead was a weak creature, bound -hand and foot all her life. She meant no harm, poor thing, I will allow, -but yet she broke one man’s life in pieces, and it must have been a poor -kind of happiness she gave the other, with her heart always straying -after another man’s bairn. And I’ve done nothing, nothing to injure any -mortal. I was true till I could be true no longer, till he showed all he -was; and true I have been in spite of that all my life, and endured and -never said a word. Do you think it’s possible, possible that yon woman -should be rewarded with her child in her arms, and her soul -satisfied?--and me left desolate, with my very imaginations torn from -me, torn out of me, and my heart left bleeding, and all my thoughts -turned into lies, like myself, that have been no better than a -lie?--turned into lies?” - -“Oh, mem!” cried Gilchrist--“oh, my dear leddy, that has been more to me -than a’ this world! Is it for me to say that it’s no’ justice we have to -expect, for we deserve nothing; and that the Lord knows His ain reasons; -and that the time will come when we’ll get it all back--you, your bairn, -the Lord bless him! and me to see ye as happy as the angels, which is -all I ever wanted or thought to get either here or otherwhere!” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -There was nothing more said to Mr. Mannering on the subject of Mr. -Templar’s mission, neither did he himself say anything, either to -sanction or prevent his child from carrying out the strange desire of -her mother--her mother! Dora did not accept the thought. She made a -struggle within herself to keep up the fiction that it was her mother’s -sister--a relation, something near, yet ever inferior to the vision of a -benignant, melancholy being, unknown, which a dead mother so often is to -an imaginative girl. - -It pleased her to find, as she said to herself, “no likeness” to the -suffering and hysterical woman she had seen, in that calm, pensive -portrait, which she instantly secured and took possession of--the little -picture which had lain so long buried with its face downward in the -secret drawer. She gazed at it for an hour together, and found -nothing--nothing, she declared to herself with indignant satisfaction, -to remind her of the other face--flushed, weeping, middle-aged--which -had so implored her affection. Had it been her mother, was it possible -that it should have required an effort to give that affection? No! Dora -at sixteen believed very fully in the voice of nature. It would have -been impossible, her heart at once would have spoken, she would have -known by some infallible instinct. She put the picture up in her own -room, and filled her heart with the luxury, the melancholy, the sadness, -and pleasure of this possession--her mother’s portrait, more touching to -the imagination than any other image could be. But then there began to -steal a little shadow over Dora’s thoughts. She would not give up her -determined resistance to the idea that this face and the other face, -living and dying, which she had seen, could be one; but when she raised -her eyes suddenly, to her mother’s picture, a consciousness would steal -over her, an involuntary glance of recognition. What more likely than -that there should be a resemblance, faint and far away, between sister -and sister? And then there came to be a gleam of reproach to Dora in -those eyes, and the girl began to feel as if there was an irreverence, a -want of feeling, in turning that long recluse and covered face to the -light of day, and carrying on all the affairs of life under it, as if it -were a common thing. Finally she arranged over it a little piece of -drapery, a morsel of faded embroidered silk which was among her -treasures, soft and faint in its colours--a veil which she could draw in -her moments of thinking and quiet, those moments which it would not be -irreverent any longer to call a dead mother or an angelic presence to -hallow and to share. - -But she said nothing when she was called to Miss Bethune’s room, and -clad in mourning, recognising with a thrill, half of horror, half of -pride, the crape upon her dress which proved her right to that new -exaltation among human creatures--that position of a mourner which is in -its way a step in life. Dora did not ask where she was going when she -followed Miss Bethune, also in black from head to foot, to the plain -little brougham which had been ordered to do fit and solemn honour to -the occasion; the great white wreath and basket of flowers, which filled -up the space, called no observation from her. They drove in silence to -the great cemetery, with all its gay flowers and elaborate aspect of -cheerfulness. It was a fine but cloudy day, warm and soft, yet without -sunshine; and Dora had a curious sense of importance, of meaning, as if -she had attained an advanced stage of being. Already an experience had -fallen to her share, more than one experience. She had knelt, troubled -and awe-stricken, by a death-bed; she was now going to stand by a grave. -Even where real sorrow exists, this curious sorrowful elation of -sentiment is apt to come into the mind of the very young. Dora was -deeply impressed by the circumstances and the position, but it was -impossible that she could feel any real grief. Tears came to her eyes as -she dropped the shower of flowers, white and lovely, into the darkness -of that last abode. Her face was full of awe and pity, but her breast of -that vague, inexplainable expansion and growth, as of a creature entered -into the larger developments and knowledge of life. There were very few -other mourners. Mr. Templar, the lawyer, with his keen but veiled -observation of everything, serious and businesslike; the doctor, with -professional gravity and indifference; Miss Bethune, with almost stern -seriousness, standing like a statue in her black dress and with her pale -face. Why should any of these spectators care? The woman was far the -most moved, thinking of the likeness and difference of her own fate, of -the failure of that life which was now over, and of her own, a deeper -failure still, without any fault of hers. And Dora, wondering, -developing, her eyes full of abstract tears, and her mind of awe. - -Only one mourner stood pale with watching and thought beside the open -grave, his heart aching with loneliness and a profound natural vacancy -and pain. He knew that she had neglected him, almost wronged him at the -last, cut him off, taking no thought of what was to become of him. He -felt even that in so doing this woman was unfaithful to her trust, and -had done what she ought not to have done. But all that mattered nothing -in face of natural sorrow, natural love. She had been a mother to him, -and she was gone. The ear always open to his boyish talk and confidence, -always ready to listen, could hear him no more; and, almost more -poignant, his care of her was over, there was nothing more to do for -her, none of the hundred commissions that used to send him flying, the -hundred things that had to be done. His occupation in life seemed to be -over, his home, his natural place. It had not perhaps ever been a -natural place, but he had not felt that. She had been his mother, though -no drop of her blood ran in his veins; and now he was nobody’s son, -belonging to no family. The other people round looked like ghosts to -Harry Gordon. They were part of the strange cutting off, the severance -he already felt; none of them had anything to do with her, and yet it -was he who was pushed out and put aside, as if he had nothing to do with -her, the only mother he had ever known! The little sharp old lawyer was -her representative now, not he who had been her son. He stood languid, -in a moment of utter depression, collapse of soul and body, by the -grave. When all was over, and the solemn voice which sounds as no other -voice ever does, falling calm through the still air, bidding earth -return to earth, and dust to dust, had ceased, he still stood as if -unable to comprehend that all was over--no one to bid him come away, no -other place to go to. His brain was not relieved by tears, or his mind -set in activity by anything to do. He stood there half stupefied, left -behind, in that condition when simply to remain as we are seems the only -thing possible to us. - -Miss Bethune had placed Dora in the little brougham, in rigorous -fulfilment of her duty to the child. Mr. Templar and the doctor had both -departed, the two other women, Mrs. Bristow’s maid and the nurse who had -accompanied her, had driven away: and still the young man stood, not -paying any attention. Miss Bethune waited for a little by the carriage -door. She did not answer the appeal of the coachman, asking if he was to -drive away; she said nothing to Dora, whose eyes endeavoured in vain to -read the changes in her friend’s face; but, after standing there for a -few minutes quite silent, she suddenly turned and went back to the -cemetery. It was strange to her to hesitate in anything she did, and -from the moment she left the carriage door all uncertainty was over. She -went back with a quick step, treading her way among the graves, and put -her hand upon young Gordon’s arm. - -“You are coming home with me,” she said. - -The new, keen voice, irregular and full of life, so unlike the measured -tones to which he had been listening, struck the young man uneasily in -the midst of his melancholy reverie, which was half trance, half -exhaustion. He moved a step away, as if to shake off the interruption, -scarcely conscious what, and not at all who it was. - -“My dear young man, you must come home with me,” she said again. - -He looked at her, with consciousness re-awakening, and attempted to -smile, with his natural ready response to every kindness. “It is you,” -he said, and then, “I might have known it could only be you.” - -What did that mean? Nothing at all. Merely his sense that the one person -who had spoken kindly to him, looked tenderly at him (though he had -never known why, and had been both amused and embarrassed by the -consciousness), was the most likely among all the strangers by whom he -was surrounded to be kind to him now. But it produced an effect upon -Miss Bethune which was far beyond any meaning it bore. - -A great light seemed suddenly to blaze over her face; her eyes, which -had been so veiled and stern, awoke; every line of a face which could -be harsh and almost rigid in repose, began to melt and soften; her -composure, which had been almost solemn, failed; her lip began to -quiver, tears came dropping upon his arm, which she suddenly clasped -with both her hands, clinging to it. “You say right,” she cried, “my -dear, my dear!--more right than all the reasons. It is you and nature -that makes everything clear. You are just coming home with me.” - -“I don’t seem,” he said, “to know what the word means.” - -“But you will soon learn again. God bless the good woman that cherished -you and loved you, my bonnie boy. I’ll not say a word against her--oh, -no, no! God’s blessing upon her as she lies there. I will never grudge a -good word you say of her, never a regret. But now"--she put her arm -within his with a proud and tender movement, which so far penetrated his -languor as to revive the bewilderment which he had felt before--“now you -are coming home with me.” - -He did not resist; he allowed himself to be led to the little carriage -and packed into it, which was not quite an easy thing to do. On another -occasion he would have laughed and protested, but on this he submitted -gravely to whatever was required of him, thankful, in the failure of all -motive, to have some one to tell him what to do, to move him as if he -were an automaton. He sat bundled up on the little front seat, with -Dora’s wondering countenance opposite to him, and that other -inexplicable face, inspired and lighted up with tenderness. He had not -strength enough to inquire why this stranger took possession of him so; -neither could Dora tell, who sat opposite to him, her mind awakened, her -thoughts busy. This was the almost son of the woman who they said was -Dora’s mother. What was he to Dora? Was he the nearer to her, or the -farther from her, for that relationship? Did she like him better or -worse for having done everything that it ought, they said, have been her -part to do? - -These questions were all confused in Dora’s mind, but they were not -favourable to this new interloper into her life--he who had known about -her for years while she had never heard of him. She sat very upright, -reluctant to make room for him, yet scrupulously doing so, and a little -indignant that he should thus be brought in to interfere with her own -claims to the first place. The drive to Bloomsbury seemed very long in -these circumstances, and it was indeed a long drive. They all came back -into the streets after the long suburban road with a sense almost of -relief in the growing noise, the rattle of the causeway, and sound of -the carts and carriages--which made it unnecessary, as it had been -impossible for them, to say anything to each other, and brought back the -affairs of common life to dispel the influences of the solemn moment -that was past. - -When they had reached Miss Bethune’s rooms, and returned altogether to -existence, and the sight of a table spread for a meal, it was a shock, -but not an ungrateful one. Miss Bethune at once threw off the gravity -which had wrapped her like a cloak, when she put away her black bonnet. -She bade Gilchrist hurry to have the luncheon brought up. “These two -young creatures have eaten nothing, I am sure, this day. Probably they -think they cannot: but when food is set before them they will learn -better. Haste ye, Gilchrist, to have it served up. No, Dora, you will -stay with me too. Your father is a troubled man this day. You will not -go in upon him with that cloud about you, not till you are refreshed and -rested, and have got your colour and your natural look back. And you, my -bonnie man!” She could not refrain from touching, caressing his shoulder -as she passed him; her eyes kept filling with tears as she looked at -him. He for his part moved and took his place as she told him, still in -a dream. - -It was a curious meal, more daintily prepared and delicate than usual, -and Miss Bethune was a woman who at all times was “very particular,” and -exercised all the gifts of the landlady, whose other lodgers demanded -much less of her. And the mistress of the little feast was still less as -usual. She scarcely sat down at her own table, but served her young -guests with anxious care, carving choice morsels for them, watching -their faces, their little movements of impatience, and the gradual -development of natural appetite, which came as the previous spell -gradually wore off. She talked all the time, her countenance a little -flushed and full of emotion, her eyes moist and shining, with frequent -sallies at Gilchrist, who hovered round the table waiting upon the young -guests, and in her excitement making continual mistakes and stumblings, -which soon roused Dora to laugh, and Harry to apologise. - -“It is all right,” he cried, when Miss Bethune at last made a dart at -her attendant, and gave her, what is called in feminine language, “a -shake,” to bring her to herself. - -“Are you out of your wits, woman?” Miss Bethune exclaimed. “Go away and -leave me to look after the bairns, if ye cannot keep your head. Are you -out of your wits?” - -“Indeed, mem, and I have plenty of reason, Gilchrist said, weeping, and -feeling for her apron, while the dish in her hand wavered wildly; and -then it was that Harry Gordon, coming to himself, cried out that it was -all right. - -“And I am going to have some of that,” he added, steadying the kind -creature, whose instinct of service had more effect than either -encouragement or reproof. And this little touch of reality settled him -too. He began to respond a little, to rouse himself, even to see the -humour of the situation, at which Dora had begun to laugh, but which -brought a soft moisture, in which was ease and consolation, to his eyes. - -It was not until about an hour later that Miss Bethune was left alone -with the young man. He had begun by this time to speak about himself. “I -am not so discouraged as you think,” he said, “I don’t seem to be -afraid. After all, it doesn’t matter much, does it, what happens to a -young fellow all alone in the world? It’s only me, anyhow. I have no -wife,” he said, with a faint laugh, “no sister to be involved--nothing -but my own rather useless person, a thing of no account. It wasn’t that -that knocked me down. It was just the feeling of the end of everything, -and that she was laid there that had been so good to me--so good--and -nothing ever to be done for her any more.” - -“I can forgive you that,” said Miss Bethune, with a sort of sob in her -throat. “And yet she was ill to you, unjust at the last.” - -“No, not that. I have had everything, too much for a man capable of -earning his living to accept--but then it seemed all so natural, it was -the common course of life. I was scarcely waking up to see that it could -not be.” - -“And a cruel rousing you have had at last, my poor boy.” - -“No,” he said steadily, “I will never allow it was cruel; it has been -sharp and effectual. It couldn’t help being effectual, could it? since I -have no alternative. The pity is I am good for so little. No education -to speak of.” - -“You shall have education--as much as you can set your face to.” - -He looked up at her with a little air of surprise, and shook his head. -“No,” he said, “not now. I am too old. I must lose no more time. The -thing is, that my work will be worth so much less, being guided by no -skill. Skill is a beautiful thing. I envy the very scavengers,” he said -(who were working underneath the window), “for piling up their mud like -that, straight. I should never get it straight.” The poor young fellow -was so near tears that he was glad from time to time to have a chance -of a feeble laugh, which relieved him. “And that is humble enough! I -think much the best thing for me will be to go back to South America. -There are people who know me, who would give me a little place where I -could learn. Book-keeping can’t be such a tremendous mystery. There’s an -old clerk or two of my guardians"--here he paused to swallow down the -climbing sorrow--“who would give me a hint or two. And if the pay was -very small at first, why, I’m not an extravagant fellow.” - -“Are you sure of that?” his confidante said. - -He looked at her again, surprised, then glanced at himself and his -dress, which was not economical, and reddened and laughed again. “I am -afraid you are right,” he said. “I haven’t known much what economy was. -I have lived like the other people; but I am not too old to learn, and I -should not mind in the least what I looked like, or how I lived, for a -time. Things would get better after a time.” - -They were standing together near the window, for he had begun to roam -about the room as he talked, and she had risen from her chair with one -of the sudden movements of excitement. “There will be no need,” she -said,--“there will be no need. Something will be found for you at home.” - -He shook his head. “You forget it is scarcely home to me. And what could -I do here that would be worth paying me for? I must no more be dependent -upon kindness. Oh, don’t think I do not feel kindness. What should I -have done this miserable day but for you, who have been so good to -me--as good as--as a mother, though I had no claim?” - -She gave a great cry, and seized him by both his hands. “Oh, lad, if you -knew what you were saying! That word to me, that have died for it, and -have no claim! Gilchrist, Gilchrist!” she cried, suddenly dropping his -hands again, “come here and speak to me! Help me! have pity upon me! For -if this is not him, all nature and God’s against me. Come here before I -speak or die!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -It was young Gordon himself, alarmed but not excited as by any idea of a -new discovery which could affect his fate, who brought Miss Bethune back -to herself, far better than Gilchrist could do, who had no art but to -weep and entreat, and then yield to her mistress whatever she might -wish. _A quelque chose malheur est bon._ He had been in the habit of -soothing and calming down an excitable, sometimes hysterical woman, -whose _accès des nerfs_ meant nothing, or were, at least, supposed to -mean nothing, except indeed nerves, and the ups and downs which are -characteristic of them. He was roused by the not dissimilar outburst of -feeling or passion, wholly incomprehensible to him from any other point -of view, to which his new friend had given way. He took it very quietly, -with the composure of use and wont. The sight of her emotion and -excitement brought him quite back to himself. He could imagine no reason -whatever for it, except the sympathetic effect of all the troublous -circumstances in which she had been, without any real reason, involved. -It was her sympathy, her kindness for himself and for Dora, he had not -the least doubt, which, by bringing her into those scenes of pain and -trouble, and associating her so completely with the complicated and -intricate story, had brought on this “attack.” What he had known to be -characteristic of the one woman with whom he had been in familiar -intercourse for so long a period of his life seemed to Harry -characteristic of all women. He was quite equal to the occasion. Dr. -Roland himself, who would have been so full of professional curiosity, -so anxious to make out what it was all about, as perhaps to lessen his -promptitude in action, would scarcely have been of so much real use as -Harry, who had no _arrière pensée_, but addressed himself to the -immediate emergency with all his might. He soothed the sufferer, so that -she was soon relieved by copious floods of tears, which seemed to him -the natural method of getting rid of all that emotion and excitement, -but which surprised Gilchrist beyond description, and even Miss Bethune -herself, whose complete breakdown was so unusual and unlike her. He left -her quite at ease in his mind as to her condition, having persuaded her -to lie down, and recommended Gilchrist to darken the room, and keep her -mistress in perfect quiet. - -“I will go and look after my things,” he said, “and I’ll come back when -I have made all my arrangements, and tell you everything. Oh, don’t -speak now! You will be all right in the evening if you keep quite quiet -now: and if you will give me your advice then, it will be very, very -grateful to me.” He made a little warning gesture, keeping her from -replying, and then kissed her hand and went away. He had himself pulled -down the blind to subdue a little of the garish July daylight, and -placed her on a sofa in the corner--ministrations which both mistress -and maid permitted with bewilderment, so strange to them was at once the -care and the authority of such proceedings. They remained, Miss Bethune -on the sofa, Gilchrist, open-mouthed, staring at her, until the door was -heard to close upon the young man. Then Miss Bethune rose slowly, with a -kind of awe in her face. - -“As soon as you think he is out of sight,” she said, “Gilchrist, we’ll -have up the blinds again, but not veesibly, to go against the boy.” - -“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, between laughing and crying, “to bid me -darken the room, and you that canna abide the dark, night or day!” - -“It was a sweet thought, Gilchrist--all the pure goodness of him and the -kind heart.” - -“I am not saying, mem, but what the young gentleman has a very kind -heart.” - -“You are not saying? And what can you know beyond what’s veesible to -every person that sees him? It is more than that. Gilchrist, you and all -the rest, what do I care what you say? If that is not the voice of -nature, what is there to trust to in this whole world? Why should that -young lad, bred up so different, knowing nothing of me or my ways, have -taken to me? Look at Dora. What a difference! She has no instinct, -nothing drawing her to her poor mother. That was a most misfortunate -woman, but not an ill woman, Gilchrist. Look how she has done by mine! -But Dora has no leaning towards her, no tender thought; whereas he, my -bonnie boy----” - -“Mem,” said Gilchrist, “but if it was the voice of nature, it would be -double strong in Miss Dora; for there is no doubt that it was her -mother: and with this one--oh, my dear leddy, you ken yoursel’----” - -Miss Bethune gave her faithful servant a look of flame, and going to the -windows, drew up energetically the blinds, making the springs resound. -Then she said in her most satirical tone: “And what is it I ken mysel’?” - -“Oh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “there’s a’ the evidence, first his ain -story, and then the leddy’s that convinced ye for a moment; and then, -what is most o’ a, the old gentleman, the writer, one of them that kens -everything: of the father that died so many long years ago, and the baby -before him.” - -Miss Bethune put up her hands to her ears, she stamped her foot upon the -ground. “How dare ye--how dare ye?” she cried. “Either man or woman that -repeats that fool story to me is no friend of mine. My child, that I’ve -felt in my heart growing up, and seen him boy and man! What’s that old -man’s word--a stranger that knows nothing, that had even forgotten what -he was put up to say--in comparison with what is in my heart? Is there -such a thing as nature, or no? Is a mother just like any other person, -no better, rather worse? Oh, woman!--you that are a woman! with no call -to be rigid about your evidence like a man--what’s your evidence to me? -I will just tell him when he comes back. ‘My bonnie man,’ I will say, -‘you have been driven here and there in this world, and them that liked -you best have failed you; but here is the place where you belong, and -here is a love that will never fail!’” - -“Oh, my dear leddy, my own mistress,” cried Gilchrist, “think--think -before you do that! He will ask ye for the evidence, if I am not to ask -for it. He’s a fine, independent-spirited young gentleman, and he will -just shake his head, and say he’ll lippen to nobody again. Oh, dinna -deceive the young man! Ye might find out after----” - -“What, Gilchrist? Do you think I would change my mind about my own son, -and abandon him, like this woman, at the last?” - -“I never knew you forsake one that trusted in ye, I’m not saying that; -but there might come one after all that had a better claim. There might -appear one that even the like of me would believe in--that would have -real evidence in his favour, that was no more to be doubted than if he -had never been taken away out of your arms.” - -Miss Bethune turned round quick as lightning upon her maid, her eyes -shining, her face full of sudden colour and light. “God bless you, -Gilchrist!” she cried, seizing the maid by her shoulders with a half -embrace; “I see now you have never believed in that story--no more than -me.” - -Poor Gilchrist could but gape with her mouth open at this unlooked-for -turning of the tables. She had presented, without knowing it, the -strongest argument of all. - -After this, the patient, whom poor Harry had left to the happy -influences of quiet and darkness, with all the blinds drawn up and the -afternoon sunshine pouring in, went through an hour or two of restless -occupation, her mind in the highest activity, her thoughts and her hands -full. She promised finally to Gilchrist, not without a mental -reservation in the case of special impulse or new light, not to disclose -her conviction to Harry, but to wait for at least a day or two on -events. But even this resolution did not suffice to reduce her to any -condition of quiet, or make the rest which he had prescribed possible. -She turned to a number of things which had been laid aside to be done -one time or another; arrangement of new possessions and putting away of -old, for which previously she had never found a fit occasion, and -despatched them, scarcely allowing Gilchrist to help her, at lightning -speed. - -Finally, she took out an old and heavy jewel-box, which had stood -untouched in her bedroom for years; for, save an old brooch or two and -some habitual rings which never left her fingers, Miss Bethune wore no -ornaments. She took them into her sitting-room as the time approached -when Harry might be expected back. It would give her a countenance, she -thought; it would keep her from fixing her eyes on him while he spoke, -and thus being assailed through all the armour of the heart at the same -time. She could not look him in the face and see that likeness which -Gilchrist, unconvincible, would not see, and yet remain silent. Turning -over the old-fashioned jewels, telling him about them, to whom they had -belonged, and all the traditions regarding them, would help her in that -severe task of self-repression. She put the box on the table before her, -and pulled out the trays. - -Nobody in Bloomsbury had seen these treasures before: the box had been -kept carefully locked, disguised in an old brown cover, that no one -might even guess how valuable it was. Miss Bethune was almost tempted to -send for Dora to see the diamonds in their old-fashioned settings, and -that pearl necklace which was still finer in its perfection of lustre -and shape. To call Dora when there was anything to show was so natural, -and it might make it easier for her to keep her own counsel; but she -reflected that in Dora’s presence the young man would not be more than -half hers, and forbore. - -Never in her life had those jewels given her so much pleasure. They had -given her no pleasure, indeed. She had not been allowed to have them in -that far-off stormy youth, which had been lightened by such a sweet, -guilty gleam of happiness, and quenched in such misery of downfall. When -they came to her by inheritance, like all the rest, these beautiful -things had made her heart sick. What could she do with them--a woman -whose life no longer contained any possible festival, who had nobody -coming after her, no heir to make heirlooms sweet? She had locked the -box, and almost thrown away the key, which, however, was a passionate -suggestion repugnant to common sense, and resolved itself naturally -into confiding the key to Gilchrist, in whose most secret repositories -it had been kept, with an occasional furtive interval during which the -maid had secretly visited and “polished up” the jewels, making sure that -they were all right. Neither mistress nor maid was quite aware of their -value, and both probably exaggerated it in their thoughts; but some of -the diamonds were fine, though all were very old-fashioned in -arrangement, and the pearls were noted. Miss Bethune pulled out the -trays, and the gems flashed and sparkled in a thousand colours in the -slant of sunshine which poured in its last level ray through one window, -just before the sun set--and made a dazzling show upon the table, almost -blinding Janie, who came up with a message, and could not restrain a -little shriek of wonder and admiration. The letter was one of trouble -and appeal from poor Mrs. Hesketh, who and her husband were becoming -more and more a burden on the shoulders of their friends. It asked for -money, as usual, just a little money to go on with, as the shop in which -they had been set up was not as yet producing much. The letter had been -written with evident reluctance, and was marked with blots of tears. -Miss Bethune’s mind was too much excited to consider calmly any such -petition. Full herself of anticipation, of passionate hope, and -visionary enthusiasm, which transported her above all common things, how -was she to refuse a poor woman’s appeal for the bare necessities of -existence--a woman “near her trouble,” with a useless husband, who was -unworthy, yet whom the poor soul loved? She called Gilchrist, who -generally carried the purse, to get something for the poor little pair. - -“Is there anybody waiting?” she asked. - -“Oh ay, mem,” said Gilchrist, “there’s somebody waiting,--just him -himsel’, the weirdless creature, that is good for nothing.” Gilchrist -did not approve of all her mistress’s liberalities. “I would not just be -their milch cow to give them whatever they’re wanting,” she said. “It’s -awful bad for any person to just know where to run when they are in -trouble.” - -“Hold your peace!” cried her mistress. “Am I one to shut up my heart -when the blessing of God has come to me?” - -“Oh, mem!” cried Gilchrist, remonstrating, holding up her hands. - -But Miss Bethune stamped her foot, and the wiser woman yielded. - -She found Hesketh standing at the door of the sitting-room, when she -went out to give him, very unwillingly, the money for his wife. “The -impident weirdless creature! He would have been in upon my leddy in -another moment, pressing to her very presence with his impident ways!” -cried Gilchrist, hot and indignant. The faithful woman paused at the -door as she came back, and looked at her mistress turning over and -rearranging these treasures. “And her sitting playing with her bonnie -dies, in a rapture like a little bairn!” she said to herself, putting up -her apron to her eyes. And then Gilchrist shook her head--shook it, -growing quicker and quicker in the movement, as if she would have -twisted it off. - -But Miss Bethune was “very composed” when young Gordon came back. With -an intense sense of the humour of the position, which mistress and maid -communicated to each other with one glance of tacit co-operation, these -two women comported themselves as if the behests of the young visitor -who had taken the management of Miss Bethune’s _accès des nerfs_ upon -himself, had been carried out. She assumed, almost unconsciously, -notwithstanding the twinkle in her eye, the languid aspect of a woman -who has been resting after unusual excitement. All women, they say (as -they say so many foolish things), are actors; all women, at all events, -let us allow, learn as the A B C of their training the art of taking up -a rôle assigned to them, and fulfilling the necessities of a position. -“You will see what I’m reduced to by what I’m doing,” she said. “As if -there was nothing of more importance in life, I am just playing myself -with my toys, like Dora, or any other little thing.” - -“So much the best thing you could do,” said young Harry; and he was -eager and delighted to look through the contents of the box with her. - -He was far better acquainted with their value than she was, and while -she told him the family associations connected with each ornament, he -discussed very learnedly what they were, and distinguished the -old-fashioned rose diamonds which were amongst those of greater value, -with a knowledge that seemed to her extraordinary. They spent, in fact, -an hour easily and happily over that box, quite relieved from graver -considerations by the interposition of a new thing, in which there were -no deep secrets of the heart or commotions of being involved: and thus -were brought down into the ordinary from the high and troublous level of -feeling and excitement on which they had been. To Miss Bethune the -little episode was one of child’s play in the midst of the most serious -questions of the world. Had she thought it possible beforehand that such -an interval could have been, she would, in all likelihood, have scorned -herself for the dereliction, and almost scorned the young man for being -able to forget at once his sorrow and the gravity of his circumstances -at sight of anything so trifling as a collection of trinkets. But in -reality this interlude was balm to them both. It revealed to Miss -Bethune a possibility of ordinary life and intercourse, made sweet by -understanding and affection, which was a revelation to her repressed and -passionate spirit; and it soothed the youth with that renewing of fresh -interests, reviving and succeeding the old, which gives elasticity to -the mind, and courage to face the world anew. They did not know how long -they had been occupied over the jewels, when the hour of dinner came -round again, and Gilchrist appeared with her preparations, still further -increasing that sense of peaceful life renewed, and the order of common -things begun again. It was only after this meal was over, the jewels -being all restored to their places, and the box to its old brown cover -in Miss Bethune’s bedroom, that the discussion of the graver question -was resumed. - -“There is one thing,” Miss Bethune said, “that, however proud you may -be, you must let me say: and that is, that everything having turned out -so different to your thoughts, and you left--you will not be -offended?--astray, as it were, in this big unfriendly place----” - -“I cannot call it unfriendly,” said young Gordon. “If other people find -it so, it is not my experience. I have found you.” He looked up at her -with a half laugh, with moisture in his eyes. - -“Ay,” she said, with emphasis, “you have found me--you say well--found -me when you were not looking for me. I accept the word as a good omen. -And after that?” - -If only she would not have abashed him from time to time with those dark -sayings, which seemed to mean something to which he had no clue! He felt -himself brought suddenly to a standstill in his grateful effusion of -feeling, and put up his hand to arrest her in what she was evidently -going on to say. - -“Apart from that,” he said hurriedly, “I am not penniless. I have not -been altogether dependent; at least, the form of my dependence has been -the easiest one. I have had my allowance from my guardian ever since I -came to man’s estate. It was my own, though, of course, of his giving. -And I am not an extravagant fellow. It was not as if I wanted money for -to-morrow’s living, for daily bread.” He coloured as he spoke, with the -half pride, half shame, of discussing such a subject. “I think,” he -said, throwing off that flush with a shake of his head, “that I have -enough to take me back to South America, and there, I told you, I have -friends. I don’t think I can fail to find work there.” - -“But under such different circumstances! Have you considered? A poor -clerk where you were one of the fine gentlemen of the place. Such a -change of position is easier where you are not known.” - -He grew red again, with a more painful colour. “I don’t think so,” he -said quickly. “I don’t believe that my old friends would cast me off -because, instead of being a useless fellow about town, I was a poor -clerk.” - -“Maybe you are right,” said Miss Bethune very gravely. “I am not one -that thinks so ill of human nature. They would not cast you off. But -you, working hard all day, wearied at night, with no house to entertain -them in that entertained you, would it not be you that would cast off -them?” - -He looked at her, startled, for a moment. “Do you think,” he cried, -“that poverty makes a man mean like that?” And then he added slowly: “It -is possible, perhaps, that it might be so.” Then he brightened up again, -and looked her full in the face. “But then there would be nobody to -blame for that, it would be simply my own fault.” - -“God bless you, laddie!” cried Miss Bethune quite irrelevantly; and then -she too paused. “If it should happen so that there was a place provided -for you at home. No, no, not what you call dependence--far from it, hard -work. I know one--a lady that has property in the North--property that -has not been well managed--that has given her more trouble than it is -worth. But there’s much to be made of it, if she had a man who would -give his mind to it as if--as if it were his own.” - -“But I,” he said, “know nothing about the North. I would not know how to -manage. I told you I had no education. And would this lady have me, -trust me, put that in my hands, without knowing, without----” - -“She would trust you,” said Miss Bethune, clasping her hands together -firmly, and looking him in the face, in a rigid position which showed -how little steady she was--“she would trust you, for life and death, on -my word.” - -His eyes fell before that unfathomable concentration of hers. “And you -would trust me like that--knowing so little, so little? And how can you -tell even that I am honest--even that I am true? That there’s nothing -behind, no weakness, no failure?” - -“Don’t speak to me,” she said harshly. “I know.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -The evening passed, however, without any further revelations. Miss -Bethune explained to the young man, with all the lucidity of a man of -business, the situation and requirements of that “property in the -North,” which would give returns, she believed, of various kinds, not -always calculated in balance sheets, if it was looked after by a man who -would deal with it “as if it were his own.” The return would be -something in money and rents, but much more in human comfort and -happiness. She had never had the courage to tackle that problem, she -said, and the place had been terrible to her, full of associations which -would be thought of no more if he were there. The result was, that young -Gordon went away thoughtful, somewhat touched by the feeling with which -Miss Bethune had spoken of her poor crofters, somewhat roused by the -thought of “the North,” that vague and unknown country which was the -country of his fathers, the land of brown heath and shaggy wood, the -country of Scott, which is, after all, distinction enough for any -well-conditioned stranger. Should he try that strange new opening of -life suddenly put before him? The unknown of itself has a charm-- - - If the pass were dangerous known, - The danger’s self were lure alone. - -He went back to his hotel with at least a new project fully occupying -all his thoughts. - -On the next evening, in the dusk of the summer night, Miss Bethune was -in her bed-chamber alone. She had no light, though she was a lover of -the light, and had drawn up the blinds as soon as the young physician -who prescribed a darkened room had disappeared. She had a habit of -watching out the last departing rays of daylight, and loved to sit in -the gloaming, as she called it, reposing from all the cares of the day -in that meditative moment. It was a bad sign of Miss Bethune’s state of -mind when she called early for her lamp. She was seated thus in the -dark, when young Gordon came in audibly to the sitting-room, introduced -by Gilchrist, who told him her mistress would be with him directly; but, -knowing Miss Bethune would hear what she said, did not come to call her. -The lamps were lighted in that room, and showed a little outline of -light through the chinks of the door. She smiled to herself in the dark, -with a beatitude that ought to have lighted it up, as she listened to -the big movements of the young man in the lighted room next door. He had -seated himself under Gilchrist’s ministrations; but when she went away -he got up and moved about, looking, as Miss Bethune divined, at the -pictures on the walls and the books and little silver toys on the -tables. - -He made more noise, she thought to herself proudly, than a woman does: -filled the space more, seemed to occupy and fill out everything. Her -countenance and her heart expanded in the dark; she would have liked to -peep at him through the crevice of light round the door, or even the -keyhole, to see him when he did not know she was looking, to read the -secrets of his heart in his face. There were none there, she said to -herself with an effusion of happiness which brought the tears to her -eyes, none there which a mother should be afraid to discover. The luxury -of sitting there, holding her breath, hearing him move, knowing him so -near, was so sweet and so great, that she sat, too blessed to move, -taking all the good out of that happy moment before it should fleet -away. - -Suddenly, however, there came a dead silence. Had he sat down again? Had -he gone out on the balcony? What had become of him? She sat breathless, -wondering, listening for the next sound. Surely he had stepped outside -the window to look out upon the Bloomsbury street, and the waving of the -trees in the Square, and the stars shining overhead. Not a sound--yet, -yes, there was something. What was it? A faint, stealthy rustling, not -to be called a sound at all, rather some stealthy movement to annihilate -sound--the strangest contrast to the light firm step that had come into -the room, and the free movements which she had felt to be bigger than a -woman’s. - -Miss Bethune in the dark held her breath; fear seized possession of her, -she knew not why; her heart sank, she knew not why. Oh, his father--his -father was not a good man! - -The rustling continued, very faint; it might have been a small animal -rubbing against the door. She sat bolt upright in her chair, -motionless, silent as a waxen image, listening. If perhaps, after all, -it should be only one of the little girls, or even the cat rubbing -against the wall idly on the way downstairs! A troubled smile came over -her face, her heart gave a throb of relief. But then the sound changed, -and Miss Bethune’s face again grew rigid, her heart stood still. - -Some one was trying very cautiously, without noise, to open the door; to -turn the handle without making any sound required some time; it creaked -a little, and then there was silence--guilty silence, the pause of -stealth alarmed by the faintest noise; then it began again. Slowly, -slowly the handle turned round, the door opened, a hair’s breadth at a -time. O Lord above! his father--his father was an ill man. - -There was some one with her in the room--some one unseen, as she was, -swallowed up in the darkness, veiled by the curtains at the windows, -which showed faintly a pale streak of sky only, letting in no light. -Unseen, but not inaudible; a hurried, fluttering breath betraying him, -and that faint sound of cautious, uneasy movement, now and then -instantly, guiltily silenced, and then resumed. She could feel the -stealthy step thrill the flooring, making a jar, which was followed by -one of those complete silences in which the intruder too held his -breath, then another stealthy step. - -A thousand thoughts, a very avalanche, precipitated themselves through -her mind. A man did not steal into a dark room like that if he were -doing it for the first time. And his words last night, “How do you know -even that I am honest?” And then his father--his father--oh, God help -him, God forgive him!--that was an ill man! And his upbringing in a -country where lies were common, with a guardian that did him no justice, -and the woman that cut him off. And not to know that he had a creature -belonging to him in the world to be made glad or sorry whatever -happened! Oh, God forgive him, God help him! the unfortunate, the -miserable boy! “Mine all the same--mine all the same!” her heart said, -bleeding--oh, that was no metaphor! bleeding with the anguish, the -awful, immeasurable blow. - -If there was any light at all in the room, it was a faint greyness, just -showing in the midst of the dark the vague form of a little table -against the wall, and a box in a brown cover--a box--no, no, the shape -of a box, but only something standing there, something, the accursed -thing for which life and love were to be wrecked once more. Oh, his -father--his father! But his father would not have done that. Yet it was -honester to take the trinkets, the miserable stones that would bring in -money, than to wring a woman’s heart. And what did the boy know? He had -never been taught, never had any example, God help him, God forgive him! -and mine--mine all the time! - -Then out of the complete darkness came into that faint grey where the -box was, an arm, a hand. It touched, not calculating the distance, the -solid substance with a faint jar, and retired like a ghost, while she -sat rigid, looking on; then more cautiously, more slowly still, it stole -forth again, and grasped the box. Miss Bethune had settled nothing what -to do, she had thought of nothing but the misery of it, she had -intended, so far as she had any intention, to watch while the tragedy -was played out, the dreadful act accomplished. But she was a woman of -sudden impulses, moved by flashes of resolution almost independent of -her will. - -Suddenly, more ghostlike still than the arm of the thief, she made a -swift movement forward, and put her hand upon his. Her grasp seemed to -crush through the quivering clammy fingers, and she felt under her own -the leap of the pulses; but the criminal was prepared for every -emergency, and uttered no cry. She felt the quick noiseless change of -attitude, and then the free arm swing to strike her--heaven and earth! -to strike her, a woman twice his age, to strike her, his friend, his---- -She was a strong woman, in the fulness of health and courage. As quick -as lightning, she seized the arm as it descended, and held him as in a -grip of iron. Was it guilt that made him like a child in her hold? He -had a stick in his hand, shortened, with a heavy head, ready to deal a -blow. Oh, the coward, the wretched coward! She held him panting for a -moment, unable to say a word; and then she called out with a voice that -was no voice, but a kind of roar of misery, for “Gilchrist, Gilchrist!” - -Gilchrist, who was never far off, who always had her ear open for her -mistress, heard, and came flying from up or down stairs with her candle: -and some one else heard it, who was standing pensive on the balcony, -looking out, and wondering what fate had now in store for him, and -mingling his thoughts with the waving of the trees and the nameless -noises of the street. Which of them arrived first was never known, he -from the other room throwing wide the door of communication, or she from -the stairs with the impish, malicious light of that candle throwing in -its sudden illumination as with a pleasure in the deed. - -The spectators were startled beyond measure to see the lady in apparent -conflict with a man, but they had no time to make any remarks. The -moment the light flashed upon her, Miss Bethune gave a great cry. “It’s -you, ye vermin!” she cried, flinging the furtive creature in her grasp -from her against the wall, which half stunned him for the moment. And -then she stood for a moment, her head bent back, her face without a -trace of colour, confronting the eager figure in the doorway, surrounded -by the glow of the light, flying forward to help her. - -“O God, forgive me!” she cried, “God, forgive me, for I am an ill woman: -but I will never forgive myself!” - -The man who lay against the wall, having dropped there on the floor with -the vehemence of her action, perhaps exaggerating the force that had -been used against him, to excite pity--for Gilchrist, no mean opponent, -held one door, and that unexpected dreadful apparition of the young man -out of the lighted room bearing down upon him, filled the other--was -Alfred Hesketh, white, miserable, and cowardly, huddled up in a wretched -heap, with furtive eyes gleaming, and the heavy-headed stick furtively -grasped, still ready to deal an unexpected blow, had he the opportunity, -though he was at the same time rubbing the wrist that held it, as if in -pain. - -Young Gordon had made a hurried step towards him, when Miss Bethune put -out her hand. She had dropped into a chair, where she sat panting for -breath. - -“Wait,” she said, “wait till I can speak.” - -“You brute!” cried Harry; “how dare you come in here? What have you done -to frighten the lady?” - -He was interrupted by a strange chuckle of a laugh from Miss Bethune’s -panting throat. - -“It’s rather me, I’m thinking, that’s frightened him,” she said. “Ye -wretched vermin of a creature, how did ye know? What told ye in your -meeserable mind that there was something here to steal? And ye would -have struck me--me that am dealing out to ye your daily bread! No, my -dear, you’re not to touch him; don’t lay a finger on him. The Lord be -thanked--though God forgive me for thanking Him for the wickedness of -any man!” - -How enigmatical this all was to Harry Gordon, and how little he could -imagine any clue to the mystery, it is needless to say. Gilchrist -herself thought her mistress was temporarily out of her mind. She was -quicker, however, to realise what had happened than the young man, who -did not think of the jewels, nor remember anything about them. Gilchrist -looked with anxiety at her lady’s white face and gleaming eyes. - -“Take her into the parlour, Master Harry,” she said: “she’s just done -out. And I’ll send for the police.” - -“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Gilchrist,” said Miss Bethune. “Get up, -ye creature. You’re not worth either man’s or woman’s while; you have no -more fusion than a cat. Get up, and begone, ye poor, weak, wretched, -cowardly vermin, for that’s what ye are: and I thank the Lord with all -my heart that it was only you! Gilchrist, stand away from the door, and -let the creature go.” - -He rose, dragging himself up by degrees, with a furtive look at Gordon, -who, indeed, looked a still less easy opponent than Miss Bethune. - -“I take that gentleman to witness,” he said, “as there’s no evidence -against me but just a lady’s fancy: and I’ve been treated very bad, and -my wrist broken, for aught I know, and bruised all over, and I----” - -Miss Bethune stamped her foot on the floor. “Begone, ye born liar and -robber!” she said. “Gilchrist will see ye off the premises; and mind, -you never come within my sight again. Now, Mr. Harry, as she calls ye, -I’ll go into the parlour, as she says; and the Lord, that only knows the -wickedness that has been in my mind, forgive me this night! and it would -be a comfort to my heart, my bonnie man, if you would say Amen.” - -“Amen with all my heart,” said the young man, with a smile, “but, so far -as I can make out, your wickedness is to be far too good and forgiving. -What did the fellow do? I confess I should not like to be called a -vermin, as you called him freely--but if he came with intent to steal, -he should have been handed over to the police, indeed he should.” - -“I am more worthy of the police than him, if ye but knew: but, heaven be -praised, you’ll never know. I mind now, he came with a message when I -was playing with these wretched diamonds, like an old fool: and he must -have seen or scented them with the creeminal instinct Dr. Roland speaks -about.” - -She drew a long breath, for she had not yet recovered from the panting -of excitement, and then told her story, the rustling without, the -opening of the door, the hand extended to the box. When she had told all -this with much vividness, Miss Bethune suddenly stopped, drew another -long breath, and dropped back upon the sofa where she was sitting. It -was not her way; the lights had been dazzling and confusing her ever -since they blazed upon her by the opening of the two doors, and the -overwhelming horror, and blessed but tremendous revulsion of feeling, -which had passed in succession over her, had been more than her -strength, already undermined by excitement, could bear. Her breath, her -consciousness, her life, seemed to ebb away in a moment, leaving only a -pale shadow of her, fallen back upon the cushions. - -Once more Harry was the master of the situation. He had seen a woman -faint before, which was almost more than Gilchrist, with all her -experience, had done, and he had the usual remedies at his fingers’ -ends. But this was not like the usual easy faints, over in a minute, to -which young Gordon had been accustomed, and Dr. Roland had to be -summoned from below, and a thrill of alarm had run through the house, -Mrs. Simcox herself coming up from the kitchen, with strong salts and -feathers to burn, before Miss Bethune came to herself. The house was -frightened, and so at last was the experienced Harry; but Dr. Roland’s -interest and excitement may be said to have been pleasurable. “I have -always thought this was what was likely. I’ve been prepared for it,” he -said to himself, as he hovered round the sofa. It would be wrong to -suppose that he lengthened, or at least did nothing to shorten, this -faint for his own base purposes, that he might the better make out -certain signs which he thought he had recognised. But the fact was, that -not only Dora had come from abovestairs, but even Mr. Mannering had -dragged himself down, on the alarm that Miss Bethune was dead or dying; -and that the whole household had gathered in her room, or on the landing -outside; while she lay, in complicity (or not) with the doctor, in that -long-continued swoon, which the spectators afterwards said lasted an -hour, or two, or even three hours, according to their temperaments. - -When she came to herself at last, the scene upon which she opened her -eyes was one which helped her recovery greatly, by filling her with -wrath and indignation. She lay in the middle of her room, in a strong -draught, the night air blowing from window to window across her, the -lamp even under its shade, much more the candles on the mantelpiece, -blown about, and throwing a wavering glare upon the agitated group, -Gilchrist in the foreground with her apron at her eyes, and behind her -Dora, red with restrained emotions, and Janie and Molly crying freely, -while Mrs. Simcox brandished a bunch of fuming feathers, and Mr. -Mannering peered over the landlady’s head with his “pince-nez” -insecurely balanced on his nose, and his legs trembling under him in a -harmony of unsteadiness, but anxiety. Miss Bethune’s wrist was in the -grasp of the doctor; and Harry stood behind with a fan, which, in the -strong wind blowing across her from window to window, struck the patient -as ludicrously unnecessary. “What is all this fuss about?” she cried, -trying to raise herself up. - -“There’s no fuss, my dear lady,” said the doctor; “but you must keep -perfectly quiet.” - -“Oh, you’re there, Dr. Roland? Then there’s one sane person. But, for -goodness’ sake, make Mr. Mannering sit down, and send all these idiots -away. What’s the matter with me, that I’ve to get my death of cold, and -be murdered with that awful smell, and even Harry Gordon behaving like a -fool, making an air with a fan, when there’s a gale blowing? Go away, go -away.” - -“You see that our friend has come to herself,” said the doctor. “Shut -that window, somebody, the other will be enough; and, my dear woman, for -the sake of all that’s good, take those horrid feathers away.” - -“I am murdered with the smell!” cried Miss Bethune, placing her hands -over her face. “But make Mr. Mannering sit down, he’s not fit to stand -after his illness; and Harry, boy, sit down, too, and don’t drive me out -of my senses. Go away, go all of you away.” - -The last to be got rid of was Dr. Roland, who assured everybody that the -patient was now quite well, but languid. “You want to get rid of me too, -I know,” he said, “and I’m going; but I should like to see you in bed -first.” - -“You shall not see me in bed, nor no other man,” said Miss Bethune. “I -will go to bed when I am disposed, doctor. I’m not your patient, mind, -at all events, now.” - -“You were half an hour since: but I’m not going to pretend to any -authority,” said the doctor. “I hope I know better. Don’t agitate -yourself any more, if you’ll be guided by me. You have been screwing up -that heart of yours far too tight.” - -“How do you know,” she said, “that I have got a heart at all?” - -“Probably not from the sentimental point of view,” he replied, with a -little fling of sarcasm: “but I know you couldn’t live without the -physical organ, and it’s over-strained. Good-night, since I see you want -to get rid of me. But I’ll be handy downstairs, and mind you come for -me, Gilchrist, on the moment if she should show any signs again.” - -This was said to Gilchrist in an undertone as the doctor went away. - -Miss Bethune sat up on her sofa, still very pale, still with a singing -in her ears, and the glitter of fever in her eyes. “You are not to go -away, Harry,” she said. “I have something to tell you before you go.” - -“Oh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “for any sake, not to-night.” - -“Go away, and bide away till I send for you,” cried the mistress. “And, -Harry, sit you down here by me. I am going to tell you a story. This -night has taught me many things. I might die, or I might be murdered for -the sake of a few gewgaws that are nothing to me, and go down to my -grave with a burden on my heart. I want to speak before I die.” - -“Not to-night,” he cried. “You are in no danger. I’ll sleep here on the -sofa by way of guard, and to-morrow you will send them to your bankers. -Don’t tire yourself any more to-night.” - -“You are like all the rest, and understand nothing about it,” she cried -impatiently. “It is just precisely now that I will speak, and no other -time. Harry, I am going to tell you a story. It is like most women’s -stories--about a young creature that was beguiled and loved a man. He -was a man that had a fine outside, and looked as good as he was bonnie, -or at least this misfortunate thing thought so. He had nothing, and she -had nothing. But she was the last of her family, and would come into a -good fortune if she pleased her uncle that was the head of the name. But -the uncle could not abide this man. Are you listening to me? Mind, it is -a story, but not an idle story, and every word tells. Well, she was sent -away to a lonely country place, an old house, with two old servants in -it, to keep her free of the man. But the man followed; and in that -solitude who was to hinder them seeing each other? They did for a while -every day. And then the two married each other, as two can do in -Scotland that make up their minds to risk it, and were living together -in secret in the depths of the Highlands, as I told you, nobody knowing -but the old servants that had been far fonder of her father than of the -uncle that was head of the house, and were faithful to her in life and -death. And then there came terrible news that the master was coming -back. That poor young woman--oh, she was a fool, and I do not defend -her!--had just been delivered in secret, in trouble and misery--for she -dared not seek help or nursing but what she got at home--of a bonnie -bairn,"--she put out her hand and grasped him by the arm,--“a boy, a -darling, though she had him but for two or three days. Think if you can -what that was. The master coming that had, so to speak, the power of -life and death in his hands, and the young, subdued girl that he had put -there to be in safety, the mother of a son----” Miss Bethune drew a long -breath. She silenced the remonstrance on the lips of her hearer by a -gesture, and went on:-- - -“It was the man, her husband, that she thought loved her, that brought -the news. He said everything was lost if it should be known. He bid her -to be brave and put a good face upon it, for his sake and the boy’s. -Keep her fortune and cling to her inheritance she must, whatever -happened, for their sake. And while she was dazed in her weakness, and -could not tell what to think, he took the baby out of her arms, and -carried him away. - -“Harry Gordon, that’s five and twenty years ago, and man or bairn I have -never seen since, though I did that for them. I dreed my weird for ten -long years--ten years of mortal trouble--and never said a word, and -nobody knew. Then my uncle died, and the money, the terrible money, -bought with my life’s blood, became mine. And I looked for him then to -come back. But he never came back nor word nor sign of him. And my -son--the father, I had discovered what he was, I wanted never to hear -his name again--but my son--Harry Gordon, that’s you! They may say what -they will, but I know better. Who should know, if not the mother who -bore you? My heart went out to you when I saw you first, and yours to -me. You’ll not tell me that your heart did not speak for your mother? It -is you, my darling, it is you!” - -He had staggered to his feet, pale, trembling, and awe-stricken. The -sight of her emotion, the pity of her story, the revolt and resistance -in his own heart were too much for him. “I!” he cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Harry Gordon passed the night upon the sofa in Miss Bethune’s -sitting-room. It was his opinion that her nerves were so shaken and her -mind so agitated that the consciousness of having some one at hand -within call, in case of anything happening, was of the utmost -consequence. I don’t know that any one else in the house entertained -these sentiments, but it was an idea in which he could not be shaken, -his experience all tending in that way. - -As a matter of fact, his nerves were scarcely less shaken than he -imagined hers to be. His mother! Was that his mother who called -good-night to him from the next room? who held that amusing colloquy -with the doctor through the closed door, defying all interference, and -bidding Dr. Roland look after his patient upstairs, and leave her in -peace with Gilchrist, who was better than any doctor? Was that his -mother? His heart beat with a strange confusion, but made no answer. And -his thoughts went over all the details with an involuntary scepticism. -No, there was no voice of nature, as she had fondly hoped; nothing but -the merest response to kind words and a kind look had drawn him towards -this old Scotch maiden lady, who he had thought, with a smile, reminded -him of something in Scott, and therefore had an attraction such as -belongs to those whom we may have known in some previous state of being. - -What a strange fate was his, to be drawn into one circle after another, -one family after another, to which he had no right! And how was he to -convince this lady, who was so determined in her own way of thinking, -that he had no right, no title, to consider himself her son? But had he -indeed no title? Was she likely to make such a statement without proof -that it was true, without evidence? He thought of her with a kind of -amused but by no means disrespectful admiration, as she had stood -flinging from her the miserable would-be thief, the wretched, furtive -creature who was no match for a resolute and dauntless woman. All the -women Harry had ever known would have screamed or fled or fainted at -sight of a live burglar in their very bed-chamber. She flung him off -like a fly, like a reptile. That was not a weak woman, liable to be -deceived by any fancy. She had the look in her eyes of a human creature -afraid of nothing, ready to confront any danger. And could she then be -so easily deceived? Or was it true, actually true? Was he the son--not -of a woman whom it might be shame to discover, as he had always -feared--but of a spotless mother, a person of note, with an established -position and secure fortune? The land which he was to manage, which she -had roused him almost to enthusiasm about, by her talk of crofters and -cotters to be helped forward, and human service to be done--was that -land his own, coming to him by right, his natural place and -inheritance? Was he no waif and stray, no vague atom in the world -drifting hither and thither, but a man with an assured position, a -certain home, a place in society? How different from going back to South -America, and at the best becoming a laborious clerk where he had been -the young master! But he could not believe in it. - -He lay there silent through the short summer night, moving with -precaution upon the uneasy couch, which was too short and too small, but -where the good fellow would have passed the night waking and dosing for -anybody’s comfort, even were it only an old woman’s who had been kind to -him. But was she his mother--his mother? He could not believe it--he -could not, he could not! Her wonderful speeches and looks were all -explained now, and went to his heart: but they did not convince him, or -bring any enlightenment into his. Was she the victim of an illusion, -poor lady, self-deceived altogether? Or was there something in it, or -was there nothing in it? He thought of his father, and his heart -revolted. His poor father, whom he remembered with the halo round him of -childish affection, but whom he had learned to see through other -people’s eyes, not a strong man, not good for very much, but yet not one -to desert a woman who trusted in him. But of the young man’s thoughts -through that long uneasy night there was no end. He heard whisperings -and movements in the next room, subdued for his sake as he subdued his -inclination to turn and toss upon his sofa for hers, during half the -night. And then when the daylight came bright into the room through the -bars of the venetian blind there came silence, just when he had fully -woke up to the consciousness that life had begun again in a new world. A -little later, Gilchrist stole into his room, bringing him a cup of tea. -“You must come upstairs now; there’s a room where ye will get some -sleep. She’s sound now, and it’s broad daylight, and no fear of any -disturbance,” she said. - -“I want no more sleep. I’ll go and get a bath, and be ready for whatever -is wanted.” He caught her apron as she was turning away, that apron on -which so many hems had been folded. “Don’t go away,” he said. “Speak to -me, tell me, Gilchrist, for heaven’s sake, is this true?” - -“The Lord knows!” cried Gilchrist, shaking her head and clasping her -hands; “but oh, my young gentleman, dinna ask me!” - -“Whom can I ask?” he said. “Surely, surely you, that have been always -with her, can throw some light upon it. Is it true?” - -“It is true--true as death,” said the woman, “that all that happened to -my dear leddy; but oh, if you are the bairn, the Lord knows; he was but -two days old, and he would have been about your age. I can say not a -word, but only the Lord knows. And there’s nothing--nothing, though she -thinks sae, that speaks in your heart?” - -He shook his head, with a faint smile upon his face. - -“Oh, dinna laugh, dinna laugh. I canna bear it, Mr. Harry; true or no’ -true, it’s woven in with every fibre o’ her heart. You have nae parents, -my bonnie man. Oh, could you no’ take it upon ye, true or no’ true? -There’s naebody I can hear of that it would harm or wrong if you were to -accept it. And there’s naebody kens but me how good she is. Her exterior -is maybe no’ sae smooth as many; but her heart it is gold--oh, her heart -it is gold! For God’s sake, who is the Father of all of us, and full of -mercy--such peety as a father hath unto his children dear--oh, my young -man, let her believe it, take her at her word! You will make her a happy -woman at the end of a’ her trouble, and it will do ye nae harm.” - -“Not if it is a fiction all the time,” he said, shaking his head. - -“Who is to prove it’s a fiction? He would have been your age. She thinks -you have your grandfather’s een. I’m no’ sure now I look at you but -she’s right. She’s far more likely to be right than me: and now I look -at you well I think I can see it. Oh, Mr. Harry, what harm would it do -you? A good home and a good inheritance, and to make her happy. Is that -no’ worth while, even if maybe it were not what you would think perfitly -true?” - -“It can’t be half true, Gilchrist; it must be whole or nothing.” - -“Weel, then, it’s whole true; and I’ll gang to the stake for it. Is she -not the one that should know? And if you were to cast her off the morn -and break her heart, she would still believe it till her dying day. -Turn round your head and let me look at you again. Oh, laddie, if I were -to gang to the stake for it, you have--you have your grandfather’s -een!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -The house in Bloomsbury was profoundly agitated by all these -discoveries. Curiously enough, and against all the previsions of his -friends, Mr. Mannering had not been thrown back by the excitement. The -sharp sting of these events which had brought back before him once more -the tragic climax of his life--the time when he had come back as out of -the grave and found his home desolate--when his wife had fled before his -face, not daring to meet his eye, although she had not knowingly sinned -against him, and when all the triumph of his return to life, and of his -discoveries and the fruit of his dreadful labours, had become bitterness -to him and misery--came back upon him, every incident standing out as if -it had been yesterday. He had fallen into the dead calm of failure, he -had dropped his tools from his hands, and all his ambition from his -heart. He had retired--he who had reappeared in existence after all his -sufferings, with the consciousness that now the ball was at his foot, -and fame if not fortune secured--into the second desert, more -impenetrable than any African forest, of these rooms in Bloomsbury, and -vegetated there all these years, forgetting more or less all that had -happened to him, and all that might have happened to him, and desiring -only to linger out the last of his life unknowing and unknown. And now -into his calm there had come back, clear as yesterday, all that terrible -climax, every detail of his own tragedy. - -It ought to have killed him: that would have seemed the most likely -event in his weakness, after his long illness; and perhaps,--who could -say?--the best thing that could have happened, in face of the new -circumstances, which he could not accept and had no right to refuse. But -no, it did not kill him. It acted upon him as great trouble acts on some -minds, like a strong stimulant. It stung him back into life, it seemed -to transfuse something, some new revivifying principle, into his veins. -He had wanted, perhaps, something to disperse the mists of illness and -physical dejection. He found it not in soothing influences or pleasure, -but in pain. From the day when he stumbled downstairs to Miss Bethune’s -room on the dreadful report that she was dying, he began at once to -resume his usual habits, and with almost more than his usual strength. -Was it possible that Death, that healer of all wounds, that peacemaker -in all tumults, had restored a rest that was wanting to the man’s secret -heart, never disclosed to any ear? She was dead, the woman who -unwittingly, without meaning it, had made of his life the silent tragedy -it had been. That she was guiltless, and that the catastrophe was all a -terrible mistake, had made it worse instead of better. He had thought -often that had she erred in passion, had she been carried away from him -by some strong gale of personal feeling, it would have been more -bearable: but the cruel fatality, the network of accident which had -made his life desolate, and hers he knew not what--this was what was -intolerable, a thing not to bear thinking of. - -But now she was dead, all the misery over, nothing left but the silence. -She had been nothing to him for years, torn out of his heart, flung out -of his life, perhaps with too little pity, perhaps with little -perception of the great sacrifice she had made in giving up to him -without even a protest her only child: but her very existence had been a -canker in his life; the thought that still the same circle of earth -enclosed them--him and the woman who had once been everything to him, -and then nothing, yet always something, something, a consciousness, a -fever, a jarring note that set all life out of tune. And now she was -dead. The strong pain of all this revival stung him back to strength. He -went out in defiance of the doctor, back to his usual work, resuming the -daily round. He had much to meet, to settle, to set right again, in his -renewed existence. And she was dead. The other side of life was closed -and sealed, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. Nothing -could happen to bring that back, to renew any consciousness of it more. -Strange and sad and disturbing as this event was, it seemed to settle -and clear the turbid current of a spoiled life. - -And perhaps the other excitement and climax of the life of his neighbour -which had been going on under the same roof, helped Mr. Mannering in the -renewal of his own history. When he heard Miss Bethune’s story, the -silent rebellion against his own, which had been ever in his mind, was -silenced. It is hard, in the comparison of troubles, which people who -have been more or less crushed in life are so fond of making, when -brought into sufficiently intimate relation with each other, to have to -acknowledge that perhaps a brother pilgrim, a sister, has had more to -bear than oneself. Even in misery we love to be foremost, to have the -bitter in our cup acknowledged as more bitter than that of others. But -yet, when Mr. Mannering heard, as she could tell him, the story of the -woman who had lived so near him for years with that unsuspected secret, -he did not deny that her lot had been more terrible than his own. Miss -Bethune was eager to communicate her own tale in those days of -excitement and transition. She went to him of her own accord after the -first day of his return to his work, while the doctor hovered about the -stairs, up and down, and could not rest, in terror for the result. Dr. -Roland could not believe that his patient would not break down. He could -not go out, nor even sit quietly in his own room, less he should be -wanted, and not ready at the first call. He could not refrain from a -gibe at the lady he met on the stairs. “Yes, by all means,” he said, “go -and tell him all about your own business. Go and send him out to look -after that wretched Hesketh, whom you are going to keep up, I hear, all -the same.” - -“Not him, doctor. The poor unhappy young creature, his wife.” - -“Oh, yes; that is how these miserable villains get hold upon people of -weak minds. His wife! I’d have sent him to gaol. His wife would have -been far better without a low blackguard like that. But don’t let me -keep you. Go and give the _coup de grace_ to Mannering. I shall be -ready, whatever happens, downstairs.” - -But Miss Bethune did not give Mannering the _coup de grace_. On the -contrary, she helped forward the cure which the climax of his own -personal tragedy had begun. It gave both these people a kind of forlorn -pleasure to think that there was a kind of resemblance in their fate, -and that they had lived so long beside each other without knowing it, -without suspecting how unlike other people their respective lives had -been. The thought of the unhappy young woman, whose husband of a year -and whose child of a day had been torn from her, who had learnt so sadly -to know the unworthiness of the one, and whose heart and imagination had -for five and twenty years dwelt upon the other, without any possible -outlet, and with a hope which she had herself known to be fantastic and -without hope, filled Mannering with a certain awe. He had suffered for -little more than half that time, and he had not been deprived of his -Dora. He began to think pitifully, even mercifully, of the woman who had -left him that one alleviation in his life. - -“I bow my head before her,” Miss Bethune said. “She must have been a -just woman. The bairn was yours, and she had no right to take her from -you. She fled before your appearance, she could not look you in the -face, but she left the little child that she adored to be your comfort. -Mr. Mannering, you will come with me to that poor woman’s grave, and you -will forgive her. She gave you up what was most dear to her in life.” - -He shook his head. “She had others that were more dear to her.” - -“I could find it in my heart, if I were you, to hope that it was so; but -I do not believe it. How could she look you in the face again, having -sinned against you? But she left you what she loved most. ‘Dora, Dora,’ -was all her cry: but she put Dora out of her arms for you. Think kindly -of her, man! A woman loves nothing on this earth,” cried Miss Bethune -with passion, “like the little child that has come from her, and is of -her, flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone: and she gave that over to -you. She must have been a woman more just than most other women,” Miss -Bethune said. - -Mr. Mannering made no reply. Perhaps he did not understand or believe in -that definition of what a woman loves best; but he thought of the -passion of the other woman before him, and of the long hunger of her -heart, with nothing to solace her, nothing to divert her thoughts from -that hopeless loss and vacancy, nothing to compensate her for the ruin -of her life. She had been a spirit in prison, shut up as in an iron -cage, and she had borne it and not uttered even a cry. All three, or -rather all four, of these lives, equally shipwrecked, came before him. -His own stricken low in what would have been the triumph of another -man; his wife’s, turned in a moment from such second possibilities of -happiness as he could not yet bear to think of, and from the bliss of -her child, into shame and guilt such as did not permit her to look her -husband in the face, but drove her into exile and renunciation. And then -this other pair. The woman with her secret romance, and long, long -penitence and punishment. The man (whom she condemned yet more bitterly, -perhaps with better cause than he had condemned his wife), a fugitive -too, disappearing from country and home with the infant who died, or who -did not die. What a round of dreadful mistake, misapprehension, -rashness, failure! And who was he that he should count himself more -badly treated than other men? - -Miss Bethune thus gave him no _coup de grace_. She helped him after the -prick of revival, to another more steadfast philosophy, in the -comparison of his fate with that of others. He saw with very clear eyes -her delusion--that Harry Gordon was no son of hers, and that she would -be compelled to acknowledge this and go back to the dreariness and -emptiness of her life, accepting the dead baby as all that ever was -hers: and he was sorry for her to the bottom of his heart; while she, -full of her illusions, went back to her own apartment full of pity for -him, to whom Dora did not make up for everything as Harry, she felt -triumphantly, did to herself. - -Dr. Roland watched them both, more concerned for Mannering, who had been -ill, than for Miss Bethune, who had all that curious elasticity which -makes a woman generally so much more the servant of her emotions than a -man, often, in fact, so much less affected by them. But there still -remained in the case of the patient another fiery trial to go through, -which still kept the doctor on the alert and anxiously watching the -course of events. Mannering had said nothing of Dora’s fortune, of the -money which he had refused vehemently for her, but which he had no right -to refuse, and upon which, as Dr. Roland was aware, she had already -drawn. One ordeal had passed, and had done no harm, but this other was -still to come. - -It came a day or two after, when Dr. Roland sat by Mannering’s side -after his return from the Museum, holding his pulse, and investigating -in every way the effect upon him of the day’s confinement. It was -evening, and the day had been hot and fatiguing. Mr. Mannering was a -little tired of this medical inspection, which occurred every evening. -He drew his wrist out of the doctor’s hold, and turned the conversation -abruptly to a new subject. - -“There are a number of papers which I cannot find,” he said, almost -sharply, to Dora, with a meaning which immediately seemed to make the -air tingle. He had recovered his usual looks in a remarkable degree, and -had even a little colour in his cheek. His head was not drooping, nor -his eye dim. The stoop of a man occupied all day among books seemed to -have disappeared. He leaned back in his chair a little, perhaps, but -not forward, as is the habit of weakness, and was not afraid to look -the doctor in the face. Dora stood near him, alarmed, in the attitude of -one about to flee. She was eager to leave him with the doctor, of whom -he could ask no such difficult questions. - -“Papers, father? What papers?” she said, with an air of innocence which -perhaps was a little overdone. - -“My business affairs are not so extensive,” he said, with a faint smile; -“and both you, doctor, who really are the author of the extravagance, -and Dora, who is too young to meddle with such matters, know all about -them. My bills!--Heaven knows they are enough to scare a poor man: but -they must be found. They were all there a few days ago, now I can’t find -them. Bring them, Dora. I must make a composition with my creditors,” he -said, again, with that forced and uncomfortable smile. Then he added, -with some impatience: “My dear, do what I tell you, and do it at once.” - -It was an emergency which Dora had been looking forward to, but that did -not make it less terrible when it came. She stood very upright, holding -by the table. - -“The bills? I don’t know where to find them,” she said, growing suddenly -very red, and then very pale. - -“Dora!” cried her father, in a warning tone. Then he added, with an -attempt at banter: “Never mind the doctor. The doctor is in it; he ought -to pay half. We will take his advice. How small a dividend will content -our creditors for the present? Make haste, and do not lose any more -time.” - -Dora stood her ground without wavering. “I cannot find them, father,” -she said. - -“You cannot find them? Nonsense! This is for my good, I suppose, lest I -should not be able to bear it. My dear, your father declines to be -managed for his good.” - -“I have not got them,” said Dora firmly, but very pale. “I don’t know -where to find them; I don’t want to find them, if I must say it, -father,--not to manage you, but on my own account.” - -He raised himself upright too, and looked at her. Their eyes shone with -the same glow; the two faces bore a strange resemblance,--his, the lines -refined and softened by his illness; hers, every curve straightened and -strengthened by force of passionate feeling. - -“Father,” said Dora almost fiercely, “I am not a child!” - -“You are not a child?” A faint smile came over his face. “You are -curiously like one,” he said; “but what has that got to do with it?” - -“Mannering, she is quite right. You ought to let her have her own way.” - -A cloud crossed Mr. Mannering’s face. He was a mild man, but he did not -easily brook interference. He made a slight gesture, as if throwing the -intruder off. - -“Father,” said Dora again, “I have been the mistress of everything while -you have been ill. You may say the doctor has done it, or Miss Bethune -has done it,--they were very kind friends, and told me what to do,--but -it was only your own child that had the right to do things for you, and -the real person was me. I was a little girl when you began to be ill, -but I am not so now. I’ve had to act for myself, father,” the girl -cried, the colour flaming back into her pale cheeks, “I’ve had to be -responsible for a great many things; you can’t take that from me, for it -had to be. And you have not got a bill in the world.” - -He sat staring at her, half angry, half admiring, amazed by the change, -the development; and yet to find her in her impulsive, childish -vehemence exactly the same. - -“They’re all gone,” cried Dora, with that dreadful womanish inclination -to cry; which spoils so many a fine climax. “I had a right to them--they -were mine all through, and not yours. Father, even Fiddler! I’ve given -you a present of that big book, which I almost broke my arm (if it had -not been for Harry Gordon) carrying back. And now I know it’s quarter -day, and you’re quite well off. Father, now I’m your little girl again, -to do what you like and go where you like, and never, never hear a word -of this more,” cried Dora, flinging herself upon his shoulder, with her -arms round his neck, in a paroxysm of tenderness and tears. - -What was the man to do or say? He had uttered a cry of pain and shame, -and something like fury; but with the girl clinging round his neck, -sobbing, flung upon his mercy, he was helpless. He looked over Dora’s -bright head at Dr. Roland with, notwithstanding his impatience of -interference, a sort of appeal for help. However keen the pang was both -to his heart and his pride, he could not throw off his only child from -her shelter in his arms. After a moment his hand instinctively came upon -her hair, smoothing it down, soothing her, though half against his will. -The other arm, with which he had half put her away, stole round her with -a softer pressure. His child, his only child, all of his, belonging to -no one but him, and weeping her heart out upon his neck, altogether -thrown upon him to be excused and pardoned for having given him all the -tendance and care and help which it was in her to give. He looked at -Roland with a half appeal, yet with that unconscious pride of -superiority in the man who has, towards the man who has not. - -“She has the right,” said the doctor, himself moved, but not perhaps -with any sense of inferiority, for though he was nearly as old as Mr. -Mannering, the beatitude of having a daughter had not yet become an -ideal bliss to him--“she has the right; if anybody in the world has it, -she has it, Mannering, and though she is a child, she has a heart and -judgment as good as any of us. You’ll have to let her do in certain -matters what seemeth good in her own eyes.” - -Mr. Mannering shook his head, and then bent it in reluctant acquiescence -with a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -The house in Bloomsbury became vacant and silent. - -The people who had given it interest and importance were dispersed and -gone. Dr. Roland only remained, solitary and discontented, feeling -himself cast adrift in the world, angry at the stillness overhead, where -the solid foot of Gilchrist no longer made the floor creak, or the -lighter step of her mistress sent a thrill of energy and life through -it; but still more angry when new lodgers came, and new steps sounded -over the carpet, which, deprived of all Miss Bethune’s rugs, was thin -and poor. The doctor thought of changing his lodging himself, in the -depression of that change; but it is a serious matter for a doctor to -change his abode, and Janie’s anæmia was becoming a serious case, and -wanted more looking after than ever would be given to it were he out of -the way. So he consented to the inevitable, and remained. Mrs. Simcox -had to refurnish the second floor, when all Mr. Mannering’s pretty -furniture and his books were taken away, and did it very badly, as was -natural, and got “a couple” for her lodgers, who were quite satisfied -with second-hand mahogany and hair-cloth. Dr. Roland looked at the new -lodgers when he met them with eyes blank, and a total absence of -interest: but beginning soon to see that the stock market was telling -upon the first floor, and that the lady on the second had a cough, he -began to allow himself a little to be shaken out of his indifference. -They might, however, be objects of professional interest, but no more. -The Mannerings were abroad. After that great flash in the pan of a -return to the Museum, Nature had reclaimed her rights, and Mr. Mannering -had been obliged to apply for a prolonged leave, which by degrees led to -retirement and a pension. Miss Bethune had returned to her native -country, and to the old house near the Highland line which belonged to -her. Vague rumours that she was not Miss Bethune at all, but a married -lady all the time, had reached Bloomsbury; but nobody knew, as Mrs. -Simcox said, what were the rights of the case. - -In a genial autumn, some years after the above events, Dr. Roland, who -had never ceased to keep a hold upon his former neighbours, whose -departure had so much saddened his life, arrived on a visit at that -Highland home. It was a rambling house, consisting of many additions and -enlargements built on to the original fabric of a small, strait, and -high semi-fortified dwelling-place, breathing that air of austere and -watchful defence which lingers about some old houses, though the -parlours of the eighteenth century, not to say the drawing-rooms of the -nineteenth, with their broad open windows, accessible from the ground, -were strangely unlike the pointed tall gable with its crow steps, and -the high post of watchfulness up among the roofs, the little balcony or -terrace which swept the horizon on every side. There Miss Bethune, still -Miss Bethune, abode in the fulness of a life which sought no further -expansion, among her own people. She had called to her a few of the most -ancient and trusted friends of the family on her first arrival there, -and had disclosed to them her secret story, and asked their advice. She -had never borne her husband’s name. There had been no break, so far as -any living person except Gilchrist was aware, in the continuity of her -life. The old servants were dead, and the old minister, who had been -coaxed and frightened into performing a furtive ceremony. No one except -Gilchrist was aware of any of those strange events which had gone on in -the maze of little rooms and crooked passages. Miss Bethune was strong -in the idea of disclosing everything when she returned home. She meant -to publish her strange and painful story among her friends and to the -world at large, and to acknowledge and put in his right place, as she -said, her son. A small knot of grave county gentlemen sat upon the -matter, and had all the evidence placed before them in order to decide -this question. - -Harry Gordon himself was the first to let them know that his claims were -more than doubtful--that they were, in fact, contradicted by his own -recollections and everything he really knew about himself; and Mr. -Templar brought his report, which made it altogether impossible to -believe in the relationship. But Miss Bethune’s neighbours soon came to -perceive that these were nothing to her own fervid conviction, which -they only made stronger the oftener the objections were repeated. She -would not believe that part of Mr. Templar’s story which concerned the -child; there was no documentary proof. The husband’s death could be -proved, but it was not even known where that of the unfortunate baby had -taken place, and nothing could be ascertained about it. She took no -notice of the fact that her husband and Harry Gordon’s father had -neither died at the same place nor at the same time. As it actually -happened, there was sufficient analogy between time and place to make it -possible to imagine, had there been no definite information, that they -were the same person. And this was more than enough for Miss Bethune. -She was persuaded at last, however, by the unanimous judgment of the -friends she trusted, to depart from her first intention, to make no -scandal in the countryside by changing her name, and to leave her -property to Harry, describing him as a relation by the mother’s side. -“It came to you by will, not in direct inheritance,” the chief of these -gentlemen of the county said. “Let it go to him in the same way. We all -respect the voice of nature, and you are not a silly woman, my dear -Janet, to believe a thing that is not: but the evidence would not bear -investigation in a court of law. He is a fine young fellow, and has -spoken out like a gentleman.” - -“As he has a good right--the last of the Bethunes, as well as a Gordon -of no mean name!” - -“Just so,” said the convener of the county; “there is nobody here that -will not give him his hand. But you have kept the secret so long, it is -my opinion you should keep it still. We all know--all that are worth -considering--and what is the use of making a scandal and an outcry among -all the silly auld wives of the countryside? And leave him your land by -will, as the nearest relation you care to acknowledge on his mother’s -side.” - -This was the decision that was finally come to; and Miss Bethune was not -less a happy mother, nor Harry Gordon the less a good son, that the -relationship between them was quite beyond the reach of proof, and -existed really in the settled conviction of one brain alone. The -delusion made her happy, and it gave him a generous reason for -acquiescing in the change so much to his advantage which took place in -his life. - -The Mannerings arrived at Beaton Castle shortly after the doctor, on -their return from the Continent. Dora was now completely woman-grown, -and had gradually and tacitly taken the command of her father and all -his ways. He had been happy in the certainty that when he left off work -and consented to take that long rest, it was his own income upon which -they set out--an income no longer encumbered with any debts to pay, even -for old books. He had gone on happily upon that conviction ever since; -they had travelled a great deal together, and he had completely -recovered his health, and in a great degree his interest, both in -science and life. He had even taken up those studies which had been -interrupted by the shipwreck of his happiness, and the breaking up of -his existence, and had recently published some of the results of them, -with a sudden lighting up once again of the fame of the more youthful -Mannering, from whom such great things had been expected. The more he -had become interested in work and the pursuits of knowledge, the less he -had known or thought of external affairs; and for a long time Dora had -acted very much as she pleased, increasing such luxuries as he liked, -and encouraging every one of the extravagances into which, when left to -himself, he naturally fell. Sometimes still he would pause over an -expensive book, with a half hesitation, half apology. - -“But perhaps we cannot afford it. I ought not to give myself so many -indulgences, Dora.” - -“You know how little we spend, father,” Dora would say,--“no house going -on at home to swallow up the money. We live for next to nothing here.” -And he received her statement with implicit faith. - -Thus both the elder personages of this history were deceived, and found -a great part of their happiness in it. Was it a false foundation of -happiness, and wrong in every way, as Dr. Roland maintained? He took -these two young people into the woods, and read them the severest of -lessons. - -“You are two lies,” he said; “you are deceiving two people who are of -more moral worth than either of you. It is probably not your fault, but -that of some wicked grandmother; but you ought to be told it, all the -same. And I don’t say that I blame you. I daresay I should do it also in -your case. But it’s a shame, all the same.” - -“In the case of my--mistress, my friend, my all but mother,” said young -Gordon, with some emotion, “the deceit is all her own. I have said all I -could say, and so have her friends. We have proved to her that it could -not be I, everything has been put before her; and if she determines, -after all that, that I am the man, what can I do? I return her affection -for affection cordially, for who was ever so good to any one as she is -to me? And I serve her as her son might do. I am of use to her actually, -though you may not think it. And why should I try to wound her heart, by -reasserting that I am not what she thinks, and that she is deceived? I -do my best to satisfy, not to deceive her. Therefore, do not say it; I -am no lie.” - -“All very well and very plausible,” said the doctor, “but in no wise -altering my opinion. And, Miss Dora, what have you got to say?” - -“I say nothing,” said Dora; “there is no deceit at all. If you only knew -how particular I am! Father’s income suffices for himself; he is not in -debt to any one. He has a good income--a very good income--four hundred -a year, enough for any single man. Don’t you think so? I have gone over -it a great many times, and I am sure he does not spend more than -that--not so much; the calculation is all on paper. Do you remember -teaching me to do accounts long ago? I am very good at it now. Father -is not bound to keep me, when there are other people who will keep on -sending me money: and he has quite enough--too much for himself; then -where is the deceit, or shame either? My conscience is quite clear.” - -“You are two special pleaders,” the doctor said; “you are too many for -me when you are together. I’ll get you apart, and convince you of your -sin. And what,” he cried suddenly, taking them by surprise, “my fine -young sir and madam, would happen if either one or other of you took it -into your heads to marry? That is what I should like to know.” - -They looked at each other for a moment as it were in a flash of crimson -light, which seemed to fly instantaneously from one to another. They -looked first at him, and then exchanged one lightning glance, and then -each turned a little aside on either side of the doctor. Was it to hide -that something which was nothing, that spontaneous, involuntary -momentary interchange of looks, from his curious eyes? Dr. Roland was -struck as by that harmless lightning. He, the expert, had forgotten what -contagion there might be in the air. They were both tall, both fair, two -slim figures in their youthful grace, embodiments of all that was -hopeful, strong, and lifelike. The doctor had not taken into -consideration certain effects known to all men which are not in the -books. “Whew-ew!” he breathed in a long whistle of astonishment, and -said no more. - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's A House in Bloomsbury, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY *** - -***** This file should be named 55140-0.txt or 55140-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/4/55140/ - -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: A House in Bloomsbury - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: July 17, 2017 [EBook #55140] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY *** - - - - -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="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="320" height="500" alt="[ -Image of the book's cover unavailable.]" /></a> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c">Contents.</p> -<p> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter: I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV.</a> -</p> -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<p class="cb">A House in Bloomsbury</p> - -<h1> -<i>A House in Bloomsbury</i></h1> - -<p class="c"> -By<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<small>New York<br /> -International Association of Newspapers and Authors<br /> -1901<br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1894, by</span><br /> -DODD, MEAD & COMPANY<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved.</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -NORTH RIVER BINDERY CO.<br /> -PRINTERS AND BINDERS<br /> -NEW YORK</small> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Father</span>,” said Dora, “I am going upstairs for a little, to see Mrs. -Hesketh, if you have no objection.”</p> - -<p>“And who is Mrs. Hesketh, if I might make so bold as to ask?” Mr. -Mannering said, lifting his eyes from his evening paper.</p> - -<p>“Father! I told you all about her on Sunday—that she’s all alone all -day, and sometimes her husband is so late of getting home. She is so -lonely, poor little thing. And she is such a nice little thing! Married, -but not so big as me.”</p> - -<p>“And who is—— her husband?” Mr. Mannering was about to say, but he -checked himself. No doubt he had heard all about the husband too. He -heard many things without hearing them, being conscious rather of the -pleasant voice of Dora running on than of everything she said.</p> - -<p>This had, no doubt, been the case in respect to the young couple -upstairs, of whose existence he had become dimly sensible by reason of -meeting one or other of them on the stairs. But there was nothing in the -appearance of either which had much attracted him. They appeared to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> -a commonplace couple of inferior kind; and perhaps had he been a man -with all his wits keenly about him, he would not have allowed his child -to run wild about the little woman upstairs. But Mr. Mannering did not -keep his wits about him sharpened to any such point.</p> - -<p>Dora was a child, but also she was a lady, proof against any -contamination of acquaintance which concerned only the letters of the -alphabet. Her “h’s” could take care of themselves, and so could her -“r’s". As for anything else, Mr. Mannering’s dreamy yet not unobservant -eyes had taken in the fact that the young woman, who was not a lady, was -an innocent and good little woman; and it had never occurred to him to -be afraid of any chance influence of such a kind for his daughter. He -acquiesced, accordingly, with a little nod of his head, and return of -his mild eyes to his paper.</p> - -<p>These two were the best of companions; but he was not jealous of his -little girl, nor did he desire that she should be for ever in his sight. -He liked to read his paper; sometimes he had a book which interested him -very much. The thought that Dora had a little interest in her life also, -special to herself, pleased him more than if she had been always hanging -upon him for her amusement and occupation. He was not afraid of the -acquaintance she might make, which was a little rash, perhaps, -especially in a man who had known the world, and knew, or ought to have -known, the mischief that can arise from unsuitable associates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<p>But there are some people who never learn; indeed, few people learn by -experience, so far as I have ever seen. Dora had been an independent -individuality to her father since she was six years old. He had felt, as -parents often feel with a curious mixture of feelings, half pleasure, -half surprise, half disappointment (as if there could be three halves! -the reader will say; but there are, and many more), that she was not -very much influenced by himself, who was most near to her. If such -things could be weighed in any balance, he was most, it may be said, -influenced by her. She retained her independence. How was it possible -then that, conscious of this, he should be much alarmed by any -problematical influence that could be brought to bear upon her by a -stranger? He was not, indeed, the least afraid.</p> - -<p>Dora ran up the stairs, which were dark at the top, for Mrs. Simcox -could not afford to let her lodgers who paid so low a rent have a light -on their landing; and the landing itself was encumbered by various -articles, between which there was need of wary steering. But this little -girl had lived in these Bloomsbury lodgings all her life, and knew her -way about as well as the children of the house. Matters were -facilitated, too, by the sudden opening of a door, from which the light -and, sad to say, something of the smell of a paraffin lamp shone out, -illuminating the rosy face of a young woman, with a piece of sewing in -her hand, who looked out in bright expectation, but clouded over a -little when she saw who it was. “Oh, Miss Dora!” she said; and added in -an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> undertone, “I thought it was Alfred home a little sooner than -usual,” with a little sigh.</p> - -<p>“I made such a noise,” said Dora, apologetically. “I couldn’t help it. -Jane will leave so many things about.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s me, Miss Dora. I does my rooms myself; it saves a deal on the -rent. I shouldn’t have left that crockery there, but it saves trouble, -and I’m not that used to housework.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Dora, seating herself composedly at the table, and resisting, -by a strong exercise of self-control, her impulse to point out that the -lamp could not have been properly cleaned, since it smelt so. “One can -see,” she added, the fact being incontestable, “that you don’t know how -to do many things. And that is a pity, because things then are not so -nice.”</p> - -<p>She seemed to cast a glance of criticism about the room, to poor little -Mrs. Hesketh’s excited fancy, who was ready to cry with vexation. “My -family always kep’ a girl,” she said in a tone of injury subdued. But -she was proud of Dora’s friendship, and would not say any more.</p> - -<p>“So I should have thought,” said Dora, critical, yet accepting the -apology as if, to a certain extent, it accounted for the state of -affairs.</p> - -<p>“And Alfred says,” cried the young wife, “that if we can only hold on -for a year or two, he’ll make a lady of me, and I shall have servants of -my own. But we ain’t come to that yet—oh, not by a long way.”</p> - -<p>“It is not having servants that makes a lady,” said Dora. “We are not -rich.” She said this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> with an ineffable air of superiority to all such -vulgar details. “I have never had a maid since I was quite a little -thing.” She had always been herself surprised by this fact, and she -expected her hearer to be surprised. “But what does that matter?” she -added. “One is oneself all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody could look at you twice,” said the admiring humble friend. “And -how kind of you to leave your papa and all your pretty books and come up -to sit with me because I’m so lonely! It is hard upon us to have Alfred -kep’ so late every night.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t he help it?” said Dora. “If I were you, I should go out to meet -him. The streets are so beautiful at night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Dora!” cried the little woman, shocked. “He wouldn’t have me -go out by myself, not for worlds! Why, somebody might speak to me! But -young girls they don’t think of that. I sometimes wish I could be taken -on among the young ladies in the mantle department, and then we could -walk home together. But then,” she added quickly, “I couldn’t make him -so comfortable, and then——”</p> - -<p>She returned to her work with a smile and a blush. She was always very -full of her work, making little “things,” which Dora vaguely supposed -were for the shop. Their form and fashion threw no light to Dora upon -the state of affairs.</p> - -<p>“When you were in the shop, were you in the mantle department?” she -asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. My figure isn’t good enough,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> Mrs. Hesketh; “you have to -have a very good figure, and look like a lady. Some of the young ladies -have beautiful figures, Miss Dora; and such nice black silks—as nice as -any lady would wish to wear—which naturally sets them off.”</p> - -<p>“And nothing to do?” said Dora, contemptuously. “I should not like -that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you! But they have a deal to do. I’ve seen ’em when they were just -dropping down with tiredness. Standing about all day, and putting on -mantles and things, and pretending to walk away careless to set them -off. Poor things! I’d rather a deal stand behind the counter, though -they’ve got the best pay.”</p> - -<p>“Have you been reading anything to-day?” said Dora, whose attention was -beginning to flag.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hesketh blushed a little. “I’ve scarcely sat down all day till now; -I’ve been having a regular clean-out. You can’t think how the dust gets -into all the corners with the fires and all that. And I’ve just been at -it from morning till night. I tried to read a little bit when I had my -tea. And it’s a beautiful book, Miss Dora, but I was that tired.”</p> - -<p>“It can scarcely take a whole day,” said Dora, looking round her, “to -clean out this one little room.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you can’t think what a lot of work there is, when you go into -all the corners. And then I get tired, and it makes me stupid.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Dora, with suppressed impatience, “but when you become a -lady, as you say, with servants to do all you want, how will you be -able<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> to take up a proper position if you have never read anything?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as for that,” said Mrs. Hesketh in a tone of relief, “that can’t be -for a long time yet; and you feel different when you’re old to what you -do when you’re young.”</p> - -<p>“But I am young,” said Dora. She changed the subject, however, more or -less, by her next question. “Are you really fond of sewing?” she said in -an incredulous tone; “or rather, what are you most fond of? What should -you like best to do?”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said the little wife, with large open eyes and mouth—she fell -off, however, into a sigh and added, “if one ever had what one wished -most!”</p> - -<p>“And why not?” said inexperienced Dora. “At least,” she added, “it’s -pleasant to think, even if you don’t have what you want. What should you -like best?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Mrs. Hesketh again, but this time with a long-drawn breath of -longing consciousness, “I should like that we might have enough to live -upon without working, and Alfred and me always to be together,—that’s -what I should like best.”</p> - -<p>“Money?” cried Dora with irrepressible scorn.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Dora, money! You can’t think how nice it would be just to have -enough to live on. I should never, never wish to be extravagant, or to -spend more than I had; just enough for Alfred to give up the shop, and -not be bound down to those long hours any more!”</p> - -<p>“And how much might that be?” said Dora,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> with an air of grand yet -indulgent magnificence, as if, though scorning this poor ideal, she -might yet perhaps find it possible to bestow upon her friend the -insignificant happiness for which she sighed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Dora, when you think how many things are wanted in -housekeeping, and one’s dress, and all that—and probably more than us,” -said Mrs. Hesketh, with a bright blush. She too looked at the girl as if -it might have been within Dora’s power to give the modest gift. “Should -you think it a dreadful lot,” said the young woman, “if I said two -hundred a year?”</p> - -<p>“Two hundred pounds a year?” said Dora reflectively. “I think,” she -added, after a pause, “father has more than twice as much as that.”</p> - -<p>“La!” said Mrs. Hesketh; and then she made a rapid calculation, one of -those efforts of mental arithmetic in which children and simple persons -so often excel. “He must be saving up a lot,” she said admiringly, “for -your fortune. Miss Dora. You’ll be quite an heiress with all that.”</p> - -<p>This was an entirely new idea to Dora, who knew of heiresses only what -is said in novels, where it is so easy to bestow great fortunes. “Oh no, -I shall not be an heiress,” she said; “and I don’t think we save up very -much. Father has always half a dozen pensioners, and he buys books -and—things.” Dora had a feeling that it was something mean and -bourgeois—a word which Mr. Mannering was rather apt to use—to save -up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Mrs. Hesketh again, with her countenance falling. She was not -a selfish or a scheming woman; but she had a romantic imagination, and -it was so easy an exercise of fancy to think of this girl, who had -evidently conceived such a friendship for herself, as “left” rich and -solitary at the death of her delicate father, and adopting her Alfred -and herself as companions and guardians. It was a sudden and passing -inspiration, and the young woman meant no harm, but there was a -visionary disappointment in her voice.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Dora, with the impulse of a higher cultivation, “it is a -much better thing to work than to do nothing. When father is at home for -a few days, unless we go away somewhere, he gets restless; and if he -were always at home he would begin some new study, and work harder than -ever.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, not with folks like us, Miss Dora,” said Mrs. Hesketh. Then she -added: “A woman has always got plenty to do. She has got her house to -look after, and to see to the dinner and things. And when there are -children——” Once more she paused with a blush to think over that happy -prospect. “And we’d have a little garden,” she said, “where Alfred could -potter about, and a little trap that we could drive about in, and take -me to see places, and oh, we’d be as happy as the day was long!” she -cried, clasping her hands. The clock struck as she spoke, and she -hastily put away her sewing and rose up. “You won’t mind, Miss Dora, if -I lay the table<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> and get things ready for supper? Alfred will soon be -coming now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I like to see you laying the table,” said Dora, “and I’ll help -you—I can do it very well. I never let Jane touch our nice clean -tablecloths. Don’t you think you want a fresh one?” she said, looking -doubtfully at the somewhat dingy linen. “Father always says clean linen -is the luxury of poor people.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said little Mrs. Hesketh. She did not like criticism any more than -the rest of us, nor did she like being identified with “poor people". -Mr. Mannering’s wise yet foolish aphorism (for how did he know how much -it cost to have clean linen in Bloomsbury—or Belgravia either, for that -matter?) referred to persons in his own condition, not in hers; but -naturally she did not think of that. Her pride and her blood were up, -however; and she went with a little hurry and vehemence to a drawer and -took out a clean tablecloth. Sixpence was the cost of washing, and she -could not afford to throw away sixpences, and the other one had only -been used three or four times; but her pride, as I have said, was up.</p> - -<p>“And where are the napkins?” said Dora. “I’ll lay it for you. I really -like to do it: and a nicely-laid table, with the crystal sparkling, and -the silver shining, and the linen so fresh and smooth, is a very pretty -object to look at, father always says.”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear! I must hurry up,” cried Mrs. Hesketh; “I hear Alfred’s step -upon the stairs.”</p> - -<p>Now Dora did not admire Alfred, though she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> was fond of Alfred’s wife. -He brought a sniff of the shop with him; which was disagreeable to the -girl, and he called her “miss,” which Dora hated. She threw down the -tablecloth hurriedly. “Oh, I’ll leave you then,” she cried, “for I’m -sure he does not like to see me here when he comes in.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Dora, how can you think such a thing?” cried her friend; but -she was glad of the success of her expedient when her visitor -disappeared. Alfred, indeed, did not come in for half an hour after; but -Mrs. Hesketh was at liberty to make her little domestic arrangements in -her own way. Alfred, like herself, knew that a tablecloth cost sixpence -every time it went to the wash—which Dora, it was evident, did not do.</p> - -<p>Dora found her father reading in exactly the same position as she had -left him; he had not moved except to turn a leaf. He raised his head -when she came in, and said: “I am glad you have come back, Dora. I want -you to get me a book out of that bookcase in the corner. It is on the -third shelf.”</p> - -<p>“And were you so lazy, father, that you would not get up to find it -yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was so lazy,” he said, with a laugh. “I get lazier and lazier -every day. Besides, I like to feel that I have some one to do it for me. -I am taking books out of shelves and putting them back again all the day -long.”</p> - -<p>Dora put her arm on her father’s shoulder, as she put down the book on -the table before him. “But you like it, don’t you, father? You are not -tired of it.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<p>“Of the Museum?” he said, with a laugh and a look of surprise. “No; I am -not tired of it—any more than I am of my life.”</p> - -<p>This was an enigmatical reply, but Dora did not attempt to fathom it. -“What the little people upstairs want is just to have money enough to -live on, and nothing to do,” she said.</p> - -<p>“The little people? And what are you, Dora? You are not so very big.”</p> - -<p>“I am growing,” said Dora, with confidence; “and I shouldn’t like to -have nothing to do all my life.”</p> - -<p>“There is a great deal to be said for that view of the question,” said -Mr. Mannering. “I am not an enthusiast for mere work, unless there is -something to come out of it. ‘Know what thou canst work at’ does not -apply always, unless you have to earn your living, which is often a very -fortunate necessity. And even that,” he said, with a smile, “has its -drawbacks.”</p> - -<p>“It is surely far better than doing nothing,” cried Dora, with her young -nose in the air.</p> - -<p>“Well, but what does it come to after all? One works to live, and -consumes the fruits of one’s work in the art of living. And what better -is that than if you had never been? The balance would be much the same. -But this is not the sort of argument for little girls, even though they -are growing,” Mr. Mannering said.</p> - -<p>“I think the Museum must have been very stuffy to-day, father,” was the -remark which Dora made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Mannerings lived in a house in that district of Bloomsbury which has -so long meant everything that is respectable, mediocre, and dull,—at -least, to that part of the world which inhabits farther West. It is -possible that, regarded from the other side of the compass, Bloomsbury -may be judged more justly as a city of well-sized and well-built houses, -aired and opened up by many spacious breathing-places, set with stately -trees. It is from this point of view that it is regarded by many persons -of humble pretensions, who find large rooms and broad streets where in -other districts they would only have the restricted space of respectable -poverty, the weary little conventionality of the suburban cottage, or -the dingy lodging-house parlours of town.</p> - -<p>Bloomsbury is very much town indeed, surrounded on all sides by the roar -of London; but it has something of the air of an individual place, a -town within a town.</p> - -<p>The pavements are wide, and so are the houses, as in the best quarter of -a large provincial city. The squares have a look of seclusion, of shady -walks, and retired leisure, which there is nothing to rival either in -Belgravia or Mayfair. It is, or was—for it is many years since the -present writer has passed over their broad pavements,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> or stood under -the large, benignant, and stately shadow of the trees in Russell -Square—a region apart, above fashion, a sober heart and centre of an -older and steadier London, such as is not represented in the Row, and -takes little part in the rabble and rout of fashion, the decent town of -earlier days.</p> - -<p>I do not mean to imply by this that the Mannerings lived in Russell -Square, or had any pretensions to be regarded among the magnates of -Bloomsbury; for they were poor people, quite poor, living the quietest -life; not rich enough even to have a house of their own; mere lodgers, -occupying a second floor in a house which was full of other lodgers, but -where they retained the importance and dignity of having furnished their -own rooms. The house was situated at the corner of a street, and thus -gave them a glimpse of the trees of the Square, a view over the gardens, -as the landlady described it, which was no small matter, especially from -the altitude of the second floor. The small family consisted of a father -and daughter—he, middle-aged, a quiet, worn, and subdued man, employed -all day in the British Museum; and she, a girl very young, yet so much -older than her years that she was the constant and almost only companion -of her father, to whom Dora was as his own soul, the sharer of all his -thoughts, as well as the only brightness in his life.</p> - -<p>She was but fifteen at the time when this chapter of their history -begins, a creature in short frocks and long hair slightly curling on her -shoulders;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> taller, if we may state such a contradiction in words, than -she was intended to be, or turned out in her womanhood, with long legs, -long neck, long fingers, and something of the look of a soft-eyed, -timid, yet playfully daring colt, flying up and down stairs as if she -had wings on her shoulders, yet walking very sedately by the side of her -father whenever they went out together, almost more steady and serious -than he.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering had the appearance of being a man who had always done -well, yet never succeeded in life; a man with a small income, and no -chance of ever bettering himself, as people say, or advancing in the -little hierarchy of the great institution which he served meekly and -diligently in the background, none of its promotions ever reaching him.</p> - -<p>Scarcely any one, certainly none out of that institution, knew that -there had been a period in which this gentle and modest life had almost -been submerged under the bitterest wave, and in which it had almost won -the highest honours possible to a man of such pursuits. This was an old -story, and even Dora knew little of it. He had done so much at that -forgotten and troubled time, that, had he been a rich man like Darwin, -and able to retire and work in quiet the discoveries he had made, and -the experiences he had attained, Robert Mannering’s name might have been -placed in the rolls of fame as high as that of his more fortunate -contemporary.</p> - -<p>But he was poor when he returned from the notable wanderings during the -course of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> he had been given up as dead for years, poor and -heartbroken, and desiring nothing but the dimmest corner in which to -live out his broken days, and just enough to live upon to bring up his -little daughter, and to endure his existence, his duty to God and to -Dora forbidding him to make an end of it.</p> - -<p>It would be giving an altogether false idea of the man with whom this -book is to be much occupied, to say that he had continued in this -despairing frame of mind. God and Dora—the little gift of God—had -taken care of that. The little girl had led him back to a way which, if -not brilliant or prosperous, was like a field-path through many humble -flowers, sweet with the air and breath of nature. Sooth to say, it was -no field-path at all, but led chiefly over the pavements of Bloomsbury; -yet the simple metaphor was not untrue.</p> - -<p>Thus he lived, and did his work dutifully day by day. No headship of a -department, no assistant keepership for him; yet much esteem and -consideration among his peers, and a constant reference, whenever -anything in his special sphere was wanted, to his boundless information -and knowledge. Sometimes a foreign inquirer would come eager to seek -him, as the best and highest authority on this subject, to the -consternation of the younger men in other branches, who could not -understand how anybody could believe “old Mannering” to be of -consequence in the place; but generally his life was as obscure as he -wished it to be, yet not any hard or painful drudgery;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> for he was still -occupied with the pursuit which he had chosen, and which he had followed -all his life; and he was wise enough to recognise and be thankful for -the routine which held his broken existence together, and had set up -again, after his great disaster, his framework as a man.</p> - -<p>Dora knew nothing of any disaster; and this was good for him too, -bringing him back to nature. “A cheerful man I am in life,” he might -have said with Thackeray, who also had good reason for being sad enough. -A man who has for his chief society a buoyant, curious, new spirit, -still trailing clouds of glory from her origin, still only making -acquaintance with things of earth, curious about everything, asking a -thousand penetrating questions, awakening a mood of interest everywhere, -can scarcely be otherwise than cheerful.</p> - -<p>The second floor at the corner of the Square which was inhabited by this -pair consisted of three rooms, all good-sized and airy; the sitting-room -being indeed spacious, larger than any two which could have been found -in a fashionable nook in Mayfair. It was furnished, in a manner very -unexpected by such chance visitors as did not know the character of the -inhabitants, with furniture which would not have been out of place in -Belgravia, or in a fine lady’s drawing-room anywhere, mingled strangely -with certain plain pieces put in for evident use.</p> - -<p>A square and sturdy table occupied the portion of the room which was -nearest to the door, with the clearest utility, serving for the meals -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> the father and daughter, while the other part of the room, partially -separated by a stamped leather screen, had an air of subdued luxury, a -little faded, yet unmistakable. The curtains were of heavy brocade, -which had a little lost their colour, or rather gained those shadings -and reflections which an artist loves; but hung with the softness of -their silken fabric, profoundly unlike the landlady’s nice fresh crimson -rep which adorned the windows of the first floor. There was an Italian -inlaid cabinet against the farther wall, which held the carefully -prepared sheets of a herbarium, which Mr. Mannering had collected from -all the ends of the earth, and which was of sufficient value to count -for much in the spare inheritance which he meant for his only child. The -writing-table, at which Dora had learned to make her first pothooks, was -a piece of beautiful <i>marqueterie</i>, the oldest and most graceful of its -kind.</p> - -<p>But I need not go round the room and make a catalogue of the furniture. -It settled quite kindly into the second floor in Bloomsbury, with that -grace which the nobler kind of patrician, subdued by fortune, lends to -the humblest circumstances, which he accepts with patience and goodwill. -Mr. Mannering himself had never been a handsome man; and all the colour -and brightness of youth had died out of him, though he was still in the -fulness of middle age. But the ivory tone of his somewhat sharply cut -profile and the premature stoop of his shoulders suited his surroundings -better than a more vigorous personality would have done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span></p> - -<p>Dora, in her half-grown size and bigness, with her floating hair and -large movements, seemed to take up a great deal more space than her -father; and it was strange that she did not knock down more frequently -the pretty old-fashioned things, and the old books which lay upon the -little tables, or even those tables themselves, as she whisked about; -but they knew Dora, and she knew them. She had spent a great part of -every day alone with them, as long as she could remember, playing with -those curiosities that lay upon them, while she was a child, in the -long, silent, dreamy hours, when she was never without amusement, though -as constantly alone.</p> - -<p>Since she had grown older, she had taken pleasure in dusting them and -arranging them, admiring the toys of old silver, and the carved ivories -and trifles of all kinds, from the ends of the earth. It was her great -pleasure on the Sunday afternoons, when her father was with her, to open -the drawers of the cabinet and bring out the sheets of the herbarium so -carefully arranged and classified. Her knowledge, perhaps, was not very -scientific, but it was accurate in detail, and in what may be called -locality in the highest degree. She knew what family abode in what -drawer, and all its ramifications. These were more like neighbours to -Dora, lodged in surrounding houses, than specimens in drawers. She knew -all about them, where they came from, and their genealogy, and which -were the grandparents, and which the children; and, still more -interesting, in what jungle or marsh her father had found them, and -which of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> came from the African deserts in which he had once been -lost.</p> - -<p>By degrees she had found out much about that wonderful episode in his -life, and had become vaguely aware, which was the greatest discovery of -all, that it contained many things which she had not found out, and -perhaps never would. She knew even how to lead him to talk about it, -which had to be very skilfully done—for he was shy of the subject when -assailed openly, and often shrank from the very name of Africa as if it -stung him; while on other occasions, led on by some train of thought in -his own mind, he would fall into long lines of recollections, and tell -her of the fever attacks, one after another, which had laid him low, and -how the time had gone over him like a dream, so that he never knew till -long after how many months, and even years, he had lost.</p> - -<p>Where was the mother all this time, it may be asked? Dora knew no more -of this part of her history than if she had come into the world without -need of any such medium, like Minerva from her father’s head.</p> - -<p>It is difficult to find out from the veiled being of a little child what -it thinks upon such a subject, or if it is aware at all, when it has -never been used to any other state of affairs, of the strange vacancy in -its own life. Dora never put a single question to her father on this -point; and he had often asked himself whether her mind was dead to all -that side of life which she had never known, or whether some instinct -kept her silent; and had satisfied himself at last that, as she knew -scarcely any other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> children, the want in her own life had not struck -her imagination. Indeed, the grandchildren of Mrs. Simcox, the landlady, -were almost the only children Dora had ever known familiarly, and they, -like herself, had no mother, they had granny; and Dora had inquired of -her father about her own granny, who was dead long ago.</p> - -<p>“You have only me, my poor little girl,” he had said. But Dora had been -quite satisfied.</p> - -<p>“Janie and Molly have no papa,” she answered, with a little pride. It -was a great superiority, and made up for everything, and she inquired no -more. Nature, Mr. Mannering knew, was by no means so infallible as we -think her. He did not know, however, what is a still more recondite and -profound knowledge, what secret things are in a child’s heart.</p> - -<p>I have known a widowed mother who wondered sadly for years why her -children showed so little interest and asked no questions about their -father; and then found out, from the lips of one grown into full -manhood, what visions had been wrapt about that unknown image, and how -his portrait had been the confidant of many a little secret trouble -hidden even from herself. But Dora had not even a portrait to give -embodiment to any wistful thoughts. Perhaps it was to her not merely -that her mother was dead, but that she had never been. Perhaps—but who -knows the questions that arise in that depth profound, the heart of a -child?</p> - -<p>It was not till Dora was fifteen that she received the great shock, yet -revelation, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> discovering the portrait of a lady in her father’s room.</p> - -<p>Was it her mother? She could not tell. It was the portrait of a young -lady, which is not a child’s ideal of a mother. It was hidden away in a -secret drawer of which she had discovered the existence only by a chance -in the course of some unauthorised investigations among Mr. Mannering’s -private properties.</p> - -<p>He had lost something which Dora was intent on surprising him by -finding; and this was what led her to these investigations. It was in a -second Italian cabinet which was in his bedroom, an inferior specimen to -that in the drawing-room, but one more private, about which her -curiosity had never been awakened. He kept handkerchiefs, neckties, -uninteresting items of personal use in it, which Dora was somewhat -carelessly turning over, when by accident the secret spring was touched, -and the drawer flew open. In this there was a miniature case which -presented a very strange spectacle when Dora, a little excited, opened -it. There seemed to be nothing but a blank at first, until, on further -examination, Dora found that the miniature had been turned face -downwards in its case. It may be imagined with what eager curiosity she -continued her investigations.</p> - -<p>The picture, as has been said, was that of a young lady—quite a young -lady, not much older, Dora thought, than herself. Who could this girl -be? Her mother? But that girlish face could not belong to any girl’s -mother. It was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> beautiful to Dora’s eyes; but yet full of vivacity -and interest, a face that had much to say if one only knew its language; -with dark, bright eyes, and a tremulous smile about the lips. Who was -it; oh, who was it? Was it that little sister of papa’s who was dead, -whose name had been Dora too? Was it ——</p> - -<p>Dora did not know what to think, or how to explain the little shock -which was given her by this discovery. She shut up the drawer hastily, -but she had not the heart to turn the portrait again as it had been -turned, face downwards. It seemed too unkind, cruel almost. Why should -her face be turned downwards, that living, smiling face? “I will ask -papa,” Dora said to herself; but she could not tell why it was, any more -than she could explain her other sensations on the subject, that when -the appropriate moment came to do so, she had not the courage to ask -papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was one remarkable thing in Dora Mannering’s life which I have -omitted to mention, which is, that she was in the habit of receiving -periodically, though at very uncertain intervals, out of that vast but -vague universe surrounding England, which we call generally “abroad,” a -box. No one knew where it came from, or who it came from; at least, no -light was ever thrown to Dora upon that mystery. It was despatched now -from one place, now from another; and not a name, or a card, or a scrap -of paper was ever found to identify the sender.</p> - -<p>This box contained always a store of delights for the recipient, who, -though she was in a manner monarch of all she surveyed, was without many -of the more familiar pleasures of childhood. It had contained toys and -pretty knick-knacks of many quaint foreign kinds when she was quite a -child; but as she grew older, the mind of her unknown friend seemed to -follow her growth with the strangest certainty of what would please -these advancing youthful years.</p> - -<p>The foundation of the box, if that word may be employed, was always a -store of the daintiest underclothing, delicately made, which followed -Dora’s needs and growth, growing longer as she grew taller; so that -underneath her frocks, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> were not always lovely, the texture, form, -and colour being chiefly decided by the dressmaker who had “made” for -her as long as she could remember, Dora was clothed like a princess; and -thus accustomed from her childhood to the most delicate and dainty -accessories—fine linen, fine wool, silk stockings, handkerchiefs good -enough for any fine lady. Her father had not, at first, liked to see -these fine things; he had pushed them away when she spread them out to -show him her treasures, and turned his back upon her, bidding her carry -off her trumpery.</p> - -<p>It was so seldom, so very seldom, that Mr. Mannering had an objection to -anything done by Dora, that this little exhibition of temper had an -extraordinary effect; but the interval between one arrival and another -was long enough to sweep any such recollection out of the mind of a -child; and as she grew older, more intelligent to note what he meant, -and, above all, more curious about everything that happened, he had -changed his tone. But he had a look which Dora classified in her own -mind as “the face father puts on when my box comes".</p> - -<p>This is a sort of thing which imprints itself very clearly upon the mind -of the juvenile spectator and critic. Dora knew it as well as she knew -the clothes her father wore, or the unchanging habits of his life, -though she did not for a long time attempt to explain to herself what it -meant. It was a look of intent self-restraint, of a stoical repression. -He submitted to having the different contents of the box exhibited to -him without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> smile on his face or the least manifestation of -sympathy—he who sympathised with every sentiment which breathed across -his child’s facile spirit. He wound himself up to submit to the ordeal, -it seemed, with the blank look of an unwilling spectator, who has not a -word of admiration for anything, and, indeed, hates the sight he cannot -refuse to see.</p> - -<p>“Who can send them, father? oh, who can send them? Who is it that -remembers me like this, and that I’m growing, and what I must want, and -everything? I was only a child when the last one came. You must -know—you must know, father! How could any one know about me and not -know you—or care for me?” Dora cried, with a little moisture springing -to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I have already told you I don’t know anything about it,” said Mr. -Mannering, oh, with such a shut-up face! closing the shutters upon his -eyes and drawing down all the blinds, as Dora said.</p> - -<p>“Well, but suppose you don’t know, you must guess; you must imagine who -it could be. No one could know me, and not know you. I am not a stranger -that you have nothing to do with. You must know who is likely to take so -much thought about your daughter. Why, she knows my little name! There -is ‘Dora’ on my handkerchiefs.”</p> - -<p>He turned away with a short laugh. “You seem to have found out a great -deal for yourself. How do you know it is ‘she’? It might be some old -friend of mine who knew that my only child<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> was Dora—and perhaps that I -was not a man to think of a girl’s wants.”</p> - -<p>“It may be an old friend of yours, father. It must be, for who would -know about me but a friend of yours? But how could it be a man? It -couldn’t be a man! A man could never work ‘Dora’——”</p> - -<p>“You little simpleton! He would go to a shop and order it to be worked. -I daresay it is Wallace, who is out in South America.”</p> - -<p>Such a practical suggestion made Dora pause; but it was not at all an -agreeable idea. “Mr. Wallace! an old, selfish, dried-up ——” Then with a -cry of triumph she added: “But they came long, long before he went to -South America. No—I know one thing—that it is a lady. No one but a -lady could tell what a girl wants. You don’t, father, though you know me -through and through; and how could any other man? But I suppose you have -had friends ladies as well as men?”</p> - -<p>His closed-up lips melted a little. “Not many,” he said; then they shut -up fast again. “It may be,” he said reluctantly, with a face from which -all feeling was shut out, which looked like wood, “a friend—of your -mother’s.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of mamma’s!” The girl’s countenance lit up; she threw back her head -and her waving hair, conveying to the man who shrank from her look the -impression as of a thing with wings. He had been of opinion that she had -never thought upon this subject, never considered the side of life thus -entirely shut out from her experience,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> and had wondered even while -rejoicing at her insensibility. But when he saw the light on her face he -shrank, drawing back into himself. “Oh,” cried Dora, “a friend of my -mother’s! Oh, father, she must have died long, long ago, that I never -remember her. Oh, tell me, who can this friend be?”</p> - -<p>He had shut himself up again more closely than ever—not only were there -shutters at all the windows, but they were bolted and barred with iron. -His face was more blank than any piece of wood. “I never knew much of -her friends,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Mother’s friends!” the girl cried, with a half shriek of reproachful -wonder. And then she added quickly: “But think, father, think! You will -remember somebody if you will only try.”</p> - -<p>“Dora,” he said, “you don’t often try my patience, and you had better -not begin now. I should like to throw all that trumpery out of the -window, but I don’t, for I feel I have no right to deprive you of —— -Your mother’s friends were not mine. I don’t feel inclined to think as -you bid me. The less one thinks the better—on some subjects. I must ask -you to question me no more.”</p> - -<p>“But, father ——”</p> - -<p>“I have said that I will be questioned no more.”</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t a question,” said the girl, almost sullenly; and then she -clasped her hands about his arm with a sudden impulse. “Father, if you -don’t like it, I’ll put them all away. I’ll never think of them nor -touch them again.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<p>The wooden look melted away, his features quivered for a moment. He -stooped and kissed her on the forehead. “No,” he said, making an effort -to keep his lips firmly set as before. “No; I have no right to do that. -No; I don’t wish it. Keep them and wear them, and take pleasure in them; -but don’t speak to me on the subject again.”</p> - -<p>This conversation took place on the occasion of a very special novelty -in the mysterious periodical present which she had just received, about -which it was impossible to keep silence. The box—“my box,” as Dora had -got to call it—contained, in addition to everything else, a dress, -which was a thing that had never been sent before.</p> - -<p>It was a white dress, made with great simplicity, as became Dora’s age, -but also in a costly way, a semi-transparent white, the sort of stuff -which could be drawn through a ring, as happens in fairy tales, and was -certainly not to be bought in ordinary English shops. To receive -anything so unexpected, so exciting, so beautiful, and not to speak of -it, to exhibit it to some one, was impossible. Dora had not been able to -restrain herself. She had carried it in her arms out of her room, and -opened it out upon a sofa in the sitting-room for her father’s -inspection. There are some things which we know beforehand will not -please, and yet which we are compelled to do; and this was the -consciousness in Dora’s mind, who, besides her delight in the gift, and -her desire to be able to find out something about the donor, had also, -it must be allowed, a burning desire to make discoveries as to that past -of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> she knew so little, which had seized upon her mind from the -moment when she had found the portrait turned upon its face in the -secret drawer of her father’s cabinet. As she withdrew now, again -carrying in her arms the beautiful dress, there was in her mind, -underneath a certain compunction for having disturbed her father, and -sympathy with him so strong that she would actually have been capable of -sacrificing her newly-acquired possessions, a satisfaction -half-mischievous, half-affectionate, in the discoveries which she had -made. They were certainly discoveries; sorry as she was to “upset -father,” there was yet a consciousness in her mind that this time it had -been worth the while.</p> - -<p>The reader may not think any better of Dora for this confession; but -there is something of the elf in most constitutions at fifteen, and she -was not of course at all sensible at that age of the pain that might lie -in souvenirs so ruthlessly stirred up. And she had indeed made something -by them. Never, never again, she promised herself, would she worry -father with questions; but so far as the present occasion went, she -could scarcely be sorry, for had not she learned much—enough to give -her imagination much employment? She carried away her discoveries with -her, as she carried her dress, to realise them in the shelter of her own -room. They seemed to throw a vivid light upon that past in which her own -life was so much involved. She threw the dress upon her bed carelessly, -these other new thoughts having momentarily taken the interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> out of -even so exciting a novelty as that; and arranged in shape and sequence -what she had found out. Well, it was not so much, after all. What seemed -most clear in it was that father had not been quite friends with mother, -or at least with mother’s friends. Perhaps these friends had made -mischief between them—perhaps she had cared for them more than for her -husband; but surely that was not possible. And how strange, how strange -it was that he should keep up such a feeling so long!</p> - -<p>As Dora did not remember her mother, it was evident that she must have -been dead many, many years. And yet her father still kept up his dislike -to her friends! It threw a new light even upon him, whom she knew better -than any one. Dora felt that she knew her father thoroughly, every -thought that was in his mind; and yet here it would seem that she did -not know him at all. So good a man, who was never hard with anybody, who -forgave her, Dora, however naughty she might have been, as soon as she -asked pardon; who forgave old Mr. Warrender for contradicting him about -that orchid, the orchid that was called Manneringii, and which father -had discovered, and therefore must know best; who forgave Mrs. Simcox -when she swept the dust from the corners upon the herbarium and spoilt -some of the specimens; and yet who in all these years had never forgiven -the unknown persons, who were mother’s friends, some one of whom must be -nice indeed, or she never would go on remembering Dora, and sending her -such presents.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> What could he have against this unknown lady,—this -nice, nice woman? And how was it possible that he should have kept it up -in his mind, and never forgiven it, or forgotten all these years? It -made Dora wonder, and feel, though she crushed the feeling firmly, that -perhaps father was not so perfect as she had thought.</p> - -<p>And then there was this lady to think of—her mother’s friend, who had -kept on all this time thinking of Dora. She would not have been more -than a baby when this benefactress saw her last, since Dora did not -remember either mother, or mother’s friend; yet she must recollect just -how old Dora was, must have guessed just about how tall she was, and -kept count how she had grown from one time to another. The beautiful -dress was just almost long enough, almost fitted her in every way. It -gave the girl a keen touch of pleasure to think that she was just a -little taller and slighter than her unknown friend supposed her to -be—but so near; the letting down of a hem, the narrowing of a seam, and -it would be a perfect fit. How foolish father must be to think that Mr. -Wallace, or any other man, would have thought of that! Her mother’s -friend—what a kind friend, what a constant friend, though father did -not like her!</p> - -<p>It overawed Dora a little to think if ever this lady came home, what -would happen? Of course, she would wish to see the girl whom she had -remembered so long, whom she had befriended so constantly; and what if -father would not permit it? It would be unkind, ungrateful, wrong; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> -what if father objected, if it made him unhappy? Dora did not see her -way through this dreadful complication. It was sufficiently hard upon -her, a girl at so early an age, to become the possessor of a beautiful -dress like this, and have no one to show it to, to talk it over with; -nobody even to tell her exactly how it fitted, to judge what was -necessary for its perfection, as Dora herself, with no experience, and -not even a good glass to see herself in, could scarcely do. To hide a -secret of any kind in one’s being at fifteen is a difficult thing; but -when that secret is a frock, a dress!—a robe, indeed, she felt it ought -to be called, it was so exquisite, so poetical in its fineness and -whiteness. Dora had no one to confide in; and if she had possessed a -thousand confidants, would not have said a word to them which would seem -to involve her father in any blame. She put her pretty dress away, -however, with a great sense of discomfiture and downfall. Perhaps he -would dislike to see her wear it, even if she had ever any need for a -beautiful dress like that. But she never had any need. She never went -anywhere, or saw anybody. A whole host of little grievances came up in -the train of that greater one. She wondered if she were to spend all her -life like this, without ever tasting those delights of society which she -had read of, without ever knowing any one of her own age, without ever -seeing people dance, or hearing them sing. As for performing in these -ways herself, that had not come into Dora’s mind. She would like, she -thought, to look on and see how they did it, for once, at least, in her -life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span></p> - -<p>When she had come to this point, Dora, who was a girl full of natural -sense, began to feel instinctively that she was not in a good way, and -that it would be better to do something active to clear away the -cobwebs. It was evening, however, and she did not know exactly what to -do. To go back to the sitting-room where her father was reading, and to -sit down also to read at his side, seemed an ordeal too much for her -after the excitement of their previous talk; but it was what probably -she would have been compelled to do, had she not heard a heavy step -mounting the stairs, the sound of a knock at the door, and her father’s -voice bidding some one enter.</p> - -<p>She satisfied herself presently that it was the voice of one of Mr. -Mannering’s chief friends, a colleague from the Museum, and that he was -safe for a time not to remark her absence or to have urgent need for -her. What now should Dora do? The openings of amusement were small. Mrs. -Hesketh had been exhausted for the moment. It must be said that Dora was -free of the whole house, and that she used her <i>petites entrées</i> in the -most liberal and democratic fashion, thinking no scorn of going -downstairs sometimes to the funny little room next to the kitchen, which -Mrs. Simcox called the breakfast-room, and used as her own sanctum, the -family centre where her grandchildren and herself found refuge out of -the toils of the kitchen. The kitchen itself remained in the possession -of Jane; and Jane, like her mistress, occasionally shared the patronage -of Miss Dora. To-night perhaps she wanted solace<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> of another kind from -any which could be given her on the basement story. It is not often that -a young person in search of entertainment or sympathy has all the -gradations of the social system to choose from. The first floor -represented the aristocracy in the establishment at Bloomsbury. It was -occupied by a Scotch lady, a certain Miss Bethune, a somewhat -harsh-featured and angular person, hiding a gentle heart under a grim -exterior; but a little intolerant in her moods, and not always sure to -respond to overtures of friendship; with a maid not much less unlike the -usual denizens of Bloomsbury than herself, but beaming with redness and -good humour, and one of Dora’s chief worshippers in the house. When the -girl felt that her needs required the sympathy of a person of the -highest, <i>i.e.</i>, her own class, she went either boldly or with strategy -to the drawing-room floor. She had thus the power of drawing upon the -fellowship of her kind in whatever way the temper of the time adapted it -best for her.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Simcox and the girls downstairs, and Mrs. Hesketh above, would have -been lost in raptures over Dora’s new dress. They would have stared, -they would perhaps have touched with a timid finger, they would have -opened their eyes and their mouths, and cried: “Oh!” or “La!” or “Well, -I never!” But they would not have understood. One’s own kind, Dora felt, -was necessary for that. But as it was evening, and Miss Bethune was not -always gracious, she did not boldly walk up to her door, but lingered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> -about on the stairs, coming and going, until, as was pretty sure to -occur, Gilchrist, the maid, with her glowing moon face and her sandy -locks, came out of the room. Gilchrist brightened immediately at the -sight of the favourite of the house.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is that you, Miss Dora? Come in and see my lady, and cheer her up. -She’s not in the best of spirits to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Neither am I—in the best of spirits,” said Dora.</p> - -<p>“You!” cried Gilchrist, with what she herself would have called a -“skreigh” of laughter. She added sympathetically: “You’ll maybe have -been getting a scold from your papaw".</p> - -<p>“My father never scolds,” said Dora, with dignity.</p> - -<p>“Bless me! but that’s the way when there’s but wan child,” said Miss -Bethune’s maid: “not always, though,” she added, with a deep sigh that -waved aloft her own cap-strings, and caught Dora’s hair like a breeze. -The next moment she opened the door and said, putting her head in: -“Here’s Miss Dora, mem, to cheer you up a bit: but no’ in the best of -spirits hersel’".</p> - -<p>“Bless me!” repeated Miss Bethune from within: “and what is wrong with -her spirits? Come away, Dora, come in.” Both mistress and maid had, as -all the house was aware, curious modes of expressing themselves, which -were Scotch, though nobody was aware in Bloomsbury how that quality -affected the speech—in Miss Bethune’s case at least. The lady was tall -and thin, a large framework of a woman which had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> never filled out. She -sat in a large chair near the fire, between which and her, however, a -screen was placed. She held up a fan before her face to screen off the -lamp, and consequently her countenance was in full shadow. She beckoned -to the girl with her hand, and pointed to a seat beside her. “So you are -in low spirits, Dora? Well, I’m not very bright myself. Come and let us -mingle our tears.”</p> - -<p>“You are laughing at me, Miss Bethune. You think I have no right to feel -anything.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, my dear. I think at your age there are many things -that a girl feels—too much; and though they’re generally nonsense, -they’re just as disagreeable as if they were the best of sense. Papa a -little cross?”</p> - -<p>“Why should you all think anything so preposterous? My father is never -cross,” cried Dora, with tears of indignation in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“The better for him, my dear, much the better for him,” said Miss -Bethune; “but, perhaps, rather the worse for you. That’s not my case, -for I am just full of irritability now and then, and ready to quarrel -with the tables and chairs. Well, you are cross yourself, which is much -worse. And yet I hear you had one of your grand boxes to-day, all full -of bonnie-dies. What a lucky little girl you are to get presents like -that!”</p> - -<p>“I am not a little girl, Miss Bethune.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ll allow you’re a very big one for your age. Come, Dora, tell me -what was in the box this time. It will do you good.”</p> - -<p>Dora hesitated a little to preserve her dignity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> and then she said -almost with awe: “There was a dress in it".</p> - -<p>“A dress!” cried Miss Bethune, with a little shriek of surprise; “and -does it fit you?”</p> - -<p>“It’s just a very, very little bit too short,” said Dora, with pride, -“and just a very, very little bit too wide at the waist.”</p> - -<p>“Run and bring it, and let me see it,” cried the lady. “I’ve no doubt in -the world it fits like a glove. Gilchrist, come in, come in, and see -what the bairn’s got. A frock that fits her like a glove.”</p> - -<p>“Just a very, very little too short, and a very, very little too wide in -the waist,” said Dora, repeating her formula. She had flown upstairs -after the first moment’s hesitation, and brought it back in her arms, -glad in spite of herself to be thus delivered from silence and the sense -of neglect.</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, “but it must be an awfu’, awfu’ faithful -woman that has minded how a lassie like that grows and gets big, and -just how big she gets, a’ thae years.”</p> - -<p>“There ye are with your moral!” cried the mistress; and to Dora’s -infinite surprise tears were on her cheeks. “It’s just the lassie that -makes all the difference,” said Miss Bethune. She flung the pretty dress -from her, and then she rose up suddenly and gave Dora a hasty kiss. “Put -it on and let me see it,” she said; “I will wager you anything it just -fits like a glove.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“That</span> is a very strange business of these Mannerings, Gilchrist,” said -Miss Bethune to her maid, when Dora, excited by praise and admiration, -and forgetting all her troubles, had retired to her own habitation -upstairs, escorted, she and her dress, by Gilchrist, who could not find -it in her heart, as she said, to let a young thing like that spoil her -bonnie new frock by not putting it properly away. Gilchrist laid the -pretty dress lovingly in a roomy drawer, smoothing out all its creases -by soft pats of her accustomed hands, and then returned to her mistress -to talk over the little incident of the evening.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune’s spirits were improved also by that little exhibition. -What a thing it is to be able to draw a woman softly out of her troubles -by the sight of a pretty child in a pretty new dress! Contemptible the -love of clothes, the love of finery, and so forth, let the philosophers -say. To me there is something touching in that natural instinct which -relieves for a moment now and then the heaviest pressure. Dora’s new -frock had nothing to do with any gratification of Miss Bethune’s vanity; -but it brought a little dawning ray of momentary light into her room, -and a little distraction from the train of thoughts that were not over -bright. No man could feel the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> for the most beautiful youth ever -introduced in raiment like the day. Let us be thankful among all our -disabilities for a little simple pleasure, now and then, that is common -to women only. Boy or girl, it scarcely matters which, when they come in -dressed in their best, all fresh and new, the sight pleases the oldest, -the saddest of us—a little unconsidered angel-gift, amid the dimness -and the darkness of the every-day world. Miss Bethune to outward aspect -was a little grim, an old maid, as people said, apart from the -sympathies of life. But the dull evening and the pressure of many -thoughts had been made bright to her by Dora’s new frock.</p> - -<p>“What business, mem?” asked Gilchrist.</p> - -<p>“If ever there was a living creature slow at the uptake, and that could -not see a pikestaff when it is set before your eyes!” cried Miss -Bethune. “What’s the meaning of it all, you stupid woman? Who’s that -away in the unknown that sends all these bonnie things to that -motherless bairn?—and remembers the age she is, and when she’s grown -too big for dolls, and when she wants a frock that will set her off, -that she could dance in and sing in, and make her little curtesy to the -world? No, she’s too young for that; but still the time’s coming, and -fancy goes always a little before.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “that is just what I have askit -mysel’—that’s just what I was saying. It’s some woman, that’s the wan -thing; but what woman could be so thoughtful as that, aye minding just -what was wanted?” She made a gesture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> with her hands as if in utter -inability to divine, but her eyes were fixed all the time very wistfully -on her mistress’s face.</p> - -<p>“You need not look at me like that,” the lady said.</p> - -<p>“I was looking at you, mem, not in any particklar way.”</p> - -<p>“If you think you can make a fool of me at the present period of our -history, you’re far mistaken,” said Miss Bethune. “I know what you were -meaning. You were comparing her with me, not knowing either the one or -the other of us—though you have been my woman, and more near me than -anybody on earth these five-and-twenty long years.”</p> - -<p>“And more, mem, and more!” cried Gilchrist, with a flow of tears, which -were as natural to her as her spirit. “Eh, I was but a young, young -lass, and you a bonnie ——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace!” said Miss Bethune, with an angry raising of her hand; -and then her voice wavered and shook a little, and a tremulous laugh -came forth. “I was never a bonnie—anything, ye auld fool! and that you -know as well as me.”</p> - -<p>“But, mem——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, Gilchrist! We were never anything to brag of, either -you or me. Look in your glass, woman, if you don’t believe me. A couple -of plain women, very plain women, mistress and maid.”</p> - -<p>This was said with a flash of hazel eyes which gave a half-humorous -contradiction at the same moment to the assertion. Gilchrist began to -fold<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> hems upon the apron with which she had just dried her tears.</p> - -<p>“I never said,” she murmured, with a downcast head, “a word about -mysel’,—that’s no’ a woman’s part. If there’s nobody that speaks up for -her she has just to keep silence, if she was the bonniest woman in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“The auld fool! because there was once a silly lad that had nobody else -to come courting to! No, Gilchrist, my woman, you were never bonnie. A -white skin, I allow, to go with your red hair, and a kind of innocent -look in your eyes,—nothing, nothing more! We were both plain women, you -and me, not adapted to please the eyes of men.”</p> - -<p>“They might have waited long afore we would have tried, either the wan -or the other of us,” cried Gilchrist, with a flash of self-assertion. -“No’ that I would even mysel’ to you, mem,” she added in an after -breath.</p> - -<p>“As for that, it’s a metaphysical question,” said Miss Bethune. “I will -not attempt to enter into it. But try or no’, it is clear we did not -succeed. And what it is that succeeds is just more than I can tell. It’s -not beauty, it’s a kind of natural attraction.” She paused a moment in -this deep philosophical inquiry, and then said quickly: “All this does -not help us to find out what is this story about the Mannerings. Who is -the woman? Is it somebody that loves the man, or somebody that loves the -girl?”</p> - -<p>“If you would take my opinion, mem, I would say that the man—if ye call -Mr. Mannering,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> honest gentleman, the man, that has just every air of -being a well-born person, and well-bred, and not a common person at -all——”</p> - -<p>“You haveral! The king himself, if there was a king, could be no more -than a man.”</p> - -<p>“I would say, mem, that it was not for him—oh, no’ for him, except -maybe in opposition, if you could fancy that. Supposing,” said -Gilchrist, raising her arm in natural eloquence, “supposin’ such a thing -as that there should be a bonnie bairn like Miss Dora between two folk -that had broken with one another—and it was the man, not the woman, -that had her. I could just fancy,” said the maid, her brown eyes -lighting, her milky yet freckled complexion flushing over,—“I could -just fancy that woman pouring out everything at the bairn’s feet—gold -and silver and grand presents, and a’ the pomps of this world, partly -out of an adoration for her hersel’, partly just to make the man set his -teeth at her that was away—maybe, in the desert—unknown!”</p> - -<p>Gilchrist stood like a sibyl making this picture flash and gleam before -her own inward vision with a heat and passion that seemed quite uncalled -for in the circumstances. What was Hecuba to her, or she to Hecuba, that -she should be so inspired by the possibilities of a mystery with which -she had nothing to do? Her eloquence brought a corresponding glow, yet -cloud, over the countenance of her mistress, who sat and listened with -her head leaning on her hand, and for some time said nothing. She broke -the silence at last with a laugh in which there was very little sound of -mirth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span></p> - -<p>“You are a limited woman,” she said—“a very limited woman. You can -think of no state of affairs but one, and that so uncommon that perhaps -there never was a case in the world like it. You will never be done, I -know that, taking up your lesson out of it—all to learn one that has -neither need to learn nor wish to learn—a thing that is impossible. -Mind you what I say, and be done with this vain endeavour. Whatever may -be the meaning of this Mannering business, it has no likeness to the -other. And I am not a person to be schooled by the like of you, or to be -taught in parables by my own woman, as if I was a person of no -understanding, and her a mistress of every knowledge.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune rose hurriedly from her seat, and made a turn about the -room with an air of high excitement and almost passion. Then she came -and stood before the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece, looking down upon -the blaze with a face that seemed to be coloured by the reflection. -Finally, she put out a long arm, caught Gilchrist by the shoulders, who -stood softly crying, as was her wont, within reach, and drew her close. -“You’ve been with me through it all,” she said suddenly; “there’s nobody -that knows me but you. Whatever you say, it’s you only that knows what -is in my heart. I bear you no ill-will for any word you say, no’ for any -word you say; and the Lord forgive me if maybe all this time it is you -that has been right and me that has been wrong!” Only a moment, scarcely -so much, Miss Bethune leant her head upon Gilchrist’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> shoulder, then -she suddenly pushed her away. And not a second too soon, for at that -moment a knock came to the door. They both started a little; and Miss -Bethune, with the speed of thought, returned to the chair shaded by a -screen from the lamplight and firelight in which she had been sitting, -“not in good spirits,” at the time of the interruption of Dora. “Go and -see who it is,” she said, half in words, half by the action of her hand. -Nothing could have been more instantaneous than this rapid change.</p> - -<p>When Gilchrist, scarcely less rapid though so much heavier than her -mistress, opened the door, there stood before it a little man very -carefully dressed, though in morning costume, in a solemn frock coat, -with his hat in his hand. Though professional costume no longer exists -among us, it was impossible not to feel and recognise in a moment that -nothing but a medical man, a doctor to the tips of his fingers, could -have appeared in just that perfect neatness of dress, so well brushed, -so exactly buttoned, so gravely clothed in garments which, though free -of any peculiarity of art or colour, such as that which distinguishes -the garb of a clergyman, were yet so completely and seriously -professional. His whiskers, for it was in the days when these ornaments -were still worn, his hair, brown, with a slight crisp and upturning, -like lining, of grey, the watch-chain that crossed his waistcoat, as -well as the accurate chronometer of a watch to which so many eager and -so many languid pulses had beat, were all in perfect keeping; even his -boots—but we must not pursue too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> far this discussion of Dr. Roland’s -personal appearance. His boots were not the polished leather of the -evening; but they were the spotless boots of a man who rarely walked, -and whose careful step from his carriage to a patient’s door never -carried in any soil of the outside to the most delicate carpet. Why, -being one of the inhabitants of this same house in Bloomsbury, he should -have carried his hat in his hand when he came to the door of Miss -Bethune’s drawing-room from his own sitting-room downstairs, is a -mystery upon which I can throw no light.</p> - -<p>The ideas of a man in respect to his hat are indeed unfathomable. -Whether he carries it as a protection or a shield of pretence, whether -to convey to you that he is anxiously expected somewhere else, and that -you are not to calculate upon anything but a short appearance upon your -individual scene, whether to make it apparent by its gloss and sheen how -carefully he has prepared for this interview, whether it is to keep -undue familiarity at arm’s length, or provide a becoming occupation for -those hands with which many persons, while in repose, do not know what -to do, it is impossible to tell. Certain it is that a large number of -men find consolation and support in the possession of that article of -apparel; and though they may freely abuse it in other circumstances, -cling to it on social occasions as to an instrument of salvation. Dr. -Roland held it fast, and bowed over it with a little formality, as he -came into his neighbour’s presence. They met on the stairs or in the -hall sometimes three or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> four times in a day, but they were not the less -particular in going through all the forms of civility when the doctor -came to pay a call, as if they had not seen each other for a week -before. He was a man of very great observation, and he did not miss a -single particular of the scene. The screen drawn round the lady, -defending her not only from the fire but from inspection, and a slight -glistening upon the cheek of Gilchrist, which, as she did not paint or -use any cosmetic, had but one explanation. That he formed a completely -wrong conclusion was not Dr. Roland’s fault. He did so sometimes from -lack of material on which to form his judgment, but not often. He said -to himself, “There has been a row,” which, as the reader is aware, was -not the case; but then he set himself to work to smooth down all -agitation with a kindness and skill which the gentlest reader, knowing -all about it, could not have surpassed.</p> - -<p>“We have just been doing a very wrong thing, Gilchrist and me,” said -Miss Bethune; “a thing which you will say, doctor, is the way of ladies -and their maids; but that is just one of your generalisings, and not -true—except now and then. We have been wondering what is the strange -story of our bonnie little Dora and that quiet, learned father of hers -upstairs.”</p> - -<p>“Very natural, I should say,” said the doctor. “But why should there be -any story at all? I don’t wonder at the discussion, but why should there -be any cause for it? A quiet, learned man, as you say, and one fair -daughter and no more, whom he loves passing well.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, doctor,” said Miss Bethune, “you know a great deal about human -nature. You know better than that.”</p> - -<p>The doctor put down his hat, and drew his chair nearer the fire. “Should -you like to hear the story of poor Mannering?” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing more usual than to say that could we but know the life -history of the first half-dozen persons we meet with on any road, we -should find tragic details and unexpected lights and shadows far beyond -the reach of fiction, which no doubt is occasionally true: though -probably the first half-dozen would be found to gasp, like the -knife-grinder: “Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir.” This, -to be sure, would be no argument; for our histories are not frequently -unknown to, or, at least, unappreciated by ourselves, and the common -human sense is against any accumulation of wonders in a small space. I -am almost ashamed to say that the two people who inhabited one above the -other two separate floors of my house in Bloomsbury, had a certain -singularity and unusualness in their lives, that they were not as other -men or women are; or, to speak more clearly, that being as other men and -women are, the circumstances of their lives created round them an -atmosphere which was not exactly that of common day. When Dr. Roland -recounted to Miss Bethune the story of Mr. Mannering, that lady shut her -lips tight in the partial shadow of the screen, to restrain the almost -irrepressible murmurs of a revelation equally out of the common which -belonged to herself. That is, she was tempted to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> utter aloud what she -said in her soul, “Oh, but that is like me!” “Oh, but I would never have -done that!"—comparing the secret in her own life, which nobody in this -place suspected, with the secret in her neighbour’s, which, at least to -some few persons, was known.</p> - -<p>Poor Mr. Mannering! there was a strange kind of superiority and secret -satisfaction in pitying his fate, in learning all the particulars of it, -in assuring herself that Dora was quite ignorant, and nobody in the -house had the least suspicion, while at the same time secure in the -consciousness that she herself was wrapt in impenetrable darkness, and -that not even this gossip of a doctor could divine her. There is an -elation in knowing that you too have a story, that your own experiences -are still more profound than those of the others whom you are called -upon to pity and wonder over, that did they but know!—which, perhaps, -is not like the more ordinary elation of conscious superiority, but yet -has its sweetness. There was a certain dignity swelling in Miss -Bethune’s figure as she rose to shake hands with the doctor, as if she -had wrapped a tragic mantle round her, as if she dismissed him like a -queen on the edge of ground too sacred to be trodden by any vulgar feet. -He was conscious of it vaguely, though not of what it was. He gave her a -very keen glance in the shadow of that screen: a keener observer than -Dr. Roland was not easily to be met with,—but then his observations -were generally turned in one particular way, and the phenomena which he -glimpsed on this occasion did not come within the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> special field of his -inquiries. He perceived them, but he could not classify them, in the -scientific narrowness of his gaze.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune waited until the well-known sound of the closing of Dr. -Roland’s door downstairs met her ear; and then she rang violently, -eagerly for her maid. What an evening this was, among all the quiet -evenings on which nothing happened,—an evening full of incidents, of -mysteries, and disclosures! The sound of the bell was such that the -person summoned came hurrying from her room, well aware that there must -be something to be told, and already breathless with interest. She found -her mistress walking up and down the room, the screen discarded, the fan -thrown down, the very shade on the lamp pushed up, so that it had the -tipsy air of a hat placed on one side of the head. “Oh, Gilchrist!” Miss -Bethune cried.</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland went, as he always went, briskly but deliberately downstairs. -If he had ever run up and down at any period of his life, taking two -steps at a time, as young men do, he did it no longer. He was a little -short-sighted, and wore a “pince-nez,” and was never sure that between -his natural eyes, with which he looked straight down at his feet, and -his artificial ones, which had a wider circle, he might not miss a step, -which accounted for the careful, yet rapid character of his movements. -The door which Miss Bethune waited to hear him close was exactly below -her own, and the room filled in Dr. Roland’s life the conjoint positions -of waiting-room, dining-room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> and library. His consulting-room was -formed of the other half looking to the back, and shut off from this by -folding-doors and closely-drawn curtains. All the piles of <i>Illustrated -News</i>, <i>Graphic</i>, and other picture papers, along with various -well-thumbed pictorial volumes, the natural embellishments of the -waiting-room, were carefully cleared away; and the room, with Dr. -Roland’s chair drawn near a cheery blazing fire, his reading-lamp, his -book, and his evening paper on his table, looked comfortable enough. It -was quite an ordinary room in Bloomsbury, and he was quite an ordinary -man. Nothing remarkable (the reader will be glad to hear) had ever -happened to him. He had gone through the usual studies, he had knocked -about the world for a number of years, he had seen life and many -incidents in other people’s stories both at home and abroad. But nothing -particular had ever happened to himself. He had lived, but if he had -loved, nobody knew anything about that. He had settled in Bloomsbury -some four or five years before, and he had grown into a steady, not too -overwhelming practice. His specialty was the treatment of dyspepsia, and -other evils of a sedentary life; and his patients were chiefly men, the -men of offices and museums, among whom he had a great reputation. This -was his official character, not much of a family adviser, but strong to -rout the liver fiend and the demons of indigestion wherever encountered. -But in his private capacity Dr. Roland’s character was very remarkable -and his scientific enthusiasm great.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span></p> - -<p>He was a sort of medical detective, working all for love, and nothing -for reward, without fee, and in many cases without even the high -pleasure of carrying out his views. He had the eye of a hawk for -anything wrong in the complexion or aspect of those who fell under his -observation. The very postman at the door, whom Dr. Roland had met two -or three times as he went out for his constitutional in the morning, had -been divined and cut open, as it were, by his lancet of a glance, and -saved from a bad illness by the peremptory directions given to him, -which the man had the sense (and the prudence, for it was near -Christmas) to obey. In that case the gratuity passed from doctor to -patient, not from patient to doctor, but was not perhaps less -satisfactory on that account. Then Dr. Roland would seize Jenny or Molly -by the shoulders when they timidly brought a message or a letter into -his room, look into the blue of their eyes for a moment, and order a -dose on the spot; a practice which made these innocent victims tremble -even to pass his door.</p> - -<p>“Oh, granny, I can’t, I can’t take it up to the doctor,” they would say, -even when it was a telegram that had come: little selfish things, not -thinking what poor sick person might be sending for the doctor; nor how -good it was to be able to get a dose for nothing every time you wanted -it.</p> - -<p>But most of the people whom he met were less easily manageable than the -postman and the landlady’s little granddaughters. Dr. Roland regarded -every one he saw from this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> same medical point of view; and had made up -his mind about Miss Bethune, and also about Mr. Mannering, before he had -been a week in the house. Unfortunately, he could do nothing to impress -his opinion upon them; but he kept his eyes very wide open, and took -notes, attending the moment when perhaps his opportunity might occur. As -for Dora, he had nothing but contempt for her from the first moment he -had seen her. Hers was a case of inveterate good health, and wholly -without interest. That girl, he declared to himself scornfully, would be -well anywhere. Bloomsbury had no effect upon her. She was neither anæmic -or dyspeptic, though the little things downstairs were both. But her -father was a different matter. Half a dozen playful demons were -skirmishing around that careful, temperate, well-living man; and Dr. -Roland took the greatest interest in their advances and withdrawals, -expecting the day when one or other would seize the patient and lay him -low. Miss Bethune, too, had her little band of assailants, who were -equally interesting to Dr. Roland, but not equally clear, since he was -as yet quite in the dark as to the moral side of the question in her -case.</p> - -<p>He knew what would happen to these two, and calculated their chances -with great precision, taking into account all the circumstances that -might defer or accelerate the catastrophe. These observations interested -him like a play. It was a kind of second sight that he possessed, but -reaching much further than the vision of any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> Highland seer, who sees -the winding-sheet only when it is very near, mounting in a day or two -from the knees to the waist, and hence to the head. But Dr. Roland saw -its shadow long before it could have been visible to any person gifted -with the second sight. Sometimes he was wrong—he had acknowledged as -much to himself in one or two instances; but it was very seldom that -this occurred. Those who take a pessimistic view either of the body or -soul are bound to be right in many, if not in most cases, we are obliged -to allow.</p> - -<p>But it was not with the design of hunting patients that Dr. Roland made -these investigations; his interest in the persons he saw around him was -purely scientific. It diverted him greatly, if such a word may be used, -to see how they met their particular dangers, whether they instinctively -avoided or rushed to encounter them, both which methods they constantly -employed in their unconsciousness. He liked to note the accidents (so -called) that came in to stave off or to hurry on the approaching -trouble. The persons to whom these occurred had often no knowledge of -them; but Dr. Roland noted everything and forgot nothing. He had a -wonderful memory as well as such excessively clear sight; and he carried -on, as circumstances permitted, a sort of oversight of the case, even if -it might be in somebody else’s hands. Sometimes his interest in these -outlying patients who were not his, interfered with the concentration of -his attention on those who were—who were chiefly, as has been said, -dyspeptics<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> and the like, affording no exciting variety of symptoms to -his keen intellectual and professional curiosity. And these -peculiarities made him a very serviceable neighbour. He never objected -to be called in in haste, because he was the nearest doctor, or to give -a flying piece of advice to any one who might be attacked by sudden pain -or uneasiness; indeed, he might be said to like these unintentional -interferences with other people’s work, which afforded him increased -means of observation, and the privilege of launching a new prescription -at a patient’s head by way of experiment, or confidential counsel at the -professional brother whom he was thus accidentally called upon to aid.</p> - -<p>On the particular evening which he occupied by telling Miss Bethune the -story of the Mannerings,—not without an object in so doing, for he had -a strong desire to put that lady herself under his microscope and find -out how certain things affected her,—he had scarcely got himself -comfortably established by his own fireside, put on a piece of wood to -make a blaze, felt for his cigar-case upon the mantelpiece, and taken up -his paper, when a knock at his door roused him in the midst of his -preparations for comfort. The doctor lifted his head quickly, and cocked -one fine ear like a dog, and with something of the thrill of listening -with which a dog responds to any sound. That he let the knock be -repeated was by no means to say that he had not heard the first time. A -knock at his door was something like a first statement of symptoms to -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> doctor. He liked to understand and make certain what it meant.</p> - -<p>“Come in,” he said quickly, after the second knock, which had a little -hurry and temerity in it after the tremulous sound of the first.</p> - -<p>The door opened; and there appeared at it, flushed with fright and -alarm, yet pallid underneath the flush, the young and comely countenance -of Mrs. Hesketh, Dora’s friend on the attic floor.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Dr. Roland said, taking in this unexpected appearance, and all her -circumstances, physical and mental, at a glance. He had met her also -more than once at the door or on the stairs. He asked kindly what was -the little fool frightened about, as he rose up quickly and with -unconscious use and wont placed a chair in the best light, where he -should be able to read the simple little alphabet of her constitution -and thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, sir! I hope you don’t mind me coming to disturb you, though -I know as it’s late and past hours.”</p> - -<p>“A doctor has no hours. Come in,” he said.</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. The agitated young face disappeared, leaving Dr. -Roland only a side view of her shoulder and figure in profile, and a -whispering ensued. “I cannot—I cannot! I ain’t fit,” in a hoarse tone, -and then the young woman’s eager pleading. “Oh, Alfred dear, for my -sake!”</p> - -<p>“Come in, whoever it is,” said Dr. Roland, with authority. “A doctor has -no hours, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> either people in the house have, and you mustn’t stay -outside.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a little dragging on the part of the wife, a little -resistance on the part of the husband; and finally Mrs. Hesketh -appeared, more flushed than ever, grasping the sleeve of a rather -unwholesome-looking young man, very pink all over and moist, with -furtive eyes, and hair standing on end. He had a fluttered clandestine -look, as if afraid to be seen, as he came into the full light of the -lamp, and looked suspiciously around him, as if to find out whether -anything dangerous was there.</p> - -<p>“It is my ’usband, sir,” said Mrs. Hesketh. “It’s Alfred. He’s been off -his food and off his sleep for I don’t know how long, and I’m not happy -about him. I thought perhaps you might give him a something that would -put him all straight.”</p> - -<p>“Off his food and off his sleep? Perhaps he hasn’t been off his drink -also?” said the doctor, giving a touch to the shade of the lamp.</p> - -<p>“I knew,” said the young man, in the same partially hoarse voice, “as -that is what would be said.”</p> - -<p>“And a gentleman like you ought to know better,” said the indignant -wife. “Drink is what he never touches, if it isn’t a ’alf pint to his -supper, and that only to please me.”</p> - -<p>“Then it’s something else, and not drink,” said the doctor. “Sit down, -and let me have a look at you.” He took into his cool grasp a somewhat -tremulous damp hand, which had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> hanging down by the patient’s side, -limp yet agitated, like a thing he had no use for. “Tell me something -about him,” said Dr. Roland. “In a shop? Baxter’s?—yes, I know the -place. What you call shopman,—no, assistant,—young gentleman at the -counter?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Hesketh, with pride; “book-keeper, sir—sits up in -his desk in the middle of the costume department, and——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I see,” said the doctor quickly. He gave the limp wrist, in which -the pulse had suddenly given a great jump, a grip with his cool hand. -“Control yourself,” he said quietly. “Nerves all in a whirl, system -breaking down—can you take a holiday?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said the young man in a sort of bravado, “of course I can -take a holiday! and an express ticket for the workhouse after it. How -are we to live if I go taking holidays? We can’t afford no holidays,” he -said in his gruff voice.</p> - -<p>“There are worse places than the workhouse,” said the doctor, with -meaning. “Take this, and to-morrow I’ll give you a note to send to your -master. The first thing you want is a good night’s sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is the truth, however you know it,” cried Mrs. Hesketh. “He -hasn’t had a night’s sleep, nor me neither, not for a month back.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll see that he has one to-night,” said Dr. Roland, drawing back the -curtain of his surgery and opening the folding-doors.</p> - -<p>“I won’t take no opiates, doctor,” said the young man, with dumb -defiance in his sleepy eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<p>“You won’t take any opiates? And why, if I may ask?” the doctor said, -selecting a bottle from the shelf.</p> - -<p>“Not a drop of your nasty sleepy stuff, that makes fellows dream and -talk nonsense in their sleep—oh, not for me!”</p> - -<p>“You are afraid, then, of talking nonsense in your sleep? We must get -rid of the nonsense, not of the sleep,” said the doctor. “I don’t say -that this is an opiate, but you have got to swallow it, my fine fellow, -whether or not.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the young man, setting his lips firmly together.</p> - -<p>“Drink!” cried Dr. Roland, fully roused. “Come, I’ll have no childish, -wry faces. Why, you’re a man—with a wife—and not a naughty boy!”</p> - -<p>“It’s not my doing coming here. She brought me, and I’ll see her far -enough——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue you young ass, and take your physic! She’s a capital -woman, and has done exactly as she ought to have done. No nonsense, I -tell you! Sleep to-night, and then to-morrow you’ll go and set yourself -right with the shop.”</p> - -<p>“Sir!” cried the young man, with a gasp. His pulse gave a jump under the -strong cool grip in which Dr. Roland had again taken it, and he fixed a -frightened imploring gaze upon the doctor’s face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor!” cried the poor wife, “there’s nothing to set right with -the shop. They think all the world of Alfred there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<p>“They’ll think all the more of him,” said Dr. Roland, “after he has had -a good night’s sleep. There, take him off to bed; and at ten o’clock -to-morrow morning I expect to see him here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, doctor, is it anything bad? Oh, sir, can’t you make him all right?” -she cried, standing with clasped hands, listening to the hurried yet -wavering step with which her husband went upstairs.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you to-morrow morning,” Dr. Roland said.</p> - -<p>When the door was closed he went and sat down again by his fire; but the -calm of his mind, the pleasure of his cigar, the excitement of his -newspaper, had gone. Truth to tell, the excitement of this new question -pleased him more than all these things together. “Has he done it, or is -he only going to do it?” he asked himself. Could the thing be set right, -or could it never be set right? He sat there for perhaps an hour, -working out the question in both directions, considering the case in -every light. It was a long time since he had met with anything so -interesting. He only came to himself when he became conscious that the -fire was burning very low, and the chill of the night creeping into the -air. Then Dr. Roland rose again, compounded a drink for himself of a -different quality from that which he had given to his patient, and -selected out of his bookcase a yellow novel. But after a while he -pitched the book from him, and pushed away the glass, and resumed his -meditations. What was grog, and what was Gaboriau, in comparison with a -problem like this?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house in Bloomsbury was, however, much more deeply troubled and -excited than it would have been by anything affecting Alfred Hesketh, -when it was known next morning that Mr. Mannering had been taken ill in -the night, and was now unable to leave his bed. The doctor had been sent -for early—alas! it was not Dr. Roland—and the whole household was -disturbed. Such a thing had not been known for nearly a dozen years -past, as that Mr. Mannering should not walk downstairs exactly at a -quarter before ten, and close the door behind him, forming a sort of -fourth chime to the three-quarters as they sounded from the church -clock. The house was put out for the day by this failure in the -regularity of its life and movement; all the more that it was very soon -known that this prop of the establishment was very ill, that “the fever” -ran very high, and that even his life was in danger. Nobody made much -remark in these circumstances upon the disappearance of the humble -little people on the upper floor, who, after much coming and going -between their habitation and that of Dr. Roland downstairs, made a -hurried departure, providentially, Mrs. Simcox said—thus leaving a -little available room for the nurse who by this time had taken -possession of the Mannering establishment, reducing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> Dora to the -position which she had never occupied, of a child, and taking the -management of everything. Two of these persons, indeed, had been ordered -in by the doctor—a nurse for the day, and a nurse for the night, who -filled the house with that air of redundant health and cheerfulness -which seem to belong to nurses, one or other of them being always met on -the stairs going out for her constitutional, going down for her meals, -taking care of herself in some methodical way or other, according to -prescription, that she might be fit for her work. And no doubt they were -very fit for their work, and amply responded to the confidence placed in -them: which was only not shared by Dora, banished by them out of her -father’s room—and Miss Bethune, a woman full of prejudices, and -Gilchrist, whose soft heart could not resist the cheerful looks of the -two fresh young women, though their light-heartedness shocked her a -little, and the wrongs of Dora filled her heart with sympathy.</p> - -<p>Alas! Dora was not yet sixteen—there was no possibility, however -carefully you counted the months, and showed her birthday to be -approaching, to get over that fact. And what were her love and anxious -desire to be of service, and devotion to her father, in comparison with -these few years and the superior training of the women, who knew almost -as much as the doctor himself? “Not saying much, that!” Dr. Roland -grumbled under his breath, as he joined the anxious circle of -malcontents in Miss Bethune’s apartment, where Dora came, trying proudly -to restrain her tears,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> and telling how she had been shut out of Mr. -Mannering’s room—“my own father’s room!” the girl cried in her -indignation, two big drops, like raindrops, falling, in spite of her, -upon her dress.</p> - -<p>“It’s better for you, my bonnie dear,—oh, it’s better for you,” -Gilchrist whispered, standing behind her, and drying her own flowing -eyes with her apron.</p> - -<p>“Dora, my darling,” said Miss Bethune, moved to a warmth of spirit quite -unusual to her, “it is quite true what Gilchrist says. I am not fond of -these women myself. They shall never nurse me. If I cannot have a hand -that cares for me to smooth my pillow, it shall be left unsmoothed, and -none of these good-looking hussies shall smile over me when I’m -dying—no, no! But it is different; you’re far too young to have that on -your head. I would not permit it. Gilchrist and me would have taken it -and done every justice to your poor papa, I make no doubt, and been all -the better for the work, two idle women as we are—but not you. You -should have come and gone, and sat by his bedside and cheered him with -the sight of you; but to nurse him was beyond your power. Ask the -doctor, and he will tell you that as well as me.”</p> - -<p>“I have always taken care of my father before,” said Dora. “When he has -had his colds, and when he had rheumatism, and when——that time, Dr. -Roland, you know.”</p> - -<p>“That was the time,” said the doctor, “when you ran down to me in the -middle of the night and burst into my room, like a wise little girl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> We -had him in our own hands then, and we knew what to do with him, Dora. -But here’s Vereker, he’s a great swell, and neither you nor I can -interfere.”</p> - -<p>It comforted Dora a little to have Dr. Roland placed with herself among -the outsiders who could not interfere, especially when Miss Bethune -added: “That is just the grievance. We would all like to have a finger -in the pie. Why should a man be taken out of the care of his natural -friends and given into the charge of these women, that never saw him in -their lives before, nor care whether he lives or dies?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they care—for their own reputation. There is nothing to be said -against the women, they’ll do their duty,” said the doctor. “But there’s -Vereker, that has never studied his constitution—that sees just the -present symptoms, and no more. Take the child out for a walk, Miss -Bethune, and let’s have her fresh and fair for him, at least, if"—the -doctor pulled himself up hastily, and coughed to swallow the last -alarming syllable,—“fresh and fair,” he added hastily, “<i>when</i> he gets -better, which is a period with which no nurses can interfere.”</p> - -<p>A colloquy, which was silent yet full of eager interest and feeling, -sprang up between two pairs of eyes at the moment that <i>if</i>—most -alarming of conjectures—was uttered. Miss Bethune questioned; the -doctor replied. Then he said in an undertone: “A constitution never very -strong,—exhausting work, exhausting emotions, unnatural peace in the -latter life.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<p>Dora was being led away by Gilchrist to get her hat for the proposed -walk; and Dr. Roland ended in his ordinary voice.</p> - -<p>“Do you call that unnatural peace, with all the right circumstances of -his life round him, and—and full possession of his bonnie girl, that -has never been parted from him? I don’t call that unnatural.”</p> - -<p>“You would if you were aware of the other side of it lopped off—one -half of him, as it were, paralysed.”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” said Miss Bethune, with a curious smile, “I ought to take that -as a compliment to my sex, as the fools say—if I cared a button for my -sex or any such nonsense! But there is yourself, now, gets on very well, -so far as I can see, with that side, as you call it, just as much lopped -off.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know?” said the doctor. “I may be letting concealment, like -a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek. But I allow,” he said, with -a laugh, “I do get on very well: and so, if you will permit me to say -it, do you, Miss Bethune. But then, you see, we have never known -anything else.”</p> - -<p>Something leaped up in Miss Bethune’s eye—a strange light, which the -doctor could not interpret, though it did not escape his observation. -“To be sure,” she said, nodding her head, “we have never known anything -else. And that changes the case altogether.”</p> - -<p>“That changes the case. I say nothing against a celibate life. I have -always preferred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> it—it suits me better. I never cared,” he added, -again with a laugh, “to have too much baggage to move about.”</p> - -<p>“Do not be uncivil, doctor, after being more civil than was necessary.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s altogether a different case with poor Mannering. It is not -even as if his wife had betrayed him—in the ordinary way. The poor -thing meant no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not speak to me!” cried Miss Bethune, throwing up her hands.</p> - -<p>“I know; it is well known you ladies are always more severe—but, -anyhow, that side was wrenched away in a moment, and then there followed -long years of unnatural calm.”</p> - -<p>“I do not agree with you, doctor,” she said, shaking her head. “The -wrench was defeenitive.” Miss Bethune’s nationality betrayed itself in a -great breadth of vowels, as well as in here and there a word or two. “It -was a cut like death: and you do not call calm unnatural that comes -after death, after long years?”</p> - -<p>“It’s different—it’s different,” the doctor said.</p> - -<p>“Ay, so it is,” she said, answering as it were her own question.</p> - -<p>And there was a pause. When two persons of middle age discuss such -questions, there is a world lying behind each full of experiences, which -they recognise instinctively, however completely unaware they may be of -each other’s case.</p> - -<p>“But here is Dora ready for her walk, and me doing nothing but haver,” -cried Miss Bethune, disappearing into the next room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span></p> - -<p>They might have been mother and daughter going out together in the -gentle tranquillity of use and wont,—so common a thing!—and yet if the -two had been mother and daughter, what a revolution in how many lives -would have been made!—how different would the world have been for an -entire circle of human souls! They were, in fact, nothing to each -other—brought together, as we say, by chance, and as likely to be -whirled apart again by those giddy combinations and dissolutions which -the head goes round only to think of. For the present they walked -closely together side by side, and talked of one subject which engrossed -all their thoughts.</p> - -<p>“What does the doctor think? Oh, tell me, please, what the doctor -thinks!”</p> - -<p>“How can he think anything, Dora, my dear? He has never seen your father -since he was taken ill.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Bethune, but he knew him so well before. And I don’t ask you -what he knows. He must think something. He must have an opinion. He -always has an opinion, whatever case it may be.”</p> - -<p>“He thinks, my dear, that the fever must run its course. Now another -week’s begun, we must just wait for the next critical moment. That is -all, Dora, my darling, that is all that any man can say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that it would only come!” cried Dora passionately. “There is -nothing so dreadful as waiting—nothing! However bad a thing is, if you -only know it, not hanging always in suspense.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<p>“Suspense means hope; it means possibility and life, and all that makes -life sweet. Be patient, be patient, my bonnie dear.”</p> - -<p>Dora looked up into her friend’s face. “Were you ever as miserable as I -am?” she said. Miss Bethune was thought grim by her acquaintances and -there was a hardness in her, as those who knew her best were well aware; -but at this question something ineffable came into her face. Her eyes -filled with tears, her lips quivered with a smile. “My little child!” -she said.</p> - -<p>Dora did not ask any more. Her soul was silenced in spite of herself: -and just then there arose a new interest, which is always so good a -thing for everybody, especially at sixteen. “There,” she cried, in spite -of herself, though she had thought she was incapable of any other -thought, “is poor Mrs. Hesketh hurrying along on the other side of the -street.”</p> - -<p>They had got into a side street, along one end of which was a little row -of trees.</p> - -<p>“Oh, run and speak to her, Dora.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hesketh seemed to feel that she was pursued. She quickened her step -almost into a run, but she was breathless and agitated and laden with a -bundle, and in no way capable of outstripping Dora. She paused with a -gasp, when the girl laid a hand on her arm.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you hear me call you? You surely could never, never mean to run -away from me?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Dora, you were always so kind, but I didn’t know who it might be.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Hesketh, you can’t know how ill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> my father is, or you would -have wanted to ask for him. He has been ill a month, and I am not -allowed to nurse him. I am only allowed to go in and peep at him twice a -day. I am not allowed to speak to him, or to do anything for him, or to -know——”</p> - -<p>Dora paused, choked by the quick-coming tears.</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry, miss. I thought as you were happy at least: but there’s -nothing, nothing but trouble in this world,” cried Mrs. Hesketh, -breaking into a fitful kind of crying. Her face was flushed and heated, -the bundle impeding all her movements. She looked round in alarm at -every step, and when she saw Miss Bethune’s tall figure approaching, -uttered a faint cry. “Oh, Miss Dora, I can’t stay, and I can’t do you -any good even if I could; I’m wanted so bad at home.”</p> - -<p>“Where are you going with that big bundle? You are not fit to be -carrying it about the streets,” said Miss Bethune, suddenly standing -like a lion in the way.</p> - -<p>The poor little woman leant against a tree, supporting her bundle. “Oh, -please,” she said, imploring; and then, with some attempt at -self-defence, “I am going nowhere but about my own business. I have got -nothing but what belongs to me. Let me go.”</p> - -<p>“You must not go any further than this spot,” said Miss Bethune. “Dora, -go to the end of the road and get a cab. Whatever you would have got for -that where you were going, I will give it you, and you can keep your -poor bits of things.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> What has happened to you? Quick, tell me, while -the child’s away.”</p> - -<p>The poor young woman let her bundle fall at her feet. “My husband’s ill, -and he’s lost his situation,” she said, with piteous brevity, and -sobbed, leaning against the tree.</p> - -<p>“And therefore you thought that was a fine time to run away and hide -yourself among strangers, out of the reach of them that knew you? There -was the doctor, and there was me. Did you think we would let harm happen -to you? You poor feckless little thing!”</p> - -<p>“The doctor! It was the doctor that lost Alfred his place,” cried the -young woman angrily, drying her eyes. “Let me go—oh, let me go! I don’t -want no charity,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And what would you have got for all that?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps ten shillings—perhaps only six. Oh, lady, you don’t know us -except just to see us on the stairs. I’m in great trouble, and he’s -heartbroken, and waiting for me at ’ome. Leave me alone and let me go.”</p> - -<p>“If you had put them away for ten shillings they would have been of no -further use to you. Now, here’s ten shillings, and you’ll take these -things back; but you’ll mind that they’re mine, though I give you the -use of them, and you’ll promise to come to me, or to send for me, and to -take no other way. What is the matter with your husband? Let him come to -the doctor, and you to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never, never, to that doctor!” Mrs. Hesketh cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>“The doctor’s a good man, and everybody’s friend, but he may have a -rough tongue, I would not say. But come you to me. We’ll get him another -place, and all will go well. You silly little thing, the first time -trouble comes in your way, to fall into despair! Oh, this is you, Dora, -with the cab. Put in the bundle. And now, here’s the money, and if you -do not come to me, mind you will have broken your word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, ma’am! Oh, Miss Dora!” was all the poor little woman could say.</p> - -<p>“Now, Dora,” said Miss Bethune cheerfully, “there’s something for you to -do—Gilchrist and you. You’ll give an account to me of that poor thing, -and if you let her slip through your fingers I’ll never forgive you. -There’s something wrong. Perhaps he drinks, or perhaps he does something -worse—if there’s anything worse: but whatever it is, it is your -responsibility. I’m an idle, idle person; I’m good for nothing. But -you’re young, and Gilchrist’s a tower of strength, and you’ll just give -an account of that poor bit creature, soul and body, to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Mannering’s</span> illness ran on and on. Week after week the anxious -watchers waited for the crisis which did not come. It was evident now -that the patient, who had no violence in his illness any more than in -his life, was yet not to be spared a day of its furthest length. But it -was allowed that he had no bad symptoms, and that the whole matter -turned on the question whether his strength could be sustained. Dr. -Roland, not allowed to do anything else for his friend, regulated -furtively the quality and quantity of the milk, enough to sustain a -large nursery, which was sent upstairs. He tested it in every scientific -way, and went himself from dairy to dairy to get what was best; and Mrs. -Simcox complained bitterly that he was constantly making inroads into -“my kitchen” to interfere in the manufacture of the beef tea. He even -did, which was against every rule of medical etiquette, stop the great -Dr. Vereker on the stairs and almost insist upon a medical consultation, -and to give his own opinion about the patient to this great authority, -who looked him over from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot -with undisguised yet bewildered contempt. Who was this man who -discoursed to the great physician about the tendencies and the -idiosyncrasies of the sick man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> whom it was a matter of something like -condescension on Dr. Vereker’s part to attend at all, and whom this -little person evidently believed himself to understand better?</p> - -<p>“If Mr. Mannering’s friends wish me to meet you in consultation, I can -have, of course, no objection to satisfy them, or even to leave the -further conduct of the case in your hands,” he said stiffly.</p> - -<p>“Nothing of the kind—nothing of the kind!” cried poor Dr. Roland. “It’s -only that I’ve watched the man for years. You perhaps don’t know——”</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Dr. Vereker, “you will allow that after nearly six -weeks’ attendance I ought, unless I am an ignoramus, to know all there -is to know.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t deny it for a moment. There is no practitioner in London -certainly who would doubt Dr. Vereker’s knowledge. I mean his past—what -he has had to bear—the things that have led up——”</p> - -<p>“Moral causes?” said the great physician blandly, raising his eyebrows. -“My dear sir, depend upon it, a bad drain is more to be reckoned with -than all the tragedies of the world.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not depend on anything of the kind!” cried Dr. Roland, almost -dancing with impatience.</p> - -<p>“Then you will permit me to say good-morning, for my time is precious,” -answered his distinguished brother—“unless,” he added sarcastically, -pausing to look round upon the poor doctor’s sitting-room, then arrayed -in its morning guise as waiting-room, with all the old <i>Graphics</i>, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> -picture books laid out upon the table—“Mr. Mannering’s friends are -dissatisfied and wish to put the case in your hands?”</p> - -<p>“Do you know who Mr. Mannering’s friends are?” cried Dr. Roland. “Little -Dora, his only child! I know no others. Just about as little influential -as are those moral causes you scorn, but I don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed!” said Dr. Vereker, with more consideration of this last -statement. Little Dora was not much of a person to look to for the -rapidly accumulating fees of a celebrated doctor during a long illness. -But though he was a prudent man, he was not mercenary; perhaps he would -have hesitated about taking up the case had he known at first, but he -was not the man to retire now out of any fear of being paid. “Mr. -Mannering is a person of distinction,” he said, in a self-reassuring -tone; “he has been my patient at long intervals for many years. I don’t -think we require to go into the question further at this moment.” He -withdrew with great dignity to the carriage that awaited him, crossing -one or two of Dr. Roland’s patients, whose appearance somewhat changed -his idea of the little practitioner who had thus ventured to assail him; -while, on the other hand, Roland for his part was mollified by the -other’s magnanimous reception of a statement which seemed to make his -fees uncertain. Dr. Vereker was not in the least a mercenary man, he -would never have overwhelmed an orphan girl with a great bill: at the -same time, it did float across his mind that if the crisis were once -over which professional<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> spirit and honour compelled him to conduct to a -good end if possible, a little carelessness about his visits after could -have no bad result, considering the constant vicinity of that very -keen-eyed practitioner downstairs.</p> - -<p>A great doctor and two nurses, unlimited supplies of fresh milk, strong -soup, and every appliance that could be thought of to alleviate and -console the patient, by these professional persons of the highest class, -accustomed to spare no expense, are, however, things that do not agree -with limited means; and Dora, the only authority on the subject, knew -nothing about her father’s money, or how to get command of it. Mrs. -Simcox’s bills were very large in the present position of affairs, the -rooms that had been occupied by the Heskeths being now appropriated to -the nurses, for whom the landlady furnished a table more plentiful than -that to which Mr. Mannering and his daughter had been accustomed. And -when the crisis at last arrived, in the middle of a tardy and backward -June, the affairs of the little household, even had there been any -competent person to understand them, were in a very unsatisfactory state -indeed—a state over which Dr. Roland and Miss Bethune consulted in the -evenings with many troubled looks, and shakings of the head. She had -taken all the necessary outgoings in hand, for the moment as she said; -and Miss Bethune was known to be well off. But the prospect was rather -serious, and neither of them knew how to interfere in the sick man’s -money matters, or to claim what might be owing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> to him, though, indeed, -there was probably nothing owing to him until quarter day: and there -were a number of letters lying unopened which, to experienced eyes, -looked painfully like bills, as if quarter day would not have enough to -do to provide for its own things without responding to this unexpected -strain. Dora knew nothing about these matters. She recognised the -letters with the frankest acquaintance. They were from old book shops, -from scientific workmen who mounted and prepared specimens, from dealers -in microscopes and other delicate instruments. “Father says these are -our dressmakers, and carriages, and parties,” said Dora, half, or indeed -wholly, proud of such a distinction above her fellows.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune shook her head and said, “Such extravagance!” in Dr. -Roland’s ear. He was more tolerant. “They are all the pleasures the poor -man has,” he said. But they did not make the problem more easy as to how -the present expenses were to be met when the quarter’s pay came in, even -if it could be made available by Dora’s only friends, who were “no -relations,” and had no right to act for her. Miss Bethune went through a -great many abstruse calculations in the mornings which she spent alone. -She was well off,—but that is a phrase which means little or much, -according to circumstances; and she had a great many pensioners, and -already carried a little world on her shoulders, to which she had lately -added the unfortunate little Mrs. Hesketh, and the husband, who found it -so difficult to get another<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> place. Many cares of a similar kind were on -this lady’s head. She never gave a single subscription to any of the -societies: collectors for charities called on her in vain; but to see -the little jottings of her expenses would have been a thing not without -edification for those who could understand the cipher, or, rather, the -combination of undecipherable initials, in which they were set down. She -did not put M. for Mannering in her accounts; but there were a great -many items under the initial W., which no one but herself could ever -have identified, which made it quite sure that no stranger going over -these accounts could make out who Miss Bethune’s friends were. She shook -her head over that W. If Dora were left alone, what relics would there -be for her out of the future quarter’s pay, so dreadfully forestalled, -even if the pay did not come to a sudden stop at once? And, on the other -hand, if the poor man got better, and had to face a long convalescence -with that distracting prospect before him, no neighbour any longer -daring to pay those expenses which would be quite as necessary for him -in his weak state as they were now? Miss Bethune could do nothing but -shake her head, and feel her heart contract with that pang of painful -pity in which there is no comfort at all. And in the meantime everything -went on as if poor Mannering were a millionaire, everything was ordered -for him with a free hand which a prince could have had; and Mrs. Simcox -excelled herself in making the nurses, poor things, comfortable. What -could any one do to limit this full flowing tide of liberality?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> Of -course, he must have everything that could possibly be wanted for him; -if he did not use it, at least it must be there in case he might use it. -What could people who were “no relations” do? What could Dora do, who -was only a child? And indeed, for the matter of that, what could any -one, even in the fullest authority, have done to hinder the sick man -from having anything which by the remotest possibility might be of use -to him? Thus affairs went on with a dreadful velocity, and accumulation -of wrath against the day of wrath.</p> - -<p>That was a dreadful day, the end of the sixth week, the moment when the -crisis must come. It was in the June evening, still daylight, but -getting late, when the doctor arrived. Mr. Mannering had been very ill -all day, sleeping, or in a state of stupor nearly all the time, moving -his head uneasily on his pillow, but never rousing to any consciousness -of what was going on about him. The nurses, always cheerful, did not, -however, conceal their apprehensions. He had taken his beef tea, he had -taken the milk which they poured down his throat: but his strength was -gone, and he lay with no longer any power to struggle, like a forsaken -boat on the sea margin, to be drifted off or on the beach according to -the pleasure of wind and tide.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune sat in her room holding Dora’s hand, who, however, did not -realise that this was more important than any of the other days on which -they had hoped that “the turn” might come, and a little impatient of the -seriousness of the elder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> woman, who kept on saying tender words to her, -caressing her hand,—so unnecessarily emotional, Dora thought, seeing -that at all events it was not <i>her</i> father who was ill, and she had no -reason to be so unhappy about it. This state of excitement was brought -to a climax by the sound of the doctor’s steps going upstairs, followed -close by the lighter step of Dr. Roland, whom no etiquette could now -restrain, who followed into the very room, and if he did not give an -opinion in words, gave it with his eyes, and saw, even more quickly than -the great Dr. Vereker, everything that was to be seen. It was he who -came down a few minutes later, while they were both listening for the -more solemn movements of the greater authority, descending with a rush -like that of a bird, scarcely touching the steps, and standing in the -last sunset light which came from the long staircase window behind, like -something glorified and half angelic, as if his house coat, glazed at -the shoulders and elbows, had been some sort of shining mail.</p> - -<p>Tears were in Dr. Roland’s eyes; he waved his hand over his head and -broke forth into a broken hurrah. Miss Bethune sprang up to meet him, -holding out her hands. And in the sight of stern youth utterly -astonished by this exhibition, these two elderly people as good as -rushed into each other’s arms.</p> - -<p>Dora was so astounded, so disapproving, so little aware that this was -her last chance for her father’s life, that she almost forgot her father -in the consternation, shame, and horror with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> she looked on. What -did they mean? It could not have anything to do with her father, of whom -they were “no relations". How dared they to bring in their own silly -affairs when she was in such trouble? And then Miss Bethune caught -herself, Dora, in her arms.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” cried the girl. “Oh, let me alone! I can think of -nothing but father and Dr. Vereker, who is upstairs.”</p> - -<p>“It is all right—it is all right,” said Dr. Roland. “Vereker will take -half an hour more to make up his mind. But I can tell you at once; the -fever’s gone, and, please God, he’ll pull through.”</p> - -<p>“Is it only you that says so, Dr. Roland?” cried Dora, hard as the -nether millstone, and careless, indeed unconscious, what wound she might -give.</p> - -<p>“You little ungrateful thing!” cried Miss Bethune; but a shadow came -over her eyes also. And the poor practitioner from the ground floor felt -that “only you” knock him down like a stone. He gave a laugh, and made -no further reply, but walked over to the window, where he stood between -the curtains, looking out upon the summer evening, the children playing -on the pavement, all the noises and humours of the street. No, he had -not made a name for himself, he had not secured the position of a man -who has life and death in his nod. It was hard upon Dr. Roland, who felt -that he knew far more about Mr. Mannering than half a hundred great -physicians rolled into one, coming in with his solemn step at the open -door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, I think he will do,” said Dr. Vereker. “Miss Mannering, I cannot -sufficiently recommend you to leave everything in the hands of these two -admirable women. It will be anxious work for some time yet; his strength -is reduced to the very lowest ebb, but yet, I hope, all will come right. -The same strenuous skilful nursing and constant judicious nourishment -and rest. This young lady is very young to have such an anxiety. Is -there really no one—no relation, no uncle—nor anything of that kind?”</p> - -<p>“We have no relations,” said Dora, growing very red. There seemed a sort -of guilt in the avowal, she could not tell why.</p> - -<p>“But fast friends,” said Miss Bethune.</p> - -<p>“Ah, friends! Friends are very good to comfort and talk to a poor little -girl, but they are not responsible. They cannot be applied to for fees; -whereas an uncle, though perhaps not so good for the child——” Dr. -Vereker turned to Dr. Roland at the window. “I may be prevented from -coming to-morrow so soon as I should wish; indeed, the patient should be -looked at again to-night if I had time. But it is a long way to come -back here. I am sure it will be a comfort to this young lady, Dr. -Roland, if you, being on the spot, would kindly watch the case when I am -not able to be here.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland cast but one glance at the doubting spectators, who had said, -“Only you.”</p> - -<p>“With all my heart, and thank you for the confidence you put in me,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that,” said the great doctor, with a wave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> of his hand, “is only -your due. I have to thank you for one or two hints, and you know as well -as I do what care is required now. We may congratulate ourselves that -things are as they are; but his life hangs on a thread. Thank you. I may -rely upon you then? Good-evening, madam; forgive me for not knowing your -name. Good-night, Miss Mannering.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland attended the great man to the door; and returned again, -taking three steps at a time. “You see,” he cried breathlessly, “I am in -charge, though you don’t think much of me. He’s not a mercenary man, he -has stayed to pull him through; but we shan’t see much more of Dr. -Vereker. There’s the fees saved at a stroke.”</p> - -<p>“And there’s the women,” said Miss Bethune eagerly, “taking real -pleasure in it, and growing fatter and fairer every day.”</p> - -<p>“The women have done very well,” said the doctor. “I’ll have nothing -said against them. It’s they that have pulled him through.” Dr. Roland -did not mean to share his triumph with any other voluntary aid.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps that is just,” she said, regretfully; “but yet here is me -and Gilchrist hungering for something to do, and all the good pounds a -week that might be so useful handed over to them.”</p> - -<p>Dora listened to all this, half indignant, half uncomprehending. She had -a boundless scorn of the “good pounds” of which Miss Bethune in her -Scotch phraseology spoke so tenderly. And she did not clearly understand -why this particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> point in her father’s illness should be so much -more important than any other. She heard her own affairs discussed as -through a haze, resenting that these other people should think they had -so much to do with them, and but dimly understanding what they meant by -it. Her father, indeed, did not seem to her any better at all, when she -was allowed for a moment to see him as he lay asleep. But Dora, -fortunately, thought nothing of the expenses, nor how the little money -that came in at quarter day would melt away like snow, nor how the -needs, now miraculously supplied as by the ravens, would look when the -invalid awoke to a consciousness of them, and of how they were to be -provided in a more natural way.</p> - -<p>It was not very long, however, before something of that consciousness -awoke in the eyes of the patient, as he slowly came back into the -atmosphere of common life from which he had been abstracted so long. He -was surprised to find Dr. Roland at his pillow, which that eager student -would scarcely have left by day or night if he could have helped it, and -the first glimmering of anxiety about his ways and means came into his -face when Roland explained hastily that Vereker came faithfully so long -as there was any danger. “But now he thinks a poor little practitioner -like myself, being on the spot, will do,” he said, with a laugh. “Saves -fees, don’t you know?”</p> - -<p>“Fees?” poor Mannering said, with a bewildered consciousness; and next -morning began<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> to ask when he could go back to the Museum. Fortunately, -all ideas were dim in that floating weakness amid the sensations of a -man coming back to life. Convalescence is sweet in youth; but it is not -sweet when a man whose life is already waning comes back out of the -utter prostration of disease into the lesser but more conscious ills of -common existence. Presently he began to look at the luxuries with which -he was surrounded, and the attendants who watched over him, with alarm. -“Look here, Roland, I can’t afford all this. You must put a stop to all -this,” he said.</p> - -<p>“We can’t be economical about getting well, my dear fellow,” said the -doctor. “That’s the last thing to save money on.”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t got it! One can’t spend what one hasn’t got,” cried the -sick man. It is needless to say that his progress was retarded, and the -indispensable economies postponed, by this new invasion of those cares -which are to the mind what the drainage which Dr. Vereker alone believed -in is to the body.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, father,” Dora said in her ignorance; “it will all come -right.”</p> - -<p>“Right? How is it to come right? Take that stuff away. Send these nurses -away. I can’t afford it. Do you hear me? I cannot afford it!” he began -to cry night and day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Mannering’s</span> convalescence was worse than his illness had been to the -house in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Simcox’s weekly bill fell by chance into the -patient’s hands, and its items filled him with horror. When a man is -himself painfully supported on cups of soup and wings of chicken, the -details of roast lamb for the day-nurse’s dinner, and bacon and eggs for -the night-nurse’s breakfast, take an exaggerated magnitude. And Mrs. -Simcox was very conscientious, putting down even the parsley and the -mint which were necessary for these meals. This bill put back the -patient’s recovery for a week, and prolonged the expenses, and brought -the whole house, as Mrs. Simcox declared tearfully, on her comparatively -innocent head.</p> - -<p>“For wherever’s the bill to go if not to the gentleman hisself?” cried -the poor woman. “He’s sittin’ up every day, and gettin’ on famous, by -what I hears. And he always did like to see ’is own bills, did Mr. -Mannering: and what’s a little bit of a thing like Miss Dora to go to, -to make her understand money? Lord bless you! she don’t spend a shilling -in a week, nor knows nothing about it. And the nurses, as was always to -have everything comfortable, seeing the ’ard work as they ’as, poor -things. And if it was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> bit o’ mint for sauce, or a leaf o’ parsley for -garnish, I’d have put it in out o’ my own pocket and welcome, if I’d a -thought a gentleman would go on about sich things.”</p> - -<p>“You ridiculous woman, why couldn’t you have brought it to me, as you -have done before? And who do you suppose cares for your parsley and your -mint?” cried Miss Bethune. But nobody knew better than Miss Bethune that -the bills could not now be brought to her; and it was with a sore heart, -and that sense of the utter impossibility of affording any help, with -which we look on impotent at the troubles of our neighbours, whom we -dare not offend even by our sympathy, that she went downstairs in a -morning of July, when London was hot and stifling, yet still, as ever, a -little grace and coolness dwelt in the morning, to refresh herself with -a walk under the trees in the Square, to which she had a privilege of -entrance.</p> - -<p>Even in London in the height of summer the morning is sweet. There is -that sense of ease and lightness in it, which warm and tranquil weather -brings, before it comes too hot to bear. There were smells in the -streets in the afternoon, and the din of passing carts and carriages, of -children playing, of street cries and shouts, which would sometimes -become intolerable; but in the morning there was shade and softness, and -a sense of trouble suspended for the moment or withdrawn, which often -follows the sudden sharp realisation of any misfortune which comes with -the first waking. The pavement was cool, and the air was -(comparatively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span>) sweet. There was a tinkle of water, though only from a -water cart. Miss Bethune opened the door into this sweetness and -coolness and morning glory which exists even in Bloomsbury, and found -herself suddenly confronted by a stranger, whose hand had been raised to -knock when the door thus suddenly opened before him. The sudden -encounter gave her a little shock, which was not lessened by the -appearance of the young man—a young fellow of three or four and twenty, -in light summer clothes, and with a pleasant sunburnt countenance.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Not his the form, not his the eye,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That youthful maidens wont to fly.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Miss Bethune was no youthful maiden, but this sudden apparition had a -great effect upon her. The sight made her start, and grow red and grow -pale without any reason, like a young person in her teens.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the young man, making a step back, and taking -off his hat. This was clearly an afterthought, and due to her -appearance, which was not that of the mistress of a lodging-house. “I -wanted to ask after a ——”</p> - -<p>“I am not the person of the house,” said Miss Bethune quickly.</p> - -<p>“Might I ask you all the same? I would so much rather hear from some one -who knows him.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune’s eyes had been fixed upon him with the closest attention, -but her interest suddenly changed and dropped at the last word. “Him?” -she said involuntarily, with a flash out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> of her eyes, and a look almost -of disappointment, almost of surprise. What had she expected? She -recovered in a moment the composure which had been disturbed by this -stranger’s appearance, for what reason she only knew.</p> - -<p>“I came,” he said, hesitating a little, and giving her another look, in -which there was also some surprise and much curiosity, “to inquire about -Mr. Mannering, who, I am told, lives here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he lives here.”</p> - -<p>“And has been ill?”</p> - -<p>“And has been ill,” she repeated after him.</p> - -<p>The young man smiled, and paused again. He seemed to be amused by these -repetitions. He had a very pleasant face, not intellectual, not -remarkable, but full of life and good-humour. He said: “Perhaps I ought -not to trouble you; but if you know him, and his child——”</p> - -<p>“I know him very well, and his child,—who is a child no longer, but -almost grown up. He is slowly recovering out of a very long dangerous -illness.”</p> - -<p>“That is what we heard. I came, not for myself, but for a lady who takes -a great interest. I think that she is a relation of—of Mr. Mannering’s -late wife.”</p> - -<p>“Is that woman dead, then?” Miss Bethune said. “I too take a great -interest in the family. I shall be glad to tell you anything I know: but -come with me into the Square, where we can talk at our ease.” She led -him to a favourite seat under the shadow of a tree. Though it was in -Bloomsbury, and the sounds of town were in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> air, that quiet green -place might have been far in the country, in the midst of pastoral -acres. The Squares of Bloomsbury are too respectable to produce many -children. There were scarcely even any perambulators to vulgarise this -retreat. She turned to him as she sat down, and said again: “So that -woman is dead?”</p> - -<p>The young stranger looked surprised. “You mean Mrs. Mannering?” he said. -“I suppose so, though I know nothing of her. May I say who I am first? -My name is Gordon. I have just come from South America with Mrs. -Bristow, the wife of my guardian, who died there a year ago. And it is -she who has sent me to inquire.”</p> - -<p>“Gordon?” said Miss Bethune. She had closed her eyes, and her head was -going round; but she signed to him with her hand to sit down, and made a -great effort to recover herself. “You will be of one of the Scotch -families?” she said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I have never been in this country till now.”</p> - -<p>“Born abroad?” she said, suddenly opening her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I think so—at least—but, indeed, I can tell you very little about -myself. It was Mrs. Bristow——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. I am very indiscreet, putting so many questions, but you -reminded me of—of some one I once knew. Mrs. Bristow, you were saying?”</p> - -<p>“She was very anxious to know something of Mr. Mannering and his child. -I think she must be a relation of his late wife.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<p>“God be thanked if there is a relation that may be of use to Dora. She -wants to know—what? If you were going to question the landlady, it -would not be much——”</p> - -<p>“I was to try to do exactly what I seem to have been so fortunate as to -have done—to find some friend whom I could ask about them. I am sure -you must be a friend to them?”</p> - -<p>“How can you be sure of that, you that know neither them nor me?”</p> - -<p>He smiled, with a very attractive, ingenuous smile. “Because you have -the face of a friend.”</p> - -<p>“Have I that? There’s many, many, then, that would have been the better -for knowing it that have never found it out. And you are a friend to -Mrs. Bristow on the other side?”</p> - -<p>“A friend to her?—no, I am more like her son, yet not her son, for my -own mother is living—at least, I believe so. I am her servant, and a -little her ward, and—devoted to her,” he added, with a bright flush of -animation and sincerity. Miss Bethune took no notice of these last -words.</p> - -<p>“Your mother is living, you believe? and don’t you know her, then? And -why should you be ward or son to this other woman, and your mother -alive?”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” said the young man, “that is my story, and it is not worth -a thought. The question is about Mrs. Bristow and the Mannerings. She is -anxious about them, and she is very broken in health. And I think there -is some family trouble there too, so that she can’t come in a natural -straightforward way and make herself known to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> them. These family -quarrels are dreadful things.”</p> - -<p>“Dreadful things,” Miss Bethune said.</p> - -<p>“They are bad enough for those with whom they originate; but for those -who come after, worse still. To be deprived of a natural friend all your -life because of some row that took place before you were born!”</p> - -<p>“You are a Daniel come to judgment,” said Miss Bethune, pale to her very -lips.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” he said kindly, “I am not saying anything I ought not to say? -I hope you are not ill?”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” she said, waving her hand. “About this Mrs. Bristow, that is -what we were talking of. The Mannerings could not be more in need of a -friend than they are now. He has been very ill. I hear it is very -doubtful if he’ll ever be himself again, or able to go back to his -occupation. And she is very young, nearly grown up, but still a child. -If there was a friend, a relation, to stand up for them, now would be -the very time.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said. “I have been very fortunate in finding you, but I -don’t think Mrs. Bristow can take any open step. My idea is that she -must be a sister of Mrs. Mannering, and thus involved in the dissension, -whatever it was.”</p> - -<p>“It was more than a dissension, so far as I have heard,” Miss Bethune -said.</p> - -<p>“That is what makes it so hard. What she wishes is to see Dora.”</p> - -<p>“Dora?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<p>“Indeed, I mean no disrespect. I have never known her by any other name. -I have helped to pack boxes for her, and choose playthings.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune uttered a sudden exclamation.</p> - -<p>“Then it was from Mrs. Bristow the boxes came?”</p> - -<p>“Have I let out something that was a secret? I am not very good at -secrets,” he said with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“She might be an aunt as you say:—an aunt would be a good thing for -her, poor child:—or she might be—— But is it Dora only she wants to -see?”</p> - -<p>“Dora only; and only Dora if it is certain that she would entertain no -prejudices against a relation of her mother.”</p> - -<p>“How could there be prejudices of such a kind?”</p> - -<p>“That is too much to say: but I know from my own case that there are,” -the young man said.</p> - -<p>“I would like to hear your own case.”</p> - -<p>He laughed again. “You are very kind to be so much interested in a -stranger: but I must settle matters for my kind guardian. She has not -been a happy woman, I don’t know why,—though he was as good a man as -ever lived:—and now she is in very poor health—oh, really ill. I -scarcely thought I could have got her to England alive. To see Dora is -all she seems to wish for. Help me, oh, help me to get her that -gratification!” he cried.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune smiled upon him in reply, with an involuntary movement of -her hands towards<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> him. She was pale, and a strange light was on her -face.</p> - -<p>“I will do that if I can,” she said. “I will do it if it is possible. If -I help you what will you give me in return?”</p> - -<p>The youth looked at her in mild surprise. He did not understand what she -could mean. “Give you in return?” he asked, with astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Ay, my young man, for my hire; everybody has a price, as I daresay you -have heard said—which is a great lie, and yet true enough. Mine is not -just a common price, as you will believe. I’m full of fancies, -a—whimsical kind of a being. You will have to pay me for my goodwill.”</p> - -<p>He rose up from the seat under the tree, and, taking off his hat again, -made her a solemn bow. “Anything that is within my power I will gladly -give to secure my good guardian what she wishes. I owe everything to -her.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune sat looking up at him with that light on her face which -made it unlike everything that had been seen before. She was scarcely -recognisable, or would have been to those who already knew her. To the -stranger standing somewhat stiffly before her, surprised and somewhat -shocked by the strange demand, it seemed that this, as he had thought, -plain middle-aged woman had suddenly become beautiful.</p> - -<p>He had liked her face at the first. It had seemed to him a friend’s -face, as he had said. But now it was something more. The surprise, the -involuntary start of repugnance from a woman, a lady, who boldly asked -something in return for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> the help she promised, mingled with a strange -attraction towards her, and extraordinary curiosity as to what she could -mean. To pay for her goodwill! Such a thing is, perhaps, implied in -every prayer for help; gratitude at the least, if nothing more, is the -pay which all the world is supposed to give for good offices: but one -does not ask even for gratitude in words. And she was in no hurry to -explain. She sat in the warm shade, with all the greenness behind, and -looked at him as if she found somehow a supreme satisfaction in the -sight—as if she desired to prolong the moment, and even his curiosity -and surprise. He on his part was stiff, disturbed, not happy at all. He -did not like a woman to let herself down, to show any wrong side of her, -any acquisitiveness, or equivocal sentiment. What did she want of him? -What had he to give? The thought seemed to lessen himself by reason of -lessening her in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I tell you I am a very whimsical woman,” she said at length; “above all -things I am fond of hearing every man’s story, and tracing out the -different threads of life. It is my amusement, like any other. If I -bring this lady to speech of Dora, and show her how she could be of real -advantage to both the girl and her father, will you promise me to come -to me another time, and tell me, as far as you know, everything that has -happened to you since the day you were born?”</p> - -<p>Young Gordon’s stiffness melted away. The surprise on his face, which -had been mingled with annoyance, turned into mirth and pleasure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> “You -don’t know what you are bringing on yourself,” he said, “nothing very -amusing. I have little in my own record. I never had any adventures. But -if that is your fancy, surely I will, whenever you like, tell you -everything that I know about myself.”</p> - -<p>She rose up, with the light fading a little, but yet leaving behind it a -sweetness which was not generally in Miss Bethune’s face. “Let your -friend come in the afternoon at three any day—it is then her father -takes his sleep—and ask for Miss Bethune. I will see that it is made -all right. And as for you, you will leave me your address?” she said, -going with him towards the gate. “You said you believed your mother was -living—is your father living too?”</p> - -<p>“He died a long time ago,” said the young man, and then added: “May I -not know who it is that is standing our friend?”</p> - -<p>Perhaps Miss Bethune did not hear him; certainly she let him out; and -turned to lock the gate, without making any reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Dora</span> had now a great deal to do in her father’s room. The two nurses had -at last been got rid of, to the great relief of all in the house except -Mrs. Simcox, whose bills shrank back at once to their original level, -very different from what they had been, and who felt herself, besides, -to be reduced to quite a lower level in point of society, her thoughts -and imaginations having been filled, as well as those of Janie and -Molly, by tales of the hospitals and sick-rooms, which made them feel as -if translated into a world where the gaiety of perfect health and -constant exercise triumphed over every distress. Janie and Molly had -both determined to be nurses in the enthusiasm created by these -recitals. They turned their little nightcaps, the only things they had -which could be so converted, into imitation nurses’ caps, and -masqueraded in them in the spare moments when they could shut themselves -into their little rooms and play at hospital. And the sitting-room -downstairs returned for these young persons to its original dulness when -the nurses went away. Dora was in her father’s room all day, and -required a great deal of help from Jane, the maid-of-all-work, in -bringing up and taking away the things that were wanted: and Gilchrist -watched over him by night. There was a great deal of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> beef tea and -chicken broth to be prepared—no longer the time and trouble saving -luxuries of Brand’s Essence and turtle soup. He would have none of these -luxuries now. He inquired into every expense, and rejected presents, and -was angry rather than grateful when anything was done for him. What he -would have liked would have been to have eaten nothing at all, to have -passed over meal-times, and lived upon a glass of water or milk and a -biscuit. But this could not be allowed; and Mrs. Simcox had now a great -deal of trouble in cooking for him, whereas before she had scarcely any -at all. Mr. Mannering, indeed, was not an amiable convalescent. The -breaking up of all the habits of his life was dreadful to him. The -coming back to new habits was more dreadful still. He thought with -horror of the debts that must have accumulated while he was ill; and -when he spoke of them, looked and talked as if the whole world had been -in a conspiracy against him, instead of doing everything, and contriving -everything, as was the real state of the case, for his good.</p> - -<p>“Let me have my bills, let me have my bills; let me know how I stand,” -he cried continually to Dr. Roland, who had the hardest ado to quiet -him, to persuade him that for everything there is a reason. “I know -these women ought to be paid at once,” he would say. “I know a man like -Vereker ought to have his fee every time he comes. You intend it very -kindly, Roland, I know; but you are keeping me back, instead of helping -me to recover.” What was poor Dr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> Roland to say? He was afraid to tell -this proud man that everything was paid. That Vereker had taken but half -fees, declaring that from a professional man of such distinction as Mr. -Mannering, he ought, had the illness not been so long and troublesome, -to have taken nothing at all,—was a possible thing to say; but not that -Miss Bethune’s purse had supplied these half fees. Even that they should -merely be half was a kind of grievance to the patient. “I hope you told -him that as soon as I was well enough I should see to it,” he cried. “I -have no claim to be let off so. Distinction! the distinction of a half -man who never accomplished anything!”</p> - -<p>“Come, Mannering, come, that will not do. You are the first and only man -in England in your own way.”</p> - -<p>“In my own way? And what a miserable petty way, a way that leads to -nothing and nowhere!” he cried.</p> - -<p>This mood did not contribute to recovery. After his laborious dressing, -which occupied all the morning, he would sit in his chair doing nothing, -saying nothing, turning with a sort of sickness of despair from books, -not looking even at the paper, without a smile even for Dora. The only -thing he would sometimes do was to note down figures with a pencil on a -sheet of paper and add them up, and make attempts to balance them with -the sum which quarter day brought him. Poor Mr. Mannering was refused -all information about the sums he was owing; he put them down -conjecturally, now adding something, now subtracting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> something. As a -matter of fact his highest estimation was below the truth. And then, by -some unhappy chance, the bills that were lying in the sitting-room were -brought to him. Alas! the foolishest bills—bills which Dora’s father, -knowing that she was unprovided for, should never have incurred—bills -for old books, for fine editions, for delicate scientific instruments. A -man with only his income from the Museum, and his child to provide for, -should never have thought of such things.</p> - -<p>“Father,” said Dora, thinking of nothing but to rouse him, “there is a -large parcel which has never been opened, which came from Fiddler’s -after you were taken ill. I had not any heart to open it to see what was -in it; but perhaps it would amuse you to look at what is in it now.”</p> - -<p>“Fiddler’s?” he said, with a sick look of dismay. “Another—another! -What do I want with books, when I have not a penny to pay my expenses, -nor a place to hide my head?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, father, don’t talk so: only have patience, and everything will come -right,” cried Dora, with the facile philosophy of youth. “They are great -big books; I am sure they are something you wanted very much. It will -amuse you to look at them, at least.”</p> - -<p>He did not consent in words, but a half motion of his head made Dora -bring in, after a little delay to undo the large parcel, two great books -covered with old-fashioned gilding, in brown leather, frayed at the -corners—books to make the heart of a connoisseur dance, books looked -out for in catalogues,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> followed about from one sale to another. Mr. -Mannering’s eyes, though they were dim and sunken, gave forth a -momentary blaze. He put out his trembling hands for them, as Dora -approached, almost tottering under the weight, carrying them in her -arms.</p> - -<p>“I will put them beside you on the table, father. Now you can look at -them without tiring yourself, and I will run and fetch your beef tea. -Oh, good news!” cried Dora, flinging into Miss Bethune’s room as she ran -downstairs. “He is taking a little interest! I have just given him the -books from Fiddler’s, and he is looking a little like his own self.”</p> - -<p>She had interrupted what seemed a very serious conversation, perceiving -this only now after she had delivered her tidings. She blushed, drew -back, and begged Miss Bethune’s pardon, with a curious look at the -unknown visitor who was seated on the sofa by that lady’s side. Dora -knew all Miss Bethune’s visitors by heart. She knew most of those even -who were pensioners, and came for money or help, and had been used to be -called in to help to entertain the few callers for years past. But this -was some one altogether new, not like anybody she had ever seen before, -very much agitated, with a grey and worn face, which got cruelly red by -moments, looking ill, tired, miserable. Poor lady! and in deep mourning, -which was no doubt the cause of her trouble, and a heavy crape veil -hanging over her face. She gave a little cry at the sight of Dora, and -clasped her hands. The gesture caused her veil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> to descend like a cloud, -completely concealing her face.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, indeed. I did not know there was anybody here.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune made her a sign to be silent, and laid her hand upon her -visitor’s arm, who was tremulously putting up her veil in the same -dangerous overhanging position as before.</p> - -<p>“This is Dora—as you must have guessed,” she said.</p> - -<p>The lady began to cry, feebly sobbing, as if she could not restrain -herself. “I saw it was—I saw it was,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Dora, come here,” said Miss Bethune. “This lady is—a relation of -yours—a relation of—your poor mamma.”</p> - -<p>The lady sobbed, and held out her hands. Dora was not altogether pleased -with her appearance. She might have cried at home, the girl thought. -When you go out to pay a call, or even to make inquiries, you should -make them and not cry: and there was something that was ridiculous in -the position of the veil, ready to topple over in its heavy folds of -crape. She watched it to see when the moment would come.</p> - -<p>“Why ‘my poor mamma’?” said Dora. “Is it because mother is dead?”</p> - -<p>“There are enough of reasons,” Miss Bethune said hastily.</p> - -<p>Dora flung back her head with a sudden resistance and defiance. “I don’t -know about mother. She has been dead ever since I remember; but she was -my mother, and nobody has any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> right to be sorry for her, as though that -were a misfortune.”</p> - -<p>“She is a little perverse thing,” said Miss Bethune, “but she has a -great spirit. Dora, come here. I will go and see about your papa’s beef -tea, while you come and speak to this lady.” She stooped over the girl -for a moment as she passed her going out. “And be kind,” she whispered; -“for she’s very ill, poor thing, and very broken. Be merciful in your -strength and in your youth.”</p> - -<p>Dora could not tell what this might mean. Merciful? She, who was still -only a child, and, to her own consciousness, ordered about by everybody, -and made nothing of. The stranger sat on the sofa, trembling and -sobbing, her face of a sallow paleness, her eyes half extinguished in -tears. The heavy folds of the crape hanging over her made the faded -countenance appear as if looking out of a cave.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you are not well,” said Dora, drawing slowly near.</p> - -<p>“No, I am not at all well. Come here and sit by me, will you? I -am—dying, I think.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Dora, with a half horror, half pity. “Do not say that.”</p> - -<p>The poor lady shook her head. “I should not mind, if perhaps it made -people a little forgiving—a little indulgent. Oh, Dora, my child, is it -you, really you, at last?”</p> - -<p>Dora suffered her hand to be taken, suffered herself to be drawn close, -and a tremulous kiss pressed upon her cheek. She did not know how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> to -respond. She felt herself entangled in the great crape veil, and her -face wet with the other’s tears. She herself was touched by pity, but by -a little contrariety as well, and objection to this sudden and so -intimate embrace.</p> - -<p>“I am very, very sorry if you are ill,” she said, disengaging herself as -gently as possible. “My father has been very ill, so I know about it -now; but I don’t know you.”</p> - -<p>“My darling,” the poor lady said. “My darling, my little child! my Dora, -that I have thought and dreamed of night and day!”</p> - -<p>Dora was more than ever confused. “But I don’t know you at all,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“No, that is what is most dreadful: not at all, not at all!—and I dying -for the sight of you, and to hold you in my arms once before I die.”</p> - -<p>She held the girl with her trembling arms, and the two faces, all -entangled and overshadowed by the great black veil, looked into each -other, so profoundly unlike, not a line in either which recalled or -seemed to connect with the other. Dora was confounded and abashed by the -close contact, and her absolute incapacity to respond to this -enthusiasm. She put up her hands, which was the only thing that occurred -to her, and threw quite back with a subdued yet energetic movement that -confusing veil. She was conscious of performing this act very quietly, -but to the stranger the quick soft movement was like energy and strength -personified.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Dora,” she said, “you are not like me. I never was so lively, so -strong as you are. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> think I must have been a poor creature, always -depending upon somebody. You could never be like that.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Dora. “Ought I to have been like you? Are we such -near relations as that?”</p> - -<p>“Just as near as—almost as near as—oh, child, how I have longed for -you, and thought of you! You have never, never been out of my mind—not -a day, Dora, scarcely an hour. Oh, if you only knew!”</p> - -<p>“You must then have been very fond of my mother,” Dora said a little -stiffly. She might have been less cold had this enthusiasm been less -great.</p> - -<p>“Your mother!” the stranger said. She broke out into audible weeping -again, after comparative composure. “Oh, yes, I suppose I was—oh, yes, -I suppose I was,” she said.</p> - -<p>“You only suppose you were, and yet you are so fond as this of -me?—which can be only,” said Dora, severely logical, “for her sake.”</p> - -<p>The poor lady trembled, and was still for a moment; she then said, -faltering: “We were so close together, she and I. We were like one. But -a child is different—you are her and yourself too. But you are so -young, my dearest, my dearest! You will not understand that.”</p> - -<p>“I understand it partly,” said Dora; “but it is so strange that I never -heard of you. Were my mother’s relations against my father? You must -forgive me,” the girl said, withdrawing herself a little, sitting very -upright; “but father, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> know, has been everything to me. Father and I -are one. I should like very much to hear about mamma, who must have died -so long ago: but my first thought must always be for father, who has -been everything to me, and I to him.”</p> - -<p>A long minute passed, during which the stranger said nothing. Her head -was sunk upon her breast; her hand—which was on Dora’s waist—quivered, -the nervous fingers beating unconsciously upon Dora’s firm smooth belt.</p> - -<p>“I have nothing, nothing to say to you against your father. Oh, -nothing!—not a word! I have no complaint—no complaint! He is a good -man, your father. And to have you cling to him, stand up for him, is not -that enough?—is not that enough,” she cried, with a shrill tone, -“whatever failed?”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Dora, pursuing her argument, “mamma’s relations were not -friends to him?”</p> - -<p>The lady withdrew her arm from Dora’s waist. She clasped her tremulous -hands together, as if in supplication. “Nothing was done against -him—oh, nothing, nothing!” she cried. “There was no one to blame, -everybody said so. It was a dreadful fatality; it was a thing no one -could have foreseen or guarded against. Oh, my Dora, couldn’t you give a -little love, a little kindness, to a poor woman, even though she was not -what you call a friend to your father? She never was his enemy—never, -never!—never had an evil thought of him!—never wished to harm him—oh, -never, never, never!” she cried.</p> - -<p>She swayed against Dora’s breast, rocking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> herself in uncontrolled -distress, and Dora’s heart was touched by that involuntary contact, and -by the sight of an anguish which was painfully real, though she did not -understand what it meant. With a certain protecting impulse, she put her -own arm round the weeping woman to support her. “Don’t cry,” she said, -as she might have said to a child.</p> - -<p>“I will not cry. I will be very glad, and very happy, if you will only -give me a little of your love, Dora,” the lady sobbed in a broken voice. -“A little of your love,—not to take it from your father,—a little, -just a little! Oh, my child, my child!”</p> - -<p>“Are you my mother’s sister?” the girl asked solemnly.</p> - -<p>The stranger raised her head again, with a look which Dora did not -understand. Her eyes were full of tears, and of a wistful appeal which -said nothing to the creature to whom it was addressed. After a moment, -with a pathetic cry of pain and self-abandonment, she breathed forth a -scarcely intelligible “Yes".</p> - -<p>“Then now I know,” said Dora, in a more satisfied tone. She was not -without emotion herself. It was impossible to see so much feeling and -not to be more or less affected by it, even when one did not understand, -or even felt it to be extreme. “Then I will call you aunt, and we shall -know where we are,” she added. “I am very glad to have relations, as -everybody has them. May I mention you to father? It must be long since -you quarrelled, whatever it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> about. I shall say to him: ‘You need -not take any notice, but I am glad, very glad, to have an aunt like -other girls’.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no, no—not to him! You must not say a word.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know how I can keep a secret from father,” Dora said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, child,” cried the lady, “do not be too hard on us! It would be hard -for him, too, and he has been ill. Don’t say a word to him—for his own -sake!”</p> - -<p>“It will be very strange to keep a secret from father,” Dora said -reflectively. Then she added: “To be sure, there have been other -things—about the nurses, and all that. And he is still very weak. I -will not mention it, since you say it is for his own sake.”</p> - -<p>“For we could never meet—never, never!” cried the lady, with her head -on Dora’s breast—“never, unless perhaps one of us were dying. I could -never look him in the face, though perhaps if I were dying—— Dora, -kiss your poor—your poor, poor—relation. Oh, my child! oh, my darling! -kiss me as that!”</p> - -<p>“Dear aunt,” said Dora quietly. She spoke in a very subdued tone, in -order to keep down the quite uncalled-for excitement and almost passion -in the other’s voice. She could not but feel that her new relation was a -person with very little self-control, expressing herself far too -strongly, with repetitions and outcries quite uncalled for in ordinary -conversation, and that it was her, Dora’s, business to exercise a -mollifying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> influence. “This is for you,” she said, touching the sallow, -thin cheek with her young rosy lips. “And this is for poor mamma—poor -young mamma, whom I never saw.”</p> - -<p>The lady gave a quick cry, and clutched the girl in her trembling arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> meeting with her new relation had a great effect upon Dora’s mind. -It troubled her, though there was no reason in the world why the -discovery that her mother had a sister, and she herself an aunt, should -be painful. An aunt is not a very interesting relation generally, not -enough to make a girl’s heart beat; but it added a complication to the -web of altogether new difficulties in which Dora found herself -entangled. Everything had been so simple in the old days—those dear old -days now nearly three months off, before Mr. Mannering fell ill, to -which now Dora felt herself go back with such a sense of happiness and -ease, perhaps never to be known again. Then everything had been above -board: there had been no payments to make that were not made naturally -by her father, the fountainhead of everything, who gave his simple -orders, and had them fulfilled, and provided for every necessity. Now -Dora feared a knock at the door of his room lest it should be some -indiscreet messenger bringing direct a luxury or novelty which it had -been intended to smuggle in so that he might not observe it, or -introduce with some one’s compliments as an accidental offering to the -sick man. To hurry off Janie or Molly downstairs with these good things -intended to tempt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> the invalid’s appetite, to stamp a secret foot at the -indiscretions of Jane, who would bring in the bill for these dainties, -or announce their arrival loud out, rousing Mr. Mannering to inquiries, -and give a stern order that such extravagances should be no more, were -now common experiences to Dora. She had to deceive him, which was, Miss -Bethune assured her, for his good, but which Dora felt with a sinking -heart was not at all for her own good, and made her shrink from her -father’s eye. To account for the presence of some rare wine which was -good for him by a little story which, though it had been carefully -taught her by Dr. Roland or Miss Bethune, was not true—to make out that -it was the most natural thing in the world that <i>patés de fois gras</i>, -and the strongest soups and essence should be no more expensive than -common beef tea, the manufacture of Bloomsbury, because the doctor knew -some place where they were to be had at wholesale rates for almost -nothing—these were devices now quite familiar to her.</p> - -<p>It was no worse to conceal the appearance of this new and strange -personage on the scene, the relation of whom she had never heard, and -whose existence was to remain a secret; but still it was a bigger secret -than any that concerned the things that were to eat or drink, or even -Mrs. Simcox’s bills. Concealment is an art that has to be carefully -learnt, like other arts, and it is extremely difficult to some minds, -who will more easily acquire the most elaborate handicraft than the -trick of selecting what is to be told and what is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> not to be told. It -was beyond all description difficult to Dora. She was ready to betray -herself at almost every moment, and had it not been that her own mind -was much perturbed and troubled by her strange visitor, and by attempts -to account for her to herself, she never could have succeeded in it. -What could the offence be that made it impossible for her father ever to -meet the sister of his wife again? Dora had learned from novels a great -deal about the mysteries of life, some which her natural mind rejected -as absurd, some which she contemplated with awe as tragic possibilities -entirely out of the range of common life. She had read about implacable -persons who once offended could never forgive, and of those who revenged -themselves and pursued a feud to the death. But the idea of her father -in either of these characters was too ridiculous to be dwelt upon for a -moment. And there had been no evil intended, no harm,—only a fatality. -What is a fatality? To have such dreadful issues, a thing must be -serious, very terrible. Dora was bewildered and overawed. She put this -question to Miss Bethune, but received no light on the subject. “A -fatality is a thing that is not intentional—that happens by -accident—that brings harm when you mean nothing but good,” that -authority said.</p> - -<p>“But how should that be? It says in the Bible that people must not do -evil that good may come. But to do good that evil may come, I never -heard of that.”</p> - -<p>“There are many things in the world that you never heard of, Dora, my -dear.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh yes, yes, I know,” cried the girl impatiently. “You are always -saying that, because I am young—as if it were my fault that I am young; -but that does not change anything. It is no matter, then, whether you -have any meaning in what you do or not?”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes it appears as if it was no matter. We walk blindly in this -world, and often do things unawares that we would put our hands in the -fire rather than do. You say an unguarded word, meaning nothing, and it -falls to the ground, as you think, but afterwards springs up into a -poisonous tree and blights your life; or you take a turn to the right -hand instead of the left when you go out from your own door, and it -means ruin and death—that’s fatality, and it’s everywhere,” said Miss -Bethune, with a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>“I do not believe in it,” said Dora, standing straight and strong, like -a young tree, and holding her head high.</p> - -<p>“Nor did I, my dear, when I was your age,” Miss Bethune said.</p> - -<p>At this moment there was a light knock at the door, and there appeared -suddenly the young man whom Miss Bethune had met in the Square, and who -had come as the messenger of the lady who was Dora’s aunt.</p> - -<p>“She is asking me what fatality is,” said Miss Bethune. “I wonder if you -have any light to throw on the subject? You are nearer her age than I.”</p> - -<p>The two young people looked at each other. Dora, though she was only -sixteen, was more of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> personage than the young Gordon whom she had not -seen before. She looked at him with the condescension of a very young -girl brought up among elder people, and apt to feel a boundless -imaginative superiority over those of her own age. A young man was a -slight person to Dora. She was scarcely old enough to feel any of the -interest in him which exists naturally between the youth and the maiden. -She looked at him from her pedestal, half scornful beforehand of -anything he might say.</p> - -<p>“Fatality?” he said. “I think it’s a name people invent for anything -particularly foolish which they do, when it turns out badly: though they -might have known it would turn out badly all the time.”</p> - -<p>“That is exactly what I think,” cried Dora, clapping her hands.</p> - -<p>“This is the young lady,” said young Gordon, “whom I used to help to -pack the toys for. I hope she will let me call her Miss Dora, for I -don’t know her by any other name.”</p> - -<p>“To pack the toys?” said Dora. Her face grew blank, then flashed with a -sudden light, then grew quite white and still again, with a gasp of -astonishment and recognition. “Oh!” she cried, and something of -disappointment was in her tone, “was it—was it <i>she</i> that sent them?” -In the commotion of her feelings a sudden deep red followed the -paleness. Dora was all fancy, changeableness, fastidiousness, -imagination, as was natural to her age. Why was she disappointed to know -that her yearly presents coming out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> the unseen, the fairy gifts that -testified to some love unknown, came from so legitimate a source, from -her mother’s sister, her own nearest relation—the lady of the other -day? I cannot tell how it was, nor could she, nor any one, but it was -so; and she felt this visionary, absurd disappointment go to the bottom -of her heart. “Oh,” she repeated, growing blank again, with a sort of -opaque shadow closing over the brightness of her eyes and clouding her -face, “so that was where my boxes came from? And you helped to pack the -toys? I ought to have known,” said Dora, very sedately, feeling as if -she had suddenly fallen from a great height.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Bethune, “we ought to have thought of that at once. Who -else could have followed with such a faithful imagination, Dora? Who -could have remembered your age, and the kind of things you want, and how -you would grow, but a kind woman like that, with all the feelings of a -mother? Oh, we should have thought of it before.”</p> - -<p>Dora at first made no reply. Her face, generally so changeable and full -of expression, settled down more and more into opaqueness and a blank -rigidity. She was deeply disappointed, though why she could not have -told—nor what dream of a fairy patroness, an exalted friend, entirely -belonging to the realms of fancy, she had conceived in her childish -imagination as the giver of these gifts. At all events, the fact was so. -Mrs. Bristow, with her heavy crape veil, ready to fall at any moment -over her face, with the worn lines of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> countenance, the flush and -heat of emotion, her tears and repetitions, was a disappointing image to -come between her and the vision of a tender friend, too delicate, too -ethereal a figure for any commonplace embodiment which had been a kind -of tutelary genius in Dora’s dreams all her life. Any one in actual -flesh and blood would have been a shock after that long-cherished, -visionary dream. And young Gordon’s laughing talk of the preparation of -the box, and of his own suggestions as to its contents, and the picture -he conjured up of a mystery which was half mischievous, and in which -there was not only a desire to please but to puzzle the distant -recipient of all these treasures, both offended and shocked the girl in -the fantastic delicacy of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>Without being himself aware of it, the young man gave a glimpse into the -distant Southern home, in which it would appear he had been brought up, -which was in reality very touching and attractive, though it reduced -Dora to a more and more strong state of revolt. On the other hand, Miss -Bethune listened to him with a rapt air of happiness, which was more -wonderful still—asking a hundred questions, never tiring of any detail. -Dora bore it all as long as she could, feeling herself sink more and -more from the position of a young princess, mysteriously loved and -cherished by a distant friend, half angelic, half queenly, into that of -a little girl, whom a fantastic kind relation wished to pet and to -bewilder, half in love and half in fun, taking the boy into her -confidence, who was still more to her and nearer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> to her than Dora. She -could not understand how Miss Bethune could sit and listen with that -rapt countenance; and she finally broke in, in the very midst of the -narrative to which she had listened (had any one taken any notice) with -growing impatience, to say suddenly, “In the meantime father is by -himself, and I shall have to go to him,” with a tone of something like -injury in her voice.</p> - -<p>“But Gilchrist is there if he wants anything, Dora.”</p> - -<p>“Gilchrist is very kind, but she is not quite the same as me,” said -Dora, holding her head high.</p> - -<p>She made Mr. Gordon a little gesture, something between farewell and -dismissal, in a very lofty way, impressing upon the young man a sense of -having somehow offended, which he could not understand. He himself was -very much interested in Dora. He had known of her existence for years. -She had been a sort of secret between him and the wife of his guardian, -who, he was well aware, never discussed with her husband or mentioned in -his presence the child who was so mysteriously dear to her; but bestowed -all her confidence on this subject on the boy who had grown up in her -house and filled to her the place of a son. He had liked the confidence -and the secret and the mystery, without much inquiring what they meant. -They meant, he supposed, a family quarrel, such as that which had -affected all his own life. Such things are a bore and a nuisance; but, -after all, don’t matter very much to any but those with whom they -originate. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> young Gordon was not disposed to trouble his mind with -any sort of mystery now.</p> - -<p>“Have I said anything I should not have said? Is she displeased?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“It matters very little if she is displeased or not, a fantastic little -girl!” cried Miss Bethune. “Go on, go on with what you are saying. I -take more interest in it than words can say.”</p> - -<p>But it was not perhaps exactly the same thing to continue that story in -the absence of the heroine whose name was its centre all through. She -was too young to count with serious effect in the life of a man; and yet -it would be difficult to draw any arbitrary line in respect to age with -a tall girl full of that high flush of youth which adopts every -semblance in turn, and can put all the dignity of womanhood in the eyes -of a child. Young Gordon’s impulse slackened in spite of himself; he was -pleased, and still more amused, by the interest he excited in this lady, -who had suddenly taken him into her intimacy with no reason that he knew -of, and was so anxious to know all his story. It was droll to see her -listening in that rapt way,—droll, yet touching too. She had said that -he reminded her of somebody she knew—perhaps it was some one who was -dead, a young brother, a friend of earlier years. He laughed a little to -himself, though he was also affected by this curious unexpected interest -in him. But he certainly had not the same freedom and eloquence in -talking of the old South American home, now broken up, and the visionary -little maiden, who, all unknown herself, had lent it a charm, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> Dora -was gone. Neither, perhaps, did Miss Bethune concentrate her interest on -that part that related to Dora. When he began to flag she asked him -questions of a different kind.</p> - -<p>“Those guardians of yours must have been very good to you—as good as -parents?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Very good, but not perhaps like parents; for I remember my father very -well, and I still have a mother, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Your father,” she said, turning away her head a little, “was devoted to -you, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Devoted to me?” he said, with a little surprise, and then laughed. “He -was kind enough. We got on very well together. Do men and their sons do -more than that?”</p> - -<p>“I know very little about men and their sons,” she said hastily; “about -men and women I maybe know a little, and not much to their advantage. -Oh, you are there, Gilchrist! This is the gentleman I was speaking to -you about. Do you see the likeness?”</p> - -<p>Gilchrist advanced a step into the room, with much embarrassment in her -honest face. She uttered a broken laugh, which was like a giggle, and -began as usual to fold hems in her apron.</p> - -<p>“I cannot say, mem, that I see a resemblance to any person,” she said.</p> - -<p>“You are just a stupid creature!” said her mistress,—“good for nothing -but to make an invalid’s beef tea. Just go away, go away and do that.” -She turned suddenly to young Gordon, as Gilchrist went out of the room. -“That stupid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> woman’s face doesn’t bring anything to your mind?” she -said hastily.</p> - -<p>“Bring anything to my mind?” he cried, with great surprise. “What should -she bring to my mind?”</p> - -<p>“It was just a fancy that came into mine. Do you remember the scene in -<i>Guy Mannering</i>, where Bertram first sees Dominie Sampson? Eh, I hope -your education has not been neglected in that great particular?”</p> - -<p>“I remember the scene,” he said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“It was perhaps a little of what you young folk call melodramatic: but -Harry Bertram’s imagination gets a kind of shock, and he remembers. And -so you are a reader of Sir Walter, and mind that scene?”</p> - -<p>“I remember it very well,” said the young man, bewildered. “But about -the maid? You said——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing about the maid; she’s my faithful maid, but a stupid woman -as ever existed. Never you mind what I said. I say things that are very -silly from time to time. But I would like to know how you ever heard -your mother was living, when you have never seen her, nor know anything -about her? I suppose not even her name?”</p> - -<p>“My father told me so when he was dying: he told Mr. Bristow so, but he -gave us no further information. I gathered that my mother—— It is -painful to betray such an impression.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with a deep red rising over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> her cheeks, and a -half-defiant look. “I am old enough to be your mother, you need not -hesitate to speak before me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It is not that; it is that I can’t associate that name with -anything—anything—to be ashamed of.”</p> - -<p>“I would hope not, indeed!” she cried, standing up, towering over him as -if she had added a foot to her height. She gave forth a long fiery -breath, and then asked, “Did he dare to say that?” with a heaving -breast.</p> - -<p>“He did not say it: but my guardian thought——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, your guardian thought! That was what your guardian would naturally -think. A man—that is always of an evil mind where women are concerned! -And what did she think?—her, his wife, the other guardian, the woman I -have seen?”</p> - -<p>“She is not like any one else,” said young Gordon; “she will never -believe in any harm. You have given me one scene, I will give you -another. She said what Desdemona said, ‘I do not believe there was ever -any such woman’.”</p> - -<p>“Bless her! But oh, there are—there are!” cried Miss Bethune, tears -filling her eyes, “in life as well as in men’s ill imaginations. But not -possible to her or to me!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Young</span> Gordon had gone, and silence had fallen over Miss Bethune’s room. -It was a commonplace room enough, well-sized, for the house was old and -solid, with three tall windows swathed in red rep curtains, partially -softened but not extinguished by the white muslin ones which had been -put up over them. Neither Miss Bethune nor her maid belonged to the -decorative age. They had no principles as to furniture, but accepted -what they had, with rather a preference than otherwise for heavy -articles in mahogany, and things that were likely to last. They thought -Mr. Mannering’s dainty furniture and his faded silken curtains were -rather of the nature of trumpery. People could think so in these days, -and in the locality of Bloomsbury, without being entirely abandoned in -character, or given up to every vicious sentiment. Therefore, I cannot -say, as I should be obliged to say now-a-days, in order to preserve any -sympathy for Miss Bethune in the reader’s mind, that the room was -pretty, and contained an indication of its mistress’s character in every -carefully arranged corner. It was a room furnished by Mrs. Simcox, the -landlady. It had been embellished, perhaps, by a warm hearthrug—not -Persian, however, by any means—and made comfortable by a few easy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> -chairs. There were a number of books about, and there was one glass full -of wallflowers on the table, very sweet in sober colours—a flower that -rather corresponds with the mahogany, and the old-fashioned indifference -to ornament and love of use. You would have thought, had you looked into -this room, which was full of spring sunshine, bringing out the golden -tints in the wallflower, and reflected in the big mirror above the -fireplace, that it was empty after young Gordon had gone. But it was not -empty. It was occupied instead by a human heart, so overbursting with -passionate hope, love, suspense, and anxiety, that it was a wonder the -silence did not tinge, and the quiet atmosphere betray that strain and -stress of feeling. Miss Bethune sat in the shadowed corner between the -fireplace and the farther window, with the whiteness of the curtains -blowing softly in her face as the air came in. That flutter dazzled the -beholder, and made Gilchrist think when she entered that there was -nobody there. The maid looked round, and then clasped her hands and said -to herself softly: “She’ll be gane into her bedroom to greet there".</p> - -<p>“And why should I greet, you foolish woman?” cried Miss Bethune from her -corner, with a thrill in her voice which betrayed the commotion in her -mind.</p> - -<p>Gilchrist started so violently that the bundle of clean “things,” fresh -and fragrant from the country cart which had brought home the washing, -fell from her arms. “Oh, mem, if I had kent you were there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<p>“My bonnie clean things!” cried Miss Bethune, “with the scent of the -grass upon them—and now they’re all spoiled with the dust of -Bloomsbury! Gather them up and carry them away, and then you can come -back here.” She remained for a moment as quiet as before, after -Gilchrist had hurried away; but any touch would have been sufficient to -move her in her agitation, and presently she rose and began to pace -about the room. “Gone to my room to greet there, is that what she -thinks? Like Mary going to the grave to weep there. No, no, that’s not -the truth. It’s the other way. I might be going to laugh, and to clap my -hands, as they say in the Psalms. But laughing is not the first -expression of joy. I would maybe be more like greeting, as she says. A -person laughs in idleness, for fun, not for joy. Joy has nothing, -nothing but the old way of tears, which is just a contradiction. And -maybe, after all, she was right. I’ll go to my room and weep for -thankfulness, and lightheartedness, and joy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, coming in, “gang softly, gang softly! You’re -more sure than any mortal person has a right to be.”</p> - -<p>“Ye old unbeliever,” cried Miss Bethune, pausing in the midst of her -sob. “What has mortality to do with evidence? It would be just as true -if I were to die to-morrow, for that matter.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist again, “ye’re awfu’ easy to please in the way -of evidence. What do you call evidence? A likeness ye think ye see, but -I canna; and there’s naething in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> likeness. Miss Dora is no more like -her papaw than me, there is nothing to be lippened to in the like of -that. And then the age—that would maybe be about the same, I grant ye -that, so much as it comes to; and a name that is no’ the right name, but -a kind of an approach to it.”</p> - -<p>“You are a bonnie person,” cried Miss Bethune, “to take authority upon -you about names, and never to think of the commonest old Scotch custom, -that the son drops or turns the other way the name the father has taken -to his own. I hope I know better! If nothing had ever happened, if the -lad had been bred and trained at home, he would be Gordon, just as sure -as he is Gordon now.”</p> - -<p>“I’m no’ a person of quality, mem,” said Gilchrist, holding her ground. -“I have never set up for being wan of the gentry: it would ill become -me, being just John Gilchrist the smith’s daughter, and your -servant-woman, that has served you this five and twenty years. But there -are as many Gordons in Aberdeen as there are kirk steeples in this weary -London town.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune made an impatient gesture. “You’re a sagacious person, -Gilchrist, altogether, and might be a ruling elder if you were but a -man: but I think perhaps I know what’s in it as well as you do, and if -I’m satisfied that a thing is, I will not yield my faith, as you might -know by this time, neither to the Lord President himself, nor even to -you.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, bless me, mem, but I ken that weel!” cried Gilchrist; “and if I had -thought you were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> taking it on that high line, never word would have -come out of my mouth.”</p> - -<p>“I am taking it on no high line—but I see what is for it as well as -what is against it. I have kept my head clear,” said Miss Bethune. “On -other occasions, I grant you, I may have let myself go: but in all this -I have been like a judge, and refused to listen to the voice in my own -heart. But it was there all the time, though I crushed it down. How can -the like of you understand? You’ve never felt a baby’s cry go into the -very marrow of your bones. I’ve set the evidence all out, and pled the -cause before my own judgment, never listening one word to the voice in -my heart.” Miss Bethune spoke with greater and greater vehemence, but -here paused to calm herself. “The boy that was carried off would have -been twenty-five on the eighteenth of next month (as well you know), and -this boy is just on five and twenty, he told me with his own lips; and -his father told him with his dying breath that he had a mother living. -He had the grace to do that! Maybe,” said Miss Bethune, dropping her -voice, which had again risen in excitement, “he was a true penitent when -it came to that. I wish no other thing. Much harm and misery, God -forgive him, has he wrought; but I wish no other thing. It would have -done my heart good to think that his was touched and softened at the -last, to his Maker at least, if no more.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem, the one would go with the other, if what you think is true.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>“No,” said Miss Bethune, shutting her lips tight, “no, there’s no -necessity. If it had been so what would have hindered him to give the -boy chapter and verse? Her name is So-and-so, you will hear of her at -such a place. But never that—never that, though it would have been so -easy! Only that he had a mother living, a mother that the guardian man -and the lad himself divined must have been a —— Do you not call that -evidence?” cried Miss Bethune, with a harsh triumph. “Do you not divine -our man in that? Oh, but I see him as clear as if he had signed his -name.”</p> - -<p>“Dear mem,” cried Gilchrist, with a “tchick, tchick,” of troubled -sympathy and spectatorship, “you canna wish he had been a true penitent -and yet think of him like that.”</p> - -<p>“And who are you to lay down the law and say what I can do?” cried the -lady. She added, with a wave of her hand and her head: “We’ll not argue -that question: but if there ever was an action more like the man!—just -to give the hint and clear his conscience, but leave the woman’s name to -be torn to pieces by any dozen in the place! If that is not evidence, I -don’t know what evidence is.”</p> - -<p>Gilchrist could say nothing in reply. She shook her head, though whether -in agreement or in dissidence it would have been difficult to tell, and -folded hem upon hem on her apron, with her eyes fixed upon that, as if -it had been the most important of work. “I was wanting to speak,” she -said, “when you had a moment to listen to me, about two young folk.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<p>“What two young folk?” Miss Bethune’s eyes lighted up with a gleam of -soft light, her face grew tender in every line. “But Dora is too young, -she is far too young for anything of the kind,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, with a mingling of astonishment, admiration, -and pity, “can ye think of nothing but yon strange young man?”</p> - -<p>“I am thinking of nothing but the bairn, the boy that was stolen away -before he knew his right hand from his left, and now is come home.”</p> - -<p>“Aweel, aweel,” said Gilchrist, “we will just have to put up with it, as -we have put up with it before. And sooner or later her mind will come -back to what’s reasonable and true. I was speaking not of the young -gentleman, or of any like him, but of the two who were up in the attics -that you were wanting to save, if save them ye can. They are just -handless creatures, the one and the other; but the woman’s no’ an ill -person, poor thing, and would do well if she knew the way. And a baby -coming, and the man just a weirdless, feckless, ill man.”</p> - -<p>“He cannot help it if he is ill, Gilchrist.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe no’,” said Gilchrist cautiously. “I’m never just so sure of that; -but, anyway, he’s a delicate creature, feared for everything, and for a -Christian eye upon him, which is the worst of all; and wherefore we -should take them upon our shoulders, folk that we have nothing to do -with, a husband and wife, and the family that’s coming——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, woman,” said her mistress, “if they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> have got just a step out of -the safe way in the beginning, is that not reason the more for helping -them back? And how can I ever know what straits <i>he</i> might have been put -to, and his mother ignorant, and not able to help him?”</p> - -<p>“Eh, but I’m thankful to hear you say that again!” Gilchrist cried.</p> - -<p>“Not that I can ever have that fear now, for a finer young man, or a -more sweet ingenuous look! But no credit to any of us, Gilchrist. I’m -thankful to those kind people that have brought him up; but it will -always be a pain in my heart that I have had nothing to do with the -training of him, and will never be half so much to him as that—that -lady, who is in herself a poor, weakly woman, if I may say such a word.”</p> - -<p>“It is just a very strange thing,” said Gilchrist, “that yon lady is as -much taken up about our Miss Dora as you are, mem, about the young lad.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Miss Bethune, with a nod of her head, “but in a different -way. Her mother’s sister—very kind and very natural, but oh, how -different! I am to contrive to take Dora to see her, for I fear she is -not long for this world, Gilchrist. The young lad, as you call him, will -soon have nobody to look to but——”</p> - -<p>“Mem!” cried Gilchrist, drawing herself up, and looking her mistress -sternly in the face.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune confronted her angrily for a moment, then coloured high, -and flung down, as it were, her arms. “No, no!” she cried—“no, you are -unjust to me, as you have been many times before. I am not glad of her -illness, poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> thing. God forbid it! I am not exulting, as you think, -that she will be out of my way. Oh, Gilchrist, do you think so little of -me—a woman you have known this long, long lifetime—as to believe -that?”</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “when you and me begin to think ill of each -other, the world will come to an end. We ken each ither far too well for -that. Ye may scold me whiles when I little deserve it, and I put a thing -upon you for a minnit that is nae blame of yours; but na, na, there is -nae misjudging possible between you and me.”</p> - -<p>It will be seen that Gilchrist was very cautious in the confession of -faith just extorted. She was no flatterer. She knew of what her mistress -was capable better than that mistress herself did, and had all her -weaknesses on the tips of her fingers. But she had no intention of -discouraging that faulty but well-beloved woman. She went on in -indulgent, semi-maternal tones: “You’ve had a great deal to excite you -and trouble you, and in my opinion it would do ye a great deal of good, -and help ye to get back to your ordinary, if you would just put -everything else away, and consider with me what was to be done for thae -two feckless young folk. If the man is not put to do anything, he will -be in more trouble than ever, or I’m no judge.”</p> - -<p>“And it might have been him!” said Miss Bethune to herself—the habitual -utterance which had inspired so many acts of charity. “I think you are -maybe right, Gilchrist,” she added; “it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> will steady me, and do me good. -Run downstairs and see if the doctor is in. He knows more about him than -we do, and we’ll just have a good consultation and see what is the best -to be done.”</p> - -<p>The doctor was in, and came directly, and there was a very anxious -consultation about the two young people, to whose apparently simple, -commonplace mode of life there had come so sudden an interruption. Dr. -Roland had done more harm than good by his action in the matter. He -confessed that had he left things alone, and not terrified the young -coward on the verge of crime, the catastrophe might perhaps, by more -judicious ministrations, have been staved off. Terror of being found out -is not always a preservative, it sometimes hurries on the act which it -ought to prevent; and the young man who had been risking his soul in -petty peculations which he might have made up for, fell over the -precipice into a great one in sheer cowardice, when the doctor’s keen -eye read him, and made him tremble. Dr. Roland took blame to himself. He -argued that it was of no use trying to find Hesketh another situation. -“He has no character, and no one will take him without a character: or -if some Quixote did, on your word, Miss Bethune, or mine, who are very -little to be trusted in such a case, the unfortunate wretch would do the -same again. It’s not his fault, he cannot help himself. His grandfather, -or perhaps a more distant relation——”</p> - -<p>“Do not speak nonsense to me, doctor, for I will not listen to it,” said -Miss Bethune. “When<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> there’s a poor young wife in the case, and a baby -coming, how dare you talk about the fool’s grandfather?”</p> - -<p>“Mem and sir,” said Gilchrist, “if you would maybe listen for a moment -to me. My mistress, she has little confidence in my sense, but I have -seen mony a thing happen in my day, and twenty years’ meddlin’ and -mellin’ with poor folk under her, that is always too ready with her -siller, makes ye learn if ye were ever sae silly. Now, here is what I -would propose. He’s maybe more feckless than anything worse. He will get -no situation without a character, and it will not do for you—neither -her nor you, sir, asking your pardon—to make yourselves caution for a -silly gowk like yon. But set him up some place in a little shop of his -ain. He’ll no cheat himsel’, and the wife she can keep an eye on him. If -it’s in him to do weel, he’ll do weel, or at least we’ll see if he -tries; and if no’, in that case ye’ll ken just what you will lose. That -is what I would advise, if you would lippen to me, though I am not -saying I am anything but a stupid person, and often told so,” Gilchrist -said.</p> - -<p>“It is not a bad idea, however,” said Dr. Roland.</p> - -<p>“Neither it is. But the hussy, to revenge herself on me like that!” her -mistress cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Young</span> Gordon left the house in Bloomsbury after he had delivered the -message which was the object of his visit, but which he had forgotten in -the amusement of seeing Dora, and the interest of these new scenes which -had so suddenly opened up in his life. His object had been to beg that -Miss Bethune would visit the lady for whom it had been his previous -object to obtain an entrance into the house in which Dora was. Mrs. -Bristow was ill, and could not go again, and she wanted to see Dora’s -friend, who could bring Dora herself, accepting the new acquaintance for -the sake of the child on whom her heart was set, but whom for some -occult reason she would not call to her in the more natural way. Gordon -did not believe in occult reasons. He had no mind for mysteries; and was -fully convinced that whatever quarrel there might have been, no man -would be so ridiculously vindictive as to keep his child apart from a -relation, her mother’s sister, who was so anxious to see her.</p> - -<p>But he was the kindest-hearted youth in the world, and though he smiled -at these mysteries he yet respected them in the woman who had been -everything to him in his early life, his guardian’s wife, whom he also -called aunt in the absence of any other suitable title. She liked that -sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> thing—to make mountains of molehills, and to get over them -with great expenditure of strategy and sentiment, when he was persuaded -she might have marched straight forward and found no difficulty. But it -was her way, and it had always been his business to see that she had her -way and was crossed by nobody. He was so accustomed to her in all her -weaknesses that he accepted them simply as the course of nature. Even -her illness did not alarm or trouble him. She had been delicate since -ever he could remember. From the time when he entered upon those duties -of son or nephew which dated so far back in his life, he had always been -used to make excuses to her visitors on account of her delicacy, her -broken health, her inability to bear the effects of the hot climate. -This was her habit, as it was the habit of some women to ride and of -some to drive; and as it was the habit of her household to accept -whatever she did as the only things for her to do, he had been brought -up frankly in that faith.</p> - -<p>His own life, too, had always appeared very simple and natural to Harry, -though perhaps it scarcely seemed so to the spectator. His childhood had -been passed with his father, who was more or less of an adventurer, and -who had accustomed his son to ups and downs which he was too young to -heed, having always his wants attended to, and somebody to play with, -whatever happened. Then he had been transferred to the house of his -guardian on a footing which he was too young to inquire into, which was -indeed the simple footing of a son, receiving everything from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> his new -parents, as he had received everything from his old. To find on his -guardian’s death that he had nothing, that no provision was made for -him, was something of a shock; as had been the discovery on his -twenty-first birthday that his guardian was simply his benefactor, and -had no trust in respect to him. It came over Harry like a cloud on both -occasions that he had no profession, no way of making his own living; -and that a state of dependence like that in which he had been brought up -could not continue. But the worst time in the world to break the link -which had subsisted so long, or to take from his aunt, as he called her, -the companion upon whom she leant for everything, was at the moment when -her husband was gone, and there was nobody else except a maid to take -care of her helplessness. He could not do this; he was as much bound to -her, to provide for all her wants, and see that she missed nothing of -her wonted comforts; nay, almost more than if he had been really her -son. If it had not been for his easy nature, the light heart which goes -with perfect health, great simplicity of mind, and a thoroughly generous -disposition, young Gordon had enough of uncertainty in his life to have -made him very serious, if not unhappy. But, as a matter of fact, he was -neither. He took the days as they came, as only those can do who are to -that manner born. When he thought on the subject, he said to himself -that should the worst come to the worst, a young fellow of his age, with -the use of his hands and a head on his shoulders, could surely find -something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> to do, and that he would not mind what it was.</p> - -<p>This was very easy to say, and Gordon was not at all aware what the real -difficulties are in finding something to do. But had he known better, it -would have done him no good; and his ignorance, combined as it was with -constant occupations of one kind or another, was a kind of bliss. There -was a hope, too, in his mind, that merely being in England would mend -matters. It must open some mode of independence for him. Mrs. Bristow -would settle somewhere, buy a “place,” an estate, as it had always been -the dream of her husband to do, and so give him occupation. Something -would come of it that would settle the question for him; the mere -certainty in his mind of this cleared away all clouds, and made the -natural brightness of his temperature more assured than ever.</p> - -<p>This young man had no education to speak of. He had read innumerable -books, which do not count for very much in that way. He had, however, -been brought up in what was supposed “the best” of society, and he had -the advantage of that, which is no small advantage. He was at his ease -in consequence, wherever he went, not supposing that any one looked down -on him, or that he could be refused admittance anywhere. As he walked -back with his heart at ease—full of an amused pleasure in the thought -of Dora, whom he had known for years, and who had been, though he had -never till to-day seen her, a sort of little playfellow in his -life—walking westward from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> seriousness of Bloomsbury, through the -long line of Oxford Street, and across Hyde Park to the great hotel in -which Mrs. Bristow had established herself, the young man, though he had -not a penny, and was a mere colonial, to say the best of him, felt -himself returning to a more congenial atmosphere, the region of ease and -leisure, and beautiful surroundings, to which he had been born. He had -not any feature of the man of fashion, yet he belonged instinctively to -the <i>jeunesse dorée</i> wherever he went. He went along, swinging his cane, -with a relief in his mind to be delivered from the narrow and noisy -streets. He had been accustomed all his life to luxury, though of a -different kind from that of London, and he smiled at the primness and -respectability of Bloomsbury by instinct, though he had no right to do -so. He recognised the difference of the traffic in Piccadilly, and -distinguished between that great thoroughfare and the other with purely -intuitive discrimination. Belgravia was narrow and formal to the -Southerner, but yet it was different. All these intuitions were in him, -he could not tell how.</p> - -<p>He went back to his aunt with the pleasure of having something to say -which he knew would please her. Dora, as has been said, had been their -secret between them for many years. He had helped to think of toys and -pretty trifles to send her, and the boxes had been the subject of many a -consultation, calling forth tears from Mrs. Bristow, but pure fun to the -young man, who thought of the unknown recipient as of a little sister -whom he had never seen. He meant to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> please the kind woman who had been -a mother to him, by telling her about Dora, how pretty she was, how -tall, how full of character, delightful and amusing to behold, how she -was half angry with him for knowing so much of her, half pleased, how -she flashed from fun to seriousness, from kindness to quick indignation, -and on the whole disapproved of him, but only in a way that was amusing, -that he was not afraid of. Thus he went in cheerful, and intent upon -making the invalid cheerful too.</p> - -<p>A hotel is a hotel all the world over, a place essentially vulgar, -commonplace, venal, the travesty of a human home. This one, however, was -as stately as it could be, with a certain size about the building, big -stairs, big rooms, at the end of one of which he found his patroness -lying, in an elaborate dressing-gown, on a large sofa, with the vague -figure of a maid floating about in the semi-darkness. The London sun in -April is not generally violent; but all the blinds were down, the -curtains half drawn over the windows, and the room so deeply shadowed -that even young Gordon’s sharp eyes coming out of the keen daylight did -not preserve him from knocking against one piece of furniture after -another as he made his way to the patient’s side.</p> - -<p>“Well, Harry dear, is she coming?” a faint voice said.</p> - -<p>“I hope so, aunt. She was sorry to know you were ill. I told her you -were quite used to being ill, and always patient over it. Are things -going any better to-day?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<p>“They will never be better, Harry.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that. They have been worse a great many times, and then -things have always come round a little.”</p> - -<p>“He doesn’t believe me, Miller. That is what comes of health like mine; -nobody will believe that I am worse now than I have ever been before.” -Gordon patted the thin hand that lay on the bed. He had heard these -words <i>many</i> times, and he was not alarmed by them.</p> - -<p>“This lady is rather a character,” he said; “she will amuse you. She is -Scotch, and she is rather strong-minded, and——”</p> - -<p>“I never could bear strong-minded women,” cried the patient with some -energy. “But what do I care whether she is Scotch or Spanish, or what -she is? Besides that, she has helped me already, and all I want is Dora. -Oh, Harry, did you see Dora?—my Dora, my little girl! And so tall, and -so well grown, and so sweet! And to think that I cannot have her, cannot -see her, now that I am going to die!”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t you have her?” he said in his calm voice. “Her father is -better; and no man, however unreasonable, would prevent her coming to -see her own relation. You don’t understand, dear aunt. You won’t believe -that people are all very like each other, not so cruel and hard-hearted -as you suppose. You would not be unkind to a sick person, why should -he?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s different—very different!” the sick woman said.</p> - -<p>“Why should it be different? A quarrel that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> is a dozen years old could -never be so bitter as that.”</p> - -<p>“It is you who don’t understand. I did him harm—oh, such harm! Never, -never could he forgive me! I never want him to hear my name. And to ask -Dora from him—oh no, no! Don’t do it, Harry—not if I was at my last -breath!”</p> - -<p>“If you ever did him harm as you say—though I don’t believe you ever -did any one harm—that is why you cannot forgive him. Aunt, you may be -sure he has forgiven you.”</p> - -<p>“I—I—forgive? Oh, never, never had I anything to forgive—never! I—oh -if you only knew!”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t say anything to excite her, Mr. Harry,” said the maid. “She -isn’t so well, really; she’s very bad, as true as can be. I’ve sent for -the doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, tell him!” cried the poor lady eagerly; “tell him that you have -never seen me so ill. Tell him, Miller, that I’m very bad, and going to -die!”</p> - -<p>“We’ll wait and hear what the doctor says, ma’am,” said the maid -cautiously.</p> - -<p>“But Dora, Harry—oh, bring her, bring her! How am I to die without my -Dora? Oh, bring her! Ask this lady—I don’t mind her being strong-minded -or anything, if she will bring my child. Harry, you must steal her away, -if he will not let her come. I have a right to her. It is—it is her -duty to come to me when I am going to die!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t excite her, sir, for goodness’ sake; promise anything,” whispered -the maid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span></p> - -<p>“I will, aunt. I’ll run away with her. I’ll have a carriage with a -couple of ruffians to wait round the corner, and I’ll throw something -over her head to stifle her cries, and then we’ll carry her away.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t any laughing matter,” she said, recovering her composure a -little. “If you only knew, Harry! But I couldn’t, I couldn’t tell -you—or any one. Oh, Harry, my poor boy, you’ll find out a great many -things afterwards, and perhaps you’ll blame me. I know you’ll blame me. -But remember I was always fond of you, and always kind to you all the -same. You won’t forget that, however badly you may think of me. Oh, -Harry, my dear, my dear!”</p> - -<p>“Dear aunt, as if there could ever be any question of blame from me to -you!” he said, kissing her hand.</p> - -<p>“But there will be a question. Everybody will blame me, and you will be -obliged to do it too, though it goes against your kind heart. I seem to -see everything, and feel what’s wrong, and yet not be able to help it. -I’ve always been like that,” she said, sobbing. “Whatever I did, I’ve -always known it would come to harm; but I’ve never been able to stop it, -to do different. I’ve done so many, many things! Oh, if I could go back -and begin different from the very first! But I shouldn’t. I am just as -helpless now as then. And I know just how you will look, Harry, and try -not to believe, and try not to say anything against me——”</p> - -<p>“If you don’t keep quiet, ma’am, I’ll have to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> go and leave you! and a -nurse is what you will get—a nurse out of the hospital, as will stand -no nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miller, just one word! Harry, promise me you’ll think of what I -said, and that you will not blame——”</p> - -<p>“Never,” he said, rising from her side. “I acquit you from this moment, -aunt. You can never do anything that will be evil in my eyes. But is not -the room too dark, and don’t you mean to have any lunch? A little light -and a little cutlet, don’t you think, Miller? No? Well, I suppose you -know best, but you’ll see that is what the doctor will order. I’m going -to get mine, anyhow, for I’m as hungry as a hunter. Blame you? Is it -likely?” he said, stooping to kiss her.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding his affectionate fidelity, he was glad to be free of the -darkened room and oppressive atmosphere and troubled colloquy. To return -to ordinary daylight and life was a relief to him. But he had no very -serious thoughts, either about the appeal she had made to him or her -condition. He had known her as ill and as hysterical before. When she -was ill she was often emotional, miserable, fond of referring to -mysterious errors in her past. Harry thought he knew very well what -these errors were. He knew her like the palm of his hand, as the French -say. He knew the sort of things she would be likely to do, foolish -things, inconsiderate, done in a hurry—done, very likely, as she said, -with a full knowledge that they ought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> not to be done, yet that she -could not help it. Poor little aunt! he could well believe in any sort -of silly thing, heedless, and yet not altogether heedless either, -disapproved of in her mind even while she did it. Our children know us -better than any other spectators know us. They know the very moods in -which we are likely to do wrong. What a good thing it is that with that -they love us all the same, more or less, as the case may be! And that -their eyes, though so terribly clear-sighted, are indulgent too; or, if -not indulgent, yet are ruled by the use and wont, the habit of us, and -of accepting us, whatever we may be. Young Gordon knew exactly, or -thought he knew, what sort of foolish things she might have done, or -even yet might be going to do. Her conscience was evidently very keen -about this Mr. Mannering, this sister’s husband, as he appeared to be; -perhaps she had made mischief, not meaning it and yet half meaning it, -between him and his wife, and could not forgive herself, or hope to be -forgiven. Her own husband had been a grave man, very loving to her, yet -very serious with her, and he knew that there had never been mention of -Dora between these two. Once, he remembered, his guardian had seen the -box ready to be despatched, and had asked no questions, but looked for a -moment as if he would have pushed it out of the way with his foot. -Perhaps he had disapproved of these feeble attempts to make up to the -sister’s child for harm done to her mother. Perhaps he had felt that the -wrong was unforgiveable, whatever it was. He had taken it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> for granted -that after his death his wife would go home; and Harry remembered a -wistful strange look which he cast upon her when he was dying. But the -young man gave himself a little shake to throw off these indications of -a secret which he did not know. His nature, as had been said, was averse -to secrets; he refused to have anything to do with a mystery. Everything -in which he was concerned was honest and open as the day. He did not -dwell on the fact that he had a mystery connected with himself, and was -in the curious circumstance of having a mother whom he did not know. It -was very odd, he admitted, when he thought of it; but as he spent his -life by the side of a woman who was in all respects exactly like his -mother to him, perhaps it is not so wonderful that his mind strayed -seldom to that thought. He shook everything off as he went downstairs, -and sat down to luncheon with the most hearty and healthy appetite in -the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“Dora</span>,” said Mr. Mannering, half raising his head from the large folio -which had come from the old book dealer during his illness, and which, -in these days of his slow convalescence, had occupied much of his time. -After he had spoken that word he remained silent for some time, his head -slightly raised, his shoulders bent over the big book. Then he repeated -“Dora” again. “Do you think,” he said, “you could carry one of these -volumes as far as Fiddler’s, and ask if he would take it back?”</p> - -<p>“Take it back!” Dora cried in surprise.</p> - -<p>“You can tell him that I do not find it as interesting as I -expected—but no; for that might do it harm, and it is very interesting. -You might say our shelves are all filled up with big books, and that I -have really no room for it at present, which,” he added, looking -anxiously up into her face, “is quite true; for, you remember, when I -was so foolish as to order it, we asked ourselves how it would be -possible to find a place for it? But no, no,” he said, “these are -inventions, and I see your surprise in your face that I should send you -with a message that is not genuine. It is true enough, you know, that I -am much slackened in the work I wanted this book for. I am slackened in -everything. I doubt if I can take up any piece of work<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> again to do any -good. I’m old, you see, to have such a long illness,” he said, looking -at her almost apologetically; “and, unless it had been with an idea of -work, I never could have had any justification in ordering such an -expensive book as this.”</p> - -<p>“You never used to think of that, father,” Dora said.</p> - -<p>“No, I never used to think of that; but I ought to have done so. I’m -afraid I’ve been very extravagant. I could always have got it, and -consulted it as much as I pleased at the Museum. It is a ridiculous -craze I have had for having the books in my own possession. Many men -cannot understand it. Williamson, for instance. He says: ‘In your place -I would never buy a book. Why, you have the finest library in the world -at your disposal.’ And it’s quite true. There could not be a more -ridiculous extravagance on my part, and pride, I suppose to be able to -say I had it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think that’s the case at all,” cried Dora. “What do you care -for, father, except your library? You never go anywhere, you have no -amusements like other people. You don’t go into society, or go abroad, -or—anything that the other people do.”</p> - -<p>“That is true enough,” he said, with a little gleam of pleasure. Then, -suddenly taking her hand as she stood beside him: “My poor child, you -say that quite simply, without thinking what a terrible accusation it -would be if it went on,—a sacrifice of your young life to my old one, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> forgetfulness of all a girl’s tastes and wishes. We’ll try to put -that right at least, Dora,” he said, with a slight quiver in his lip, -“in the future—if there is any future for me.”</p> - -<p>“Father!” she said indignantly, “as if I didn’t like the books, and was -not more proud of your work that you are doing——”</p> - -<p>“And which never comes to anything,” he interjected, sadly shaking his -head.</p> - -<p>“—— than of anything else in the world! I am very happy as I am. I -have no tastes or pleasures but what are yours. I never have wanted -anything that you did not get for me. You should see,” cried Dora, with -a laugh, “what Janie and Molly think downstairs. They think me a -princess at the least, with nothing to do, and all my fine clothes!”</p> - -<p>“Janie and Molly!” he said,—“Janie and Molly! And these are all that my -girl has to compare herself with—the landlady’s orphan granddaughters! -You children make your arrows very sharp without knowing it. But it -shall be so no more. Dora, more than ever I want you to go to Fiddler’s; -but you shall tell him what is the simple truth—that I have had a long -illness, which has been very expensive, and that I cannot afford any -more expensive books. He might even, indeed, be disposed to buy back -some that we have. That is one thing,” he added, with more animation, -“all the books are really worth their price. I have always thought they -would be something for you, whether you sold them or kept them, when I -am gone. Do you think you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> could carry one of them as far as Fiddler’s, -Dora? They are in such excellent condition, and it would show him no -harm had come to them. One may carry a book anywhere, even a young lady -may. And it is not so very heavy.”</p> - -<p>“It is no weight at all,” cried Dora, who never did anything by halves. -“A little too big for my pocket, father; but I could carry it anywhere. -As if I minded carrying a book, or even a parcel! I like it—it looks as -if one had really something to do.”</p> - -<p>She went out a few minutes after, lightly with great energy and -animation, carrying under one arm the big book as if it had been a -feather-weight. It was a fine afternoon, and the big trees in the Square -were full of the rustle and breath of life—life as vigorous as if their -foliage waved in the heart of the country and not in Bloomsbury. There -had been showers in the morning; but now the sun shone warm, and as it -edged towards the west sent long rays down the cross streets, making -them into openings of pure light, and dazzling the eyes of the -passers-by. Dora was caught in this illumination at every street corner, -and turned her face to it as she crossed the opening, not afraid, for -either eyes or complexion, of that glow “angry and brave". The great -folio, with its worn corners and its tarnished gilding, rather added to -the effect of her tall, slim, young figure, strong as health and youth -could make it, with limbs a little too long, and joints a little too -pronounced, as belonged to her age. She carried her head lightly as a -flower,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> her step was free and light; she looked, as she said, “as if -she had something to do,” and was wholly capable of doing it, which is a -grace the more added, not unusually in these days, to the other graces -of early life in the feminine subject. But it is not an easy thing to -carry a large folio under your arm. After even a limited stretch of -road, the lamb is apt to become a sheep: and to shift such a cumbrous -volume from one arm to another is not an easy matter either, especially -while walking along the streets. Dora held on her way as long as she -could, till her wrist was like to break, and her shoulder to come out of -its socket. Neither she nor her father had in the least realised what -the burden was. Then she turned it over with difficulty in both arms, -and transferred it to the other side, speedily reducing the second arm -to a similar condition, while the first had as yet barely recovered.</p> - -<p>It is not a very long way from the corner of the Square to those -delightful old passages full of old book-shops, which had been the -favourite pasturage of Mr. Mannering, and where Dora had so often -accompanied her father. On ordinary occasions she thought the distance -to Fiddler’s no more than a few steps, but to-day it seemed miles long. -And she was too proud to give in, or to go into a shop to rest, while it -did not seem safe to trust a precious book, and one that she was going -to give back to the dealer, to a passing boy. She toiled on accordingly, -making but slow progress, and very much subdued by her task, her cheeks -flushed, and the tears in her eyes only kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> back by pride, when she -suddenly met walking quickly along, skimming the pavement with his light -tread, the young man who had so wounded and paralysed her in Miss -Bethune’s room, whom she had seen then only for the first time, but who -had claimed her so cheerfully by her Christian name as an old friend.</p> - -<p>She saw him before he saw her, and her first thought was the quick -involuntary one, that here was succour coming towards her; but the -second was not so cheerful. The second was, that this stranger would -think it his duty to help her; that he would conceive criticisms, even -if he did not utter them, as to the mistake of entrusting her with a -burden she was not equal to; that he would assume more and more -familiarity, perhaps treat her altogether as a little girl—talk again -of the toys he had helped to choose, and all those injurious revolting -particulars which had filled her with so much indignation on their -previous meeting. The sudden rush and encounter of these thoughts -distracting her mind when her body had need of all its support, made -Dora’s limbs so tremble, and the light so go out of her eyes, that she -found herself all at once unable to carry on her straight course, and -awoke to the humiliating fact that she had stumbled to the support of -the nearest area railing, that the book had slipped from under her tired -arm, and that she was standing there, very near crying, holding it up -between the rail and her knee.</p> - -<p>“Why, Miss Dora!” cried that young man. He would have passed, had it not -been for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> deplorable exhibition of weakness. But when his eye -caught the half-ridiculous, wholly overwhelming misery of the slipping -book, the knee put forth to save it, the slim figure bending over it, he -was beside her in a moment. “Give it to me,” he cried, suiting the -action to the word, and taking it from her as if it had been a feather. -Well, she had herself said it was a feather at first.</p> - -<p>Dora, relieved, shook her tired arms, straightened her figure, and -raised her head; with all her pride coming back.</p> - -<p>“Oh, please never mind. I had only got it out of balance. I am quite, -quite able to carry it,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Are you going far? And will you let me walk with you? It was indeed to -see you I was going—not without a commission.”</p> - -<p>“To see me?”</p> - -<p>The drooping head was thrown back with a pride that was haughty and -almost scornful. A princess could not have treated a rash intruder more -completely <i>de haut en bas</i>. “To me! what could you have to say to me?” -the girl seemed to say, in the tremendous superiority of her sixteen -years.</p> - -<p>The young man laughed a little—one is not very wise at five and twenty -on the subject of girls, yet he had experience enough to be amused by -these remnants of the child in this half-developed maiden. “You are -going this way?” he said, turning in the direction in which she had been -going. “Then let me tell you while we walk. Miss Dora, you must remember -this is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> not all presumption or intrusion on my side. I come from a lady -who has a right to send you a message.”</p> - -<p>“I did not say you were intrusive,” cried Dora, blushing for shame.</p> - -<p>“You only looked it,” said young Gordon; “but you know that lady is my -aunt too—at least, I have always called her aunt, for many, many -years.”</p> - -<p>“Ought I to call her aunt?” Dora said. “I suppose so indeed, if she is -my mother’s sister.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly you should, and you have a right; but I only because she -allows me, because they wished it, to make me feel no stranger in the -house. My poor dear aunt is very ill—worse, they say, than she has ever -been before.”</p> - -<p>“Ill?” Dora seemed to find no words except these interjections that she -could say.</p> - -<p>“I hope perhaps they may be deceived. The doctors don’t know her -constitution. I think I have seen her just as bad and come quite round -again. But even Miller is frightened: she may be worse than I think, and -she has the greatest, the most anxious desire to see you, as she says, -before she dies.”</p> - -<p>“Dies?” cried Dora. “But how can she die when she has only just come -home?”</p> - -<p>“That is what I feel, too,” cried the young man, with eagerness. “But -perhaps,” he added, “it is no real reason; for doesn’t it often happen -that people break down just at the moment when they come in sight of -what they have wished for for years and years?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Dora, recovering her courage. “I have not heard of -things so dreadful as that. I can’t imagine that it could be permitted -to be; for things don’t happen just by chance, do they? They are,” she -added quite inconclusively, “as father says, all in the day’s work.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know either,” said young Gordon; “but very cruel things do -happen. However, there is nothing in the world she wishes for so much as -you. Will you come to her? I am sure that you have never been out of her -mind for years. She used to talk to me about you. It was our secret -between us two. I think that was the chief thing that made her take to -me as she did, that she might have some one to speak to about Dora. I -used to wonder what you were at first,—an idol, or a prodigy, or a -princess.”</p> - -<p>“You must have been rather disgusted when you found I was only a girl,” -Dora cried, in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a discriminative gaze, not uncritical, yet full of -warm light that seemed to linger and brighten somehow upon her, and -which, though Dora was looking straight before her, without a glance to -the right or left, or any possibility of catching his eye, she -perceived, though without knowing how.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, with a little embarrassed laugh, “quite the reverse, and -always hoping that one day we might be friends.”</p> - -<p>Dora made no reply. For one thing they had now come (somehow the walk -went much faster,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> much more easily, when there was no big book to -carry) to the passage leading to Holborn, a narrow lane paved with big -flags, and with dull shops, principally book-shops, on either side, -where Fiddler, the eminent old bookseller and collector, lived. Her mind -had begun to be occupied by the question how to shake this young man off -and discharge her commission, which was not an easy one. She hardly -heard what he last said. She said to him hastily, “Please give me back -the book, this is where I am going,” holding out her hands for it. She -added, “Thank you very much,” with formality, but yet not without -warmth.</p> - -<p>“Mayn’t I carry it in?” He saw by her face that this request was -distasteful, and hastened to add, “I’ll wait for you outside; there are -quantities of books to look at in the windows,” giving it back to her -without a word.</p> - -<p>Dora was scarcely old enough to appreciate the courtesy and good taste -of his action altogether, but she was pleased and relieved, though she -hardly knew why. She went into the shop, very glad to deposit it upon -the counter, but rather troubled in mind as to how she was to accomplish -her mission, as she waited till Mr. Fiddler was brought to her from the -depths of the cavern of books. He began to turn over the book with -mechanical interest, thinking it something brought to him to sell, then -woke up, and said sharply: “Why, this is a book I sent to Mr. Mannering -of the Museum a month ago".</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Dora, breathless, “and I am Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> Mannering’s daughter. He -has been very ill, and he wishes me to ask if you would be so good as to -take it back. It is not likely to be of so much use to him as he -thought. It is not quite what he expected it to be.”</p> - -<p>“Not what he expected it to be? It is an extremely fine copy, in perfect -condition, and I’ve been on the outlook for it to him for the past -year.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said Dora, speaking like a bookman’s daughter, “even I -can see it is a fine example, and my father would like to keep it. -But—but—he has had a long illness, and it has been very expensive, and -he might not be able to pay for it for a long time. He would be glad if -you would be so very obliging as to take it back.”</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Fiddler began to look blank. He told Dora that two or three -people had been after the book, knowing what a chance it was to get a -specimen of that edition in such a perfect state, and how he had shut -his ears to all fascinations, and kept it for Mr. Mannering. Mr. -Mannering had indeed ordered the book. It was not a book that could be -picked up from any ordinary collection. It was one, as a matter of fact, -which he himself would not have thought of buying on speculation, had it -not been for a customer like Mr. Mannering. Probably it might lie for -years on his hands, before he should have another opportunity of -disposing of it. These arguments much intimidated Dora, who saw, but had -not the courage to call his attention to, the discrepancy between the -two or three people who had wanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> it, and the unlikelihood of any one -wanting it again.</p> - -<p>The conclusion was, however, that Mr. Fiddler politely, but firmly, -declined to take the book back. He had every confidence in Mr. Mannering -of the Museum. He had not the slightest doubt of being paid. The smile, -with which he assured her of this, compensated the girl, who was so -little more than a child, for the refusal of her request. Of course Mr. -Mannering of the Museum would pay, of course everybody had confidence in -him. After her father’s own depressed looks and anxiety, it comforted -Dora’s heart to make sure in this way that nobody outside shared these -fears. She put out her arms, disappointed, yet relieved, to take back -the big book again.</p> - -<p>“Have you left it behind you?” cried young Gordon, who, lingering at the -window outside, without the slightest sense of honour, had listened -eagerly and heard a portion of the colloquy within.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fiddler will not take it back. He says papa will pay him sooner or -later. He is going to send it. It is no matter,” Dora said, with a -little wave of her hand.</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me carry it back,” cried the young man, with a sudden dive into -his pocket, and evident intention in some rude colonial way of solving -the question of the payment there and then.</p> - -<p>Dora drew herself up to the height of seven feet at least in her shoes. -She waved him back from Mr. Fiddler’s door with a large gesture.</p> - -<p>“You may have known me for a long time,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> she said, “and you called me -Dora, though I think it is a liberty; but I don’t know you, not even -your name.”</p> - -<p>“My name is Harry Gordon,” he said, with something between amusement and -deference, yet a twinkle in his eye.</p> - -<p>Dora looked at him very gravely from head to foot, making as it were a -<i>résumé</i> of him and the situation. Then she gave forth her judgment -reflectively, as of a thing which she had much studied. “It is not an -ugly name,” she said, with a partially approving nod of her head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">“No</span>, Mannering,” said Dr. Roland, “I can’t say that you may go back to -the Museum in a week. I don’t know when you will be up to going. I -should think you had a good right to a long holiday after working there -for so many years.”</p> - -<p>“Not so many years,” said Mr. Mannering, “since the long break which you -know of, Roland.”</p> - -<p>“In the interest of science,” cried the doctor.</p> - -<p>The patient shook his head with a melancholy smile. “Not in my own at -least,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, it is unnecessary to discuss that question. Back you cannot go, -my good fellow, till you have recovered your strength to a very -different point from that you are at now. You can’t go till after you’ve -had a change. At present you’re nothing but a bundle of tendencies ready -to develop into anything bad that’s going. That must be stopped in the -first place, and you must have sea air, or mountain air, or country air, -whichever you fancy. I won’t be dogmatic about the kind, but the thing -you must have.”</p> - -<p>“Impossible, impossible, impossible!” Mannering had begun to cry out -while the other was speaking. “Why, man, you’re raving,” he said. “I—so -accustomed to the air of Bloomsbury, and that especially fine sort which -is to be had at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> Museum, that I couldn’t breathe any other—I to -have mountain air or sea air or country air! Nonsense! Any of them would -stifle me in a couple of days.”</p> - -<p>“You will have your say, of course. And you are a great scientific gent, -I’m aware; but you know as little about your own health and what it -wants as this child with her message. Well, Janie, what is it, you -constant bother? Mr. Mannering? Take it to Miss Bethune, or wait till -Miss Dora comes back.”</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, the gentleman is waiting, and he says he won’t go till -he’s pyed.”</p> - -<p>“You little ass!” said the doctor. “What do you mean by coming with your -ridiculous stories here?”</p> - -<p>Mannering stretched out his thin hand and took the paper. “You see,” he -said, with a faint laugh, “how right I was when I said I would have -nothing to do with your changes of air. It is all that my pay will do to -settle my bills, and no overplus for such vanities.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Mannering! The money will be forthcoming when it is known to -be necessary.”</p> - -<p>“From what quarter, I should be glad to hear? Do you think the Museum -will grant me a premium for staying away, for being of no use? Not very -likely! I shall not be left in the lurch; they will grant me three -months’ holiday, or even six months’ holiday, and my salary as usual. -But we shall have to reduce our expenses, Dora and I, and to live as -quietly as possible, instead of going off like millionaires to revel -upon fresh tipples of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> fancy air. No, no, nothing of the kind. And, -besides, I don’t believe in them. I have made myself, as the French say, -to the air of Bloomsbury, and in that I shall live or die.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t speak at all, my dear fellow, like the man of sense you are,” -said the doctor. “Fortunately, I can carry things with a high hand. When -I open my mouth let no patient venture to contradict. You are going away -to the country now. If you don’t conform to my rules, I am not at all -sure I may not go further, and ordain that there is to be no work for -six months, a winter on the Riviera, and so forth. I have got all these -pains and penalties in my hand.”</p> - -<p>“Better and better,” said Mannering, “a palace to live in, and a <i>chef</i> -to cook for us, and our dinner off gold plate every day.”</p> - -<p>“There is no telling what I may do if you put me to it,” Dr. Roland -said, with a laugh. “But seriously, if it were my last word, you must -get out of London. Nothing that you can do or say will save you from -that.”</p> - -<p>“We shall see,” said Mr. Mannering. “The sovereign power of an empty -purse does great wonders. But here is Dora back, and without the big -book, I am glad to see. What did Fiddler say?”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you afterwards, father,” said Dora, developing suddenly a -little proper pride.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! You can tell me now—that he had two or three people in his -pocket who would have bought it willingly if he had not reserved it for -me, and that it was a book that nobody wanted, and would be a drug on -his hands.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, father, how clever you are! That was exactly what he said: and I -did not point out that he was contradicting himself, for fear it should -make him angry. But he did not mind me. He said he could trust Mr. -Mannering of the Museum; he was quite sure he should get paid; and he is -sending it back by one of the young men, because it was too heavy for -me.”</p> - -<p>“My poor little girl! I ought to have known it would be too heavy for -you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind,” said Dora. “I only carried it half the way. It was -getting very heavy indeed, I will not deny, when I met Mr. Gordon, and -he carried it for me to Fiddler’s shop.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Mr. Gordon?” said Mr. Mannering, raising his head.</p> - -<p>“He is a friend of Miss Bethune’s,” said Dora, with something of -hesitation in her voice which struck her father’s ear.</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland looked very straight before him, taking care to make no -comment, and not to meet Dora’s eye. There was a tacit understanding -between them now on several subjects, which the invalid felt vaguely, -but could not explain to himself. Fortunately, however, it had not even -occurred to him that there was anything more remarkable in the fact of a -young man, met at hazard, carrying Dora’s book for her, than if the -civility had been shown to himself.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he said, “it is painful to have to make you aware of all my -indiscretions, Roland. What has a man to do with rare editions, who has -a small income and an only child like mine?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> The only thing is,” he -added, with a short laugh, “they should bring their price when they come -to the hammer,—that has always been my consolation.”</p> - -<p>“They are not coming to the hammer just yet,” said the doctor. He -possessed himself furtively, but carelessly, of the piece of paper on -the table—the bill which, as Janie said, was wanted by a gentleman -waiting downstairs. “You just manage to get over this thing, Mannering,” -he said, in an ingratiating tone, “and I’ll promise you a long bill of -health and plenty of time to make up all your lost way. You don’t live -in the same house with a doctor for nothing. I have been waiting for -this for a long time. I could have told Vereker exactly what course it -would take if he hadn’t been an ass, as all these successful men are. He -did take a hint or two in spite of himself; for a profession is too much -for a man, it gives a certain fictitious sense in some cases, even when -he is an ass. Well, Mannering, of course I couldn’t prophesy what the -end would be. You might have succumbed. With your habits, I thought it -not unlikely.”</p> - -<p>“You cold-blooded practitioner! And what do you mean by my habits? I’m -not a toper or a reveller by night.”</p> - -<p>“You are almost worse. You are a man of the Museum, drinking in bad air -night and day, and never moving from your books when you can help it. It -was ten to one against you; but some of you smoke-dried, gas-scented -fellows have the devil’s own constitution, and you’ve pulled through.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Mannering, holding up his thin hand to the light, and -thrusting forth a long spindle-shank of a leg, “I’ve pulled through—as -much as is left of me. It isn’t a great deal to brag of.”</p> - -<p>“Having done that, with proper care I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a -long spell of health before you—as much health as a man can expect who -despises all the laws of nature—and attain a very respectable age -before you die.”</p> - -<p>“Here’s promises!” said Mannering. He paused and laughed, and then added -in a lower tone: “Do you think that’s so very desirable, after all?”</p> - -<p>“Most men like it,” said the doctor; “or, at least, think they do. And -for you, who have Dora to think of——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there’s Dora,” the patient said as if to himself.</p> - -<p>“That being the case, you are not your own property, don’t you see? You -have got to take care of yourself, whether you will or not. You have got -to make life livable, now that it’s handed back to you. It’s a -responsibility, like another. Having had it handed back to you, as I -say, and being comparatively a young man—what are you, fifty?”</p> - -<p>“Thereabout; not what you would call the flower of youth.”</p> - -<p>“But a very practical, not disagreeable age—good for a great deal yet, -if you treat it fairly; but, mind you, capable of giving you a great -deal of annoyance, a great deal of trouble, if you don’t.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span></p> - -<p>“No more before the child,” said Mannering hastily. “We must cut our -coat according to our cloth, but she need not be in all our secrets. -What! turtle-soup again? Am I to be made an alderman of in spite of -myself? No more of this, Hal, if you love me,” he said, shaking his -gaunt head at the doctor, who was already disappearing downstairs.</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland turned back to nod encouragingly to Dora, and to say: “All -right, my dear; keep it up!” But his countenance changed as he turned -away again, and when he had knocked and been admitted at Miss Bethune’s -door, it was with a melancholy face, and a look of the greatest -despondency, that he flung himself into the nearest chair.</p> - -<p>“It will be all of no use,” he cried,—“of no use, if we can’t manage -means and possibilities to pack them off somewhere. He will not hear of -it! Wants to go back to the Museum next week—in July!—and to go on in -Bloomsbury all the year, as if he had not been within a straw’s breadth -of his life.”</p> - -<p>“I was afraid of that,” said Miss Bethune, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“He ought to go to the country now,” said the doctor, “then to the sea, -and before the coming on of winter go abroad. That’s the only programme -for him. He ought to be a year away. Then he might come back to the -Museum like a giant refreshed, and probably write some book, or make -some discovery, or do some scientific business, that would crown him -with glory,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> and cover all the expenses; but the obstinate beast will -not see it. Upon my word!” cried Dr. Roland, “I wish there could be made -a decree that only women should have the big illnesses; they have such -faith in a doctor’s word, and such a scorn of possibilities: it always -does them good to order them something that can’t be done, and then do -it in face of everything—that’s what I should like for the good of the -race.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t say much for the good of the race,” said Miss Bethune; “but -you’d easily find some poor wretch of a woman that would do it for the -sake of some ungrateful brute of a man.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, we haven’t come to that yet,” said the doctor regretfully; “the -vicarious principle has not gone so far. If it had I daresay there would -be plenty of poor wretches ready to bear their neighbours’ woes for a -consideration. The simple rules of supply and demand would be enough to -provide us proxies without any stronger sentiment: but philosophising -won’t do us any good; it won’t coin money, or if it could, would not -drop it into his pocket, which after all is the chief difficulty. He is -not to be taken in any longer by your fictions about friendly offerings -and cheap purchases. Here is a bill which that little anæmic nuisance -Janie brought in, with word that a gentleman was ‘wyaiting’ for the -payment.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll send for the gentleman, and settle it,” said Miss Bethune -quietly, “and then it can’t come up to shame us again.”</p> - -<p>The gentleman sent for turned up slowly, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> came in with reluctance, -keeping his face as much as possible averted. He was, however, too -easily recognisable to make this contrivance available.</p> - -<p>“Why, Hesketh, have you taken service with Fortnum and Mason?” the -doctor cried.</p> - -<p>“I’m in a trade protection office, sir,” said Hesketh. “I collect bills -for parties.” He spoke with his eyes fixed on a distant corner, avoiding -as much as possible every glance.</p> - -<p>“In a trade protection office? And you mean to tell me that Fortnum and -Mason, before even the season is over, collect their bills in this way?”</p> - -<p>“They don’t have not to say so many customers in Bloomsbury, sir,” said -the young man, with that quickly-conceived impudence which is so -powerful a weapon, and so congenial to his race.</p> - -<p>“Confound their insolence! I have a good mind to go myself and give them -a bit of my mind,” cried Dr. Roland. “Bloomsbury has more sense, it -seems, than I gave it credit for, and your pampered tradesman more -impudence.”</p> - -<p>“I would just do that,” said Miss Bethune. “And will it be long since -you took to this trade protection, young man?—for Gilchrist brought me -word you were ill in your bed not a week ago.”</p> - -<p>“A man can’t stay in bed, when ’e has a wife to support, and with no -’ealth to speak of,” Hesketh replied, with a little bravado; but he was -very pale, and wiped the unwholesome dews from his forehead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span></p> - -<p>“Anæmia, body and soul,” said the doctor to the lady, in an undertone.</p> - -<p>“You’ll come to his grandfather again in a moment,” said the lady to the -doctor. “Now, my lad, you shall just listen to me. Put down this moment -your trade protections, and all your devices. Did you not hear, by -Gilchrist, that we were meaning to give you a new chance? Not for your -sake, but for your wife’s, though she probably is just tarred with the -same stick. We were meaning to set you up in a little shop in a quiet -suburb.”</p> - -<p>Here the young fellow made a grimace, but recollected himself, and said -no word.</p> - -<p>“Eh!” cried Miss Bethune, “that wouldn’t serve your purposes, my fine -gentleman?”</p> - -<p>“I never said so,” said the young man. “It’s awfully kind of you. Still, -as I’ve got a place on my own hook, as it were—not that we mightn’t -combine the two, my wife and I. She ain’t a bad saleswoman,” he added, -with condescension. “We was in the same house of business before we was -married—not that beastly old shop where they do nothing but take away -the young gentlemen’s and young ladies’ characters. It’s as true as life -what I say. Ask any one that has ever been there.”</p> - -<p>“Anæmia,” said Miss Bethune, to the doctor, aside, “would not be proof -enough, if there were facts on the other hand.”</p> - -<p>“I always mistrust facts,” the doctor replied.</p> - -<p>“Here is your money,” she resumed. “Write me out the receipt, or rather, -put your name to it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> Now mind this, I will help you if you’re meaning -to do well; but if I find out anything wrong in this, or hear that -you’re in bed again to-morrow, and not fit to lift your head——”</p> - -<p>“No man can answer for his health,” said young Hesketh solemnly. “I may -be bad, I may be dead to-morrow, for anything I can tell.”</p> - -<p>“That is true.”</p> - -<p>“And my poor wife a widder, and the poor baby not born.”</p> - -<p>“In these circumstances,” said Dr. Roland, “we’ll forgive her for what -wasn’t her fault, and look after her. But that’s not likely, unless you -are fool enough to let yourself be run over, or something of that sort, -going out from here.”</p> - -<p>“Which I won’t, sir, if I can help it.”</p> - -<p>“And no great loss, either,” the doctor said in his undertone. He -watched the payment grimly, and noticed that the young man’s hand shook -in signing the receipt. What was the meaning of it? He sat for a moment -in silence, while Hesketh’s steps, quickening as he went farther off, -were heard going downstairs and towards the door. “I wish I were as sure -that money would find its way to the pockets of Fortnum and Mason, as I -am that yonder down-looking hound had a criminal grandfather,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, there is the receipt, anyhow. Will you go and inquire?”</p> - -<p>“To what good? There would be a great fuss, and the young fool would get -into prison probably; whereas we may still hope that it is all right, -and that he has turned over a new leaf.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span></p> - -<p>“I should not be content without being at the bottom of it,” said Miss -Bethune; and then, after a pause: “There is another thing. The lady from -South America that was here has been taken ill, Dr. Roland.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, so!” cried the doctor. “I should like to go and see her.”</p> - -<p>“You are not wanted to go and see her. It is I—which you will be -surprised at—that is wanted, or, rather, Dora with me. I have had an -anxious pleader here, imploring me by all that I hold dear. You will say -that is not much, doctor.”</p> - -<p>“I will say nothing of the kind. But I have little confidence in that -lady from South America, or her young man.”</p> - -<p>“The young man is just as fine a young fellow! Doubt as you like, there -is no deceit about him; a countenance like the day, and eyes that meet -you fair, look at him as you please. Doctor,” said Miss Bethune, -faltering a little, “I have taken a great notion into my head that he -may turn out to be a near relation of my own.”</p> - -<p>“A relation of yours?” cried Dr. Roland, suppressing a whistle of -astonishment. “My thoughts were going a very different way.”</p> - -<p>“I know, and your thoughts are justified. The lady did not conceal that -she was Mrs. Mannering’s sister: but the one thing does not hinder the -other.”</p> - -<p>“It would be a very curious coincidence—stranger, even, than usual.”</p> - -<p>“Everything that’s strange is usual,” cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> Miss Bethune vehemently. -“It is we that have no eyes to see.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said the doctor, who loved a paradox. “I tell you what,” he -added briskly, “let me go and see this lady. I am very suspicious about -her. I should like to make her out a little before risking it for Dora, -even with you.”</p> - -<p>“You think, perhaps, you would make it out better than I should,” said -Miss Bethune, with some scorn. “Well, there is no saying. You would, no -doubt, make out what is the matter with her, which is always the first -thing that interests you.”</p> - -<p>“It explains most things, when you know how to read it,” the doctor -said; but in this point his opponent did not give in to him, it is -hardly necessary to say. She was very much interested about Dora, but -she was still more interested in the question which moved her own heart -so deeply. The lady from South America might be in command of many facts -on that point; and prudence seemed to argue that it was best to see and -understand a little more about her first, before taking Dora, without -her father’s knowledge, to a stranger who made such a claim upon her.</p> - -<p>“Though if it is her mother’s sister, I don’t know who could have a -stronger claim upon her,” said Miss Bethune.</p> - -<p>“Provided her mother had a sister,” the doctor said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Bethune</span> set out accordingly, without saying anything further, to -see the invalid. She took nobody into her confidence, not even -Gilchrist, who had much offended her mistress by her scepticism. Much as -she was interested in every unusual chain of circumstances, and much -more still in anything happening to Dora Mannering, there was a still -stronger impulse of personal feeling in her present expedition. It had -gone to her head like wine; her eyes shone, and there was a nervous -energy in every line of her tall figure in its middle-aged boniness and -hardness. She walked quickly, pushing her way forward when there was any -crowd with an unconscious movement, as of a strong swimmer dividing the -waves. Her mind was tracing out every line of the supposed process of -events known to herself alone. It was her own story, and such a strange -one as occurs seldom in the almost endless variety of strange stories -that are about the world—a story of secret marriage, secret birth, and -sudden overwhelming calamity. She had as a young woman given herself -foolishly and hastily to an adventurer: for she was an heiress, if she -continued to please an old uncle who had her fate in his hands. The news -of the unexpected approach of this old man brought the sudden crisis. -The husband, who had been near<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> her in the profound quiet of the -country, fled, taking with him the child, and after that no more. The -marriage was altogether unknown, except to Gilchrist, and a couple of -old servants in the small secluded country-house where the strange -little tragedy had taken place; and the young wife, who had never borne -her husband’s name, came to life again after a long illness, to find -every trace of her piteous story, and of the fate of the man for whom -she had risked so much, and the child whom she had scarcely seen, -obliterated. The agony through which she had lived in that first period -of dismay and despair, the wild secret inquiries set on foot with so -little knowledge of how to do anything of the kind, chiefly by means of -the good and devoted Gilchrist, who, however, knew still less even than -her mistress the way to do it—the long, monotonous years of living with -the old uncle to whom that forlorn young woman in her secret anguish had -to be nurse and companion; the dreadful freedom afterwards, when the -fortune was hers, and the liberty so long desired—but still no clue, no -knowledge whether the child on whom she had set her passionate heart -existed or not. The hero, the husband, existed no longer in her -imagination. That first year of furtive fatal intercourse had revealed -him in his true colours as an adventurer, whose aim had been her -fortune. But why had he not revealed himself when that fortune was -secure? Why had he not brought back the child who would have secured his -hold over her whatever had happened? These questions had been discussed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> -between Miss Bethune and her maid, till there was no longer any -contingency, any combination of things or theories possible, which had -not been torn to pieces between them, with reasonings sometimes as acute -as mother’s wit could make them, sometimes as foolish as ignorance and -inexperience suggested.</p> - -<p>They had roamed all over the world in an anxious quest after the -fugitives who had disappeared so completely into the darkness. What wind -drifted them to Bloomsbury it would be too long to inquire. The wife of -one furtive and troubled year, the mother of one anxious but heavenly -week, had long, long ago settled into the angular, middle-aged unmarried -lady of Mrs. Simcox’s first floor. She had dropped all her former -friends, all the people who knew about her. And those people who once -knew her by her Christian name, and as they thought every incident in -her life, in reality knew nothing, not a syllable of the brief romance -and tragedy which formed its centre. She had developed, they all -thought, into one of those eccentrics who are so often to be found in -the loneliness of solitary life, odd as were all the Bethunes, with -something added that was especially her own. By intervals an old friend -would appear to visit her, marvelling much at the London lodging in -which the mistress of more than one old comfortable house had chosen to -bury herself. But the Bethunes were all queer, these visitors said; -there was a bee in their bonnet, there was a screw loose somewhere. It -is astonishing the number of Scotch families of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> whom this is said to -account for everything their descendants may think or do.</p> - -<p>This was the woman who marched along the hot July streets with the same -vibration of impulse and energy which had on several occasions led her -half over the world. She had been disappointed a thousand times, but -never given up hope; and each new will-o’-the-wisp which had led her -astray had been welcomed with the same strong confidence, the same -ever-living hope. Few of them, she acknowledged to herself now, had -possessed half the likelihood of this; and every new point of certitude -grew and expanded within her as she proceeded on her way. The same age, -the same name (more or less), a likeness which Gilchrist, fool that she -was, would not see; and then the story, proving everything of the mother -who was alive but unknown.</p> - -<p>Could anything be more certain? Miss Bethune’s progress through the -streets was more like that of a bird on the wing, with that floating -movement which is so full at once of strength and of repose, and wings -ever ready for a swift <i>coup</i> to increase the impulse and clear the way, -than of a pedestrian walking along a hot pavement. A strange -coincidence! Yes, it would be a very strange coincidence if her own very -unusual story and that of the poor Mannerings should thus be twined -together. But why should it not be so? Truth is stranger than fiction. -The most marvellous combinations happen every day. The stranger things -are, the more likely they are to happen. This was what she kept saying -to herself as she hurried upon her way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<p>She was received in the darkened room, in the hot atmosphere perfumed -and damped by the spray of some essence, where at first Miss Bethune -felt she could scarcely breathe. When she was brought in, in the gleam -of light made by the opened door, there was a little scream of eagerness -from the bed at the other end of the long room, and then a cry: “But -Dora? Where is Dora? It is Dora, Dora, I want!” in a voice of -disappointment and irritation close to tears.</p> - -<p>“You must not be vexed that I came first by myself,” Miss Bethune said. -“To bring Dora without her father’s knowledge is a strong step.”</p> - -<p>“But I have a right—I have a right!” cried the sick woman. “Nobody—not -even he—could deny me a sight of her. I’ve hungered for years for a -sight of her, and now that I am free I am going to die.”</p> - -<p>“No, no! don’t say that,” said Miss Bethune, with the natural instinct -of denying that conclusion. “You must not let your heart go down, for -that is the worst of all.”</p> - -<p>“It is perhaps the best, too,” said the patient. “What could I have -done? Always longing for her, never able to have her except by stealth, -frightened always that she would find out, or that he should find out. -Oh, no, it’s better as it is. Now I can provide for my dear, and nobody -to say a word. Now I can show her how I love her. And she will not judge -me. A child like that doesn’t judge. She will learn to pity her poor, -poor —— Oh, why didn’t you bring me my Dora? I may not live another -day.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>In the darkness, to which her eyes gradually became accustomed, Miss -Bethune consulted silently with a look the attendant by the bed; and -receiving from her the slight, scarcely distinguishable, answer of a -shake of the head, took the sufferer’s hand, and pressed it in her own.</p> - -<p>“I will bring her,” she said, “to-night, if you wish it, or to-morrow. I -give you my word. If you think of yourself like that, whether you are -right or not, I am not the one to disappoint you. To-night, if you wish -it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, to-night, to-night! I’ll surely live till to-night,” the poor woman -cried.</p> - -<p>“And many nights more, if you will only keep quite quiet, ma’am. It -depends upon yourself,” said the maid.</p> - -<p>“They always tell you,” said Mrs. Bristow, “to keep quiet, as if that -was the easiest thing to do. I might get up and walk all the long way to -see my child; but to be quiet without her—that is what is -impossible—and knowing that perhaps I may never see her again!”</p> - -<p>“You shall—you shall,” said Miss Bethune soothingly. “But you have a -child, and a good child—a son, or as like a son as possible.”</p> - -<p>“I a son? Oh, no, no—none but Dora! No one I love but Dora.” The poor -lady paused then with a sob, and said in a changed voice: “You mean -Harry Gordon? Oh, it is easy to see you are not a mother. He is very -good—oh, very good. He was adopted by Mr. Bristow. Oh,” she cried, with -a long crying breath, “Mr. Bristow ought to have done something for -Harry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> He ought to—I always said so. I did not want to have everything -left to me.”</p> - -<p>She wrung her thin hands, and a convulsive sob came out of the darkness.</p> - -<p>“Ma’am,” said the maid, “I must send this lady away, and put a stop to -everything, if you get agitated like this.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be quite calm, Miller—quite calm,” the patient cried, putting out -her hand and clutching Miss Bethune’s dress.</p> - -<p>“To keep her calm I will talk to her of this other subject,” said Miss -Bethune, with an injured tone in her voice. She held her head high, -elevating her spare figure, as if in disdain. “Let us forget Dora for -the moment,” she said, “and speak of this young man that has only been a -son to you for the most of his life, only given you his affection and -his services and everything a child could do—but is nothing, of course, -in comparison with a little girl you know nothing about, who is your -niece in blood.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my niece, my niece!” the poor lady murmured under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Tell me something about this Harry Gordon; it will let your mind down -from the more exciting subject,” said Miss Bethune, still with great -dignity, as if of an offended person. “He has lived with you for years. -He has shared your secrets.”</p> - -<p>“I have talked to him about Dora,” she faltered.</p> - -<p>“But yet,” said the stern questioner, more and more severely, “it does -not seem you have cared anything about him all these years?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t say that! I have always been fond of him, always—always! He -will never say I have not been kind to him,” the invalid cried.</p> - -<p>“Kind?” cried Miss Bethune, with an indignation and scorn which nothing -could exceed. Then she added more gently, but with still the injured -tone in her voice: “Will you tell me something about him? It will calm -you down. I take an interest in the young man. He is like somebody I -once knew, and his name recalls——”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you knew his father?” said Mrs. Bristow.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. I would like to hear more particulars. He tells me his mother -is living.”</p> - -<p>“The father was very foolish to tell him. Mr. Bristow always said so. It -was on his deathbed. I suppose,” cried the poor lady, with a deep sigh, -“that on your deathbed you feel that you must tell everything. Oh, I’ve -been silent, silent, so long! I feel that too. She is not a mother that -it would ever be good for him to find. Mr. Bristow wished him never to -come back to England, only for that. He said better be ignorant—better -know nothing.”</p> - -<p>“And why was the poor mother so easily condemned?”</p> - -<p>“You would be shocked—you an unmarried lady—if I told you the story. -She left him just after the boy was born. She fell from one degradation -to another. He sent her money as long as he could keep any trace of her. -Poor, poor man!”</p> - -<p>“And his friends took everything for gospel that this man said?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<p>“He was an honest man. Why should he tell Mr. Bristow a lie? I said it -was to be kept from poor Harry. It would only make him miserable. But -there was no doubt about the truth of it—oh, none.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you,” cried Miss Bethune, “that there is every doubt of it. His -mother was a poor deceived girl, that was abandoned, deserted, left to -bear her misery as she could.”</p> - -<p>“Did you know his mother?” said the patient, showing out of the darkness -the gleam of eyes widened by astonishment.</p> - -<p>“It does not matter,” cried Miss Bethune. “I know this, that the -marriage was in secret, and the boy was born in secret; and while she -was ill and weak there came the news of some one coming that might leave -her penniless; and for the sake of the money, the wretched money, this -man took the child up in his arms out of her very bed, and carried it -away.”</p> - -<p>The sick woman clutched the arm of the other, who sat by her side, -tragic and passionate, the words coming from her lips like sobs. “Oh, my -poor lady,” she said, “if that is your story! But it was not that. My -husband, Mr. Bristow, knew. He knew all about Gordon from the beginning. -It was no secret to him. He did not take the child away till the mother -had gone, till he had tried every way to find her, even to bring her -back. He was a merciful man. I knew him too. Oh, poor woman, poor woman, -my heart breaks for that other you knew. She is like me, she is worse -off than me: but the one you know was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> not Harry’s mother—oh, no, -no—Harry’s mother! If she is living it is—it is—in misery, and worse -than misery.”</p> - -<p>“He said,” uttered a hoarse voice, breathless, out of the dimness, which -nobody could have recognised for Miss Bethune’s, “that you said there -was no such woman.”</p> - -<p>“I did—to comfort him, to make him believe that it was not true.”</p> - -<p>“By a lie! And such a lie—a shameful lie, when you knew so different! -And how should any one believe now a word you say?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t let her say such things to me, Miller, Miller!” cried the -patient, with the cry of a sick child.</p> - -<p>“Madam,” said the maid, “she’s very bad, as you see, and you’re making -her every minute worse. You can see it yourself. It’s my duty to ask you -to go away.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune rose from the side of the bed like a ghost, tall and stern, -and towering over the agitated, weeping woman who lay back on the white -pillows, holding out supplicating hands and panting for breath. She -stood for a moment looking as if she would have taken her by the throat. -Then she gave herself a little shake, and turned away.</p> - -<p>Once more the invalid clutched at her dress and drew her back. “Oh,” she -cried, “have mercy upon me! Don’t go away—don’t go away! I will bear -anything. Say what you like, but bring me Dora—bring me Dora—before I -die.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>“Why should I bring you Dora? Me to whom nobody brings—— What is it to -me if you live or if you die?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bring me Dora—bring me Dora!” the poor woman wailed, holding fast -by her visitor’s dress. She flung herself half out of the bed, drawing -towards her with all her little force the unwilling, resisting figure. -“Oh, for the sake of all you wish for yourself, bring me -Dora—Dora—before I die!”</p> - -<p>“What have you left me to wish for?” cried the other woman; and she drew -her skirts out of the patient’s grasp.</p> - -<p>No more different being from her who had entered an hour before by the -long passages and staircases of the great hotel could have been than she -who now repassed through them, looking neither to the right nor to the -left—a woman like a straight line of motion and energy, as strong and -stiff as iron, with expression banished from her face, and elasticity -from her figure. She went back by the same streets she had come by, -making her way straight through the crowd, which seemed to yield before -the strength of passion and pain that was in her. There was a singing in -her ears, and a buzzing in her head, and her heart was in her breast as -if it had been turned to stone. Oh, she was not at her first shock of -disappointment and despair. She had experienced it before; but never, -she thought, in such terrible sort as now. She had so wrapped herself in -this dream, which had been suggested to her by nothing but her own -heart, what she thought her instinct, a sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> flash of divination, the -voice of nature. She had felt sure of it the first glimpse she had of -him, before he had even told her his name. She had been sure that this -time it was the voice of nature, that intuition of a mother which could -not be deceived. So many likenesses seemed to meet in Harry Gordon’s -face, so many circumstances to combine in establishing the likelihood, -at least, that this was he. South America, the very ideal place for an -adventurer, and the strange fact that he had a mother living whom he did -not know. A mother living! These words made a thrill of passion, of -opposition, of unmoved and immovable conviction, rush through all her -veins. A mother living! Who could that be but she? What would such a man -care—a man who had abandoned his wife at the moment of a woman’s -greatest weakness, and taken her child from her when she was helpless to -resist him—for the ruin of her reputation after, for fixing upon her, -among those who knew her not, the character of a profligate? He who had -done the first, why should he hesitate to say the last? The one thing -cost him trouble, the other none. It was easier to believe that than to -give up what she concluded with certainty was her last hope.</p> - -<p>Gilchrist, who had seen her coming, rushed downstairs to open the door -for her. But Gilchrist, at this moment, was an enemy, the last person in -the world in whom her mistress would confide; Gilchrist, who had never -believed in it, had refused to see the likeness, or to encourage any -delusion. She was blind to the woman’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> imploring looks, her breathless -“Oh, mem!” which was more than any question, and brushed past her with -the same iron rigidity of pose, which had taken all softness from her -natural angularity. She walked straight into her bedroom, where she took -off her bonnet before the glass, without awaiting Gilchrist’s -ministrations, nay, putting them aside with a quick impatient gesture. -Then she went to her sitting-room, and drew her chair into her favourite -position near the window, and took up the paper and began to read it -with every appearance of intense interest. She had read it through every -word, as is the practice of lonely ladies, before she went out: and she -was profoundly conscious now of Gilchrist following her about, hovering -behind her, and more anxious than words can say. Miss Bethune was an -hour or more occupied about that newspaper, of which she did not see a -single word, and then she rose suddenly to her feet.</p> - -<p>“I cannot do it—I cannot do it!” she cried. “The woman has no claim on -me. Most likely she’s nothing but a fool, that has spoilt everything for -herself, and more. Maybe it will not be good for Dora. But I cannot do -it—I cannot do it. It’s too strong for me. Whatever comes of it, she -must see her child—she must see her child before she passes away and is -no more seen. And oh, I wish—I wish that it was not her, but me!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Dora</span> passed the long evening of that day in her father’s room. It was -one of those days in which the sun seems to refuse to set, the daylight -to depart. It rolled out in afternoon sunshine, prolonged as it seemed -for half a year’s time, showing no inclination to wane. When the sun at -last went down, there ensued a long interval of day without it, and -slowly, slowly, the shades of twilight came on. Mr. Mannering had been -very quiet all the afternoon. He had sat brooding, unwilling to speak. -The big book came back with Mr. Fiddler’s compliments, and was replaced -upon his table, where he sat sometimes turning over the pages, not -reading, doing nothing. There are few things more terrible to a -looker-on than this silence, this self-absorption, taking no notice of -anything outside of him, of a convalescent. The attitude of despondency, -the bowed head, the curved shoulders, are bad enough in themselves: but -nothing is so dreadful as the silence, the preoccupation with nothing, -the eyes fixed on a page which is not read, or a horizon in which -nothing is visible. Dora sat by him with a book, too, in which she was -interested, which is perhaps the easiest way of bearing this; but the -book ended before the afternoon did, and then she had nothing to do but -to watch him and wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> what he was thinking of—whether his mind was -roving over lands unknown to her, whether it was about the Museum he was -thinking, or the doctor’s orders, or the bills, two or three of which -had by misadventure fallen into his hands. What was it? He remained in -the same attitude, quite still and steady, not moving a finger. -Sometimes she hoped he might have fallen asleep; sometimes she addressed -to him a faltering question, to which he answered Yes or No. He was not -impatient when she spoke to him. He replied to her in monosyllables, -which are almost worse than silence. And Dora durst not protest, could -not upbraid him with that dreadful silence, as an older person might -have done. “Oh, father, talk to me a little!” she once cried in her -despair; but he said gently that he had nothing to talk about, and -silenced the girl. He had taken the various meals and refreshments that -were ordered for him, when they came, with something that was half a -smile and half a look of disgust; and this was the final exasperation to -Dora.</p> - -<p>“Oh, father! when you know that you must take it—that it is the only -way of getting well again.”</p> - -<p>“I am taking it,” he said, with that twist of the lip at every spoonful -which betrayed how distasteful it was.</p> - -<p>This is hard to bear for the most experienced of nurses, and what should -it be for a girl of sixteen? She clasped her hands together in her -impatience to keep herself down. And then there came a knock at the -door, and Gilchrist appeared,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> begging that Miss Dora would put on her -hat and go out for a walk with Miss Bethune.</p> - -<p>“I’ll come and sit with my work in a corner, and be there if he wants -anything.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering did not seem to take any notice, but he heard the whisper -at the door.</p> - -<p>“There is no occasion for any one sitting with me. I am quite able to -ring if I want anything.”</p> - -<p>“But, father, I don’t want to go out,” said Dora.</p> - -<p>“I want you to go out,” he said peremptorily. “It is not proper that you -should be shut up here all day.”</p> - -<p>“Let me light the candles, then, father?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want any candles. I am not doing anything. There is plenty of -light for what I want.”</p> - -<p>Oh, what despair it was to have to do with a man who would not be -shaken, who would take his own way and no other! If he would but have -read a novel, as Dora did—if he would but return to the study of his -big book, which was the custom of his life. Dora felt that it was almost -wicked to leave him: but what could she do, while he sat there absorbed -in his thoughts, which she could not even divine what they were about?</p> - -<p>To go out into the cool evening was a relief to her poor little -exasperated temper and troubled mind. The air was sweet and fresh, even -in Bloomsbury; the trees waved and rustled softly against the blue sky; -there was a young moon somewhere, a white speck in the blue, though the -light of day was not yet gone; the voices were softened and almost -musical in the evening air, and it was so good to be out of doors, to be -removed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> from the close controlling atmosphere of unaccustomed trouble. -“Out of sight, out of mind,” people say. It was very far from being -that; on the contrary, it was but the natural impatience, the mere -contrariety, that had made the girl ready to cry with a sense of the -intolerable which now was softened and subdued, allowing love and pity -to come back. She could talk of nothing but her father as she went along -the street.</p> - -<p>“Do you think he looks any better, Miss Bethune? Do you think he will -soon be able to get out? Do you think the doctor will let him return -soon to the Museum? He loves the Museum better than anything. He would -have more chance to get well if he might go back.”</p> - -<p>“All that must be decided by time, Dora—time and the doctor, who, -though we scoff at him sometimes, knows better, after all, than you or -me. But I want you to think a little of the poor lady you are going to -see.”</p> - -<p>“What am I going to see? Oh, that lady? I don’t know if father will wish -me to see her. Oh, I did not know what it was you wanted of me. I cannot -go against father, Miss Bethune, when he is ill and does not know.”</p> - -<p>“You will just trust to another than your father for once in your life, -Dora. If you think I am not a friend to your father, and one that would -consider him in all things——”</p> - -<p>The girl walked on silently, reluctantly, for some time without -speaking, with sometimes a half pause, as if she would have turned -back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> Then she answered in a low voice, still not very willingly: “I -know you are a friend".</p> - -<p>“You do not put much heart in it,” said Miss Bethune, with a laugh. The -most magnanimous person, when conscious of having been very helpful and -a truly good friend at his or her personal expense to another, may be -pardoned a sense of humour, partially bitter, in the grudging -acknowledgment of ignorance. Then she added more gravely: “When your -father knows—and he shall know in time—where I am taking you, he will -approve; whatever his feelings may be, he will tell you it was right and -your duty: of that I am as sure as that I am living, Dora.”</p> - -<p>“Because she is my aunt? An aunt is not such a very tender relation, -Miss Bethune. In books they are often very cold comforters, not kind to -girls that are poor. I suppose,” said Dora, after a little pause, “that -I would be called poor?”</p> - -<p>“You are just nothing, you foolish little thing! You have no character -of your own; you are your father’s daughter, and no more.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish to be anything more,” cried Dora, with her foolish young -head held high.</p> - -<p>“And this poor woman,” said Miss Bethune, exasperated, “will not live -long enough to be a friend to any one—so you need not be afraid either -of her being too tender or unkind. She has come back, poor thing, after -long years spent out of her own country, to die.”</p> - -<p>“To die?” the girl echoed in a horrified tone.</p> - -<p>“Just that, and nothing less or more.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span></p> - -<p>Dora walked on by Miss Bethune’s side for some time in silence. There -was a long, very long walk through the streets before they reached the -coolness and freshness of the Park. She said nothing for a long time, -until they had arrived at the Serpentine, which—veiled in shadows and -mists of night, with the stars reflected in it, and the big buildings in -the distance standing up solemnly, half seen, yet with gleams of lamps -and light all over them, beyond, and apparently among the trees—has a -sort of splendour and reality, like a great natural river flowing -between its banks. She paused there for a moment, and asked, with a -quick drawing of her breath: “Is it some one—who is dying—that you are -taking me to see?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dora; and next to your father, your nearest relation in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“I thought at one time that he was going to die, Miss Bethune.”</p> - -<p>“So did we all, Dora.”</p> - -<p>“And I was very much afraid—oh, not only heartbroken, but afraid. I -thought he would suffer so, in himself,” she said very low, “and to -leave me.”</p> - -<p>“They do not,” said Miss Bethune with great solemnity, as if not of any -individual, but of a mysterious class of people. “They are delivered; -anxious though they may have been, they are anxious no more; though -their hearts would have broken to part with you a little while before, -it is no longer so; they are delivered. It’s a very solemn thing,” she -went on, with something like a sob in her voice; “but it’s comforting, -at least to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> the like of me. Their spirits are changed, they are -separated; there are other things before them greater than what they -leave behind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried the girl, “I should not like to think of that: if father had -ceased to think of me even before——”</p> - -<p>“It is comforting to me,” said Miss Bethune, “because I am of those that -are going, and you, Dora, are of those that are staying. I’m glad to -think that the silver chain will be loosed and the golden bowl -broken—all the links that bind us to the earth, and all the cares about -what is to happen after.”</p> - -<p>“Have you cares about what is to happen after?” cried Dora, “Father has, -for he has me; but you, Miss Bethune?”</p> - -<p>Dora never forgot, or thought she would never forget, the look that was -cast upon her. “And I,” said Miss Bethune, “have not even you, have -nobody belonging to me. Well,” she said, going on with a heavy -long-drawn breath, “it looks as if it were true.”</p> - -<p>This was the girl’s first discovery of what youth is generally so long -in finding out, that in her heedlessness and unconscious conviction that -what related to herself was the most important in the world, and what -befel an elderly neighbour of so much less consequence, she had done, or -at least said, a cruel thing. But she did not know how to mend matters, -and so went on by her friend’s side dumb, confusedly trying to enter -into, now that it was too late, the sombre complications of another’s -thought. Nothing more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> was said till they were close to the great hotel, -which shone out with its many windows luminous upon the soft background -of the night. Then Miss Bethune put her hand almost harshly upon Dora’s -arm.</p> - -<p>“You will remember, Dora,” she said, “that the person we are going to -see is a dying person, and in all the world it is agreed that where a -dying person is he or she is the chief person, and to be considered -above all. It is, maybe, a superstition, but it is so allowed. Their -wants and their wishes go before all; and the queen herself, if she were -coming into that chamber, would bow to it like all the rest: and so must -you. It is, perhaps, not quite sincere, for why should a woman be more -thought of because she is going to die? That is not a quality, you will -say: but yet it’s a superstition, and approved of by all the civilised -world.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Bethune,” cried Dora, “I know that I deserve that you should -say this to me: but yet——”</p> - -<p>Her companion made no reply, but led the way up the great stairs.</p> - -<p>The room was not so dark as before, though it was night; a number of -candles were shining in the farther corner near the bed, and the pale -face on the pillow, the nostrils dark and widely opened with the panting -breath, was in full light, turned towards the door. A nurse in her white -apron and cap was near the bed, beside a maid whose anxious face was -strangely contrasted with the calm of the professional person. These -accessories<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> Dora’s quick glance took in at once, while yet her -attention was absorbed in the central figure, which she needed no -further explanation to perceive had at once become the first object, the -chief interest, to all near her. Dying! It was more than mere reigning, -more than being great. To think that where she lay there she was going -fast away into the most august presence, to the deepest wonders! Dora -held her breath with awe. She never, save when her father was swimming -for his life, and her thoughts were concentrated on the struggle with -all the force of personal passion, as if it were she herself who was -fighting against death, had seen any such sight before.</p> - -<p>“Is it Dora?” cried the patient. “Dora! Oh, my child, my child, have you -come at last?”</p> - -<p>And then Dora found arms round her clutching her close, and felt with a -strange awe, not unmingled with terror, the wild beating of a feverish -heart, and the panting of a laborious breath. The wan face was pressed -against hers. She felt herself held for a moment with extraordinary -force, and kisses, tears, and always the beat of that troubled -breathing, upon her cheek. Then the grasp relaxed reluctantly, because -the sufferer could do no more.</p> - -<p>“Oh, gently, gently; do not wear yourself out. She is not going away. -She has come to stay with you,” a soothing voice said.</p> - -<p>“That’s all I want—all I want in this world—what I came for,” gave -forth the panting lips.</p> - -<p>Dora’s impulse was to cry, “No, no!” to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> rise up from her knees, upon -which she had fallen unconsciously by the sick bed, to withdraw from it, -and if possible get away altogether, terrified of that close vicinity: -but partly what Miss Bethune had said, and partly natural feeling, the -instinct of humanity, kept her in spite of herself where she was. The -poor lady lay with her face intent upon Dora, stroking her hair and her -forehead with those hot thin hands, beaming upon her with that ineffable -smile which is the prerogative of the dying.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my little girl,” she said,—“my only one, my only one! Twelve years -it is—twelve long years—and all the time thinking of this! When I’ve -been ill,—and I’ve been very ill, Miller will tell you,—I’ve kept up, -I’ve forced myself to be better for this—for this!”</p> - -<p>“You will wear yourself out, ma’am,” said the nurse. “You must not talk, -you must be quiet, or I shall have to send the young lady away.”</p> - -<p>“No, no!” cried the dying woman, again clutching Dora with fevered arms. -“For what must I be quiet?—to live a little longer? I only want to live -while she’s here. I only want it as long as I can see her—Dora, you’ll -stay with me, you’ll stay with your poor—poor ——”</p> - -<p>“She shall stay as long as you want her: but for God’s sake think of -something else, woman—think of where you’re going!” cried Miss Bethune -harshly over Dora’s head.</p> - -<p>They disposed of her at their ease, talking over her head, bandying her -about—she who was mistress of her own actions, who had never been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> made -to stay where she did not wish to stay, or to go where she did not care -to go. But Dora was silent even in the rebellion of her spirit. There -was a something more strong than herself, which kept her there on her -knees in the middle of the circle—all, as Miss Bethune had said, -attending on the one who was dying, the one who was of the first -interest, to whom even the queen would bow and defer if she were to come -in here. Dora did not know what to say to a person in such a position. -She approved, yet was angry that Miss Bethune should bid the poor lady -think where she was going. She was frightened and excited, not knowing -what dreadful change might take place, what alteration, before her very -eyes. Her heart began to beat wildly against her breast; pity was in it, -but fear too, which is masterful and obliterates other emotions: yet -even that was kept in check by the overwhelming influence, the -fascination of the chamber of death.</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause; and Dora, still on her knees by the side of the -bed, met as best she could the light which dazzled her, which enveloped -her in a kind of pale flame, from the eyes preternaturally bright that -were fixed upon her face, and listened, as to a kind of strange lullaby, -to the broken words of fondness, a murmur of fond names, of half -sentences, and monosyllables, in the silence of the hushed room. This -seemed to last for a long time. She was conscious of people passing with -hushed steps behind her, looking over her head, a man’s low voice, the -whisper of the nurses, a movement of the lights; but always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> that -transfigured face, all made of whiteness, luminous, the hot breath -coming and going, the hands about her face, the murmur of words. The -girl was cramped with her attitude for a time, and then the cramp went -away, and her body became numb, keeping its position like a mechanical -thing, while her mind too was lulled into a curious sense of torpor, yet -spectatorship. This lasted she did not know how long. She ceased to be -aware of what was being said to her. Her own name, “Dora,” over and over -again repeated, and strange words, that came back to her afterwards, -went on in a faltering stream. Hours might have passed for anything she -knew, when at last she was raised, scarcely capable of feeling anything, -and put into a chair by the bedside. She became dimly conscious that the -brilliant eyes that had been gazing at her so long were being veiled as -with sleep, but they opened again suddenly as she was removed, and were -fixed upon her with an anguish of entreaty. “Dora, my child,—my child! -Don’t take her away!”</p> - -<p>“She is going to sit by you here,” said a voice, which could only be a -doctor’s voice, “here by your bedside. It is easier for her. She is not -going away.”</p> - -<p>Then the ineffable smile came back. The two thin hands enveloped Dora’s -wrist, holding her hand close between them; and again there came a -wonderful interval—the dark room, the little stars of lights, the soft -movements of the attendants gradually fixing themselves like a picture -on Dora’s mind. Miss Bethune was behind in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> dark, sitting bolt -upright against the wall, and never moving. Shadowed by the curtains at -the foot of the bed was some one with a white and anxious face, whom -Dora had only seen in the cheerful light, and could scarcely identify as -Harry Gordon. A doctor and the white-capped nurse were in front, the -maid crying behind. It seemed to go on again and last for hours this -strange scene—until there suddenly arose a little commotion and -movement about the bed, Dora could not tell why. Her hand was liberated; -the other figures came between her and the wan face on the pillow, and -she found herself suddenly, swiftly swept away. She neither made any -resistance nor yet moved of her own will, and scarcely knew what was -happening until she felt the fresh night air on her face, and found -herself in a carriage, with Harry Gordon’s face, very grave and white, -at the window.</p> - -<p>“You will come to me in the morning and let me know the arrangements,” -Miss Bethune said, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will come; and thank you, thank you a thousand times for -bringing her,” he said.</p> - -<p>They all talked of Dora as if she were a thing, as if she had nothing to -do with herself. Her mind was roused by the motion, by the air blowing -in her face. “What has happened? What has happened?” she asked as they -drove away.</p> - -<p>“Will she be up yonder already, beyond that shining sky? Will she know -as she is known? Will she be satisfied with His likeness, and be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> like -Him, seeing Him as He is?” said Miss Bethune, looking up at the stars, -with her eyes full of big tears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, tell me,” cried Dora, “what has happened?” with a sob of -excitement; for whether she was sorry, or only awe-stricken, she did not -know.</p> - -<p>“Just everything has happened that can happen to a woman here. She has -got safe away out of it all; and there are few, few at my time of life, -that would not be thankful to be like her—out of it all: though it may -be a great thought to go.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that the lady is dead?” Dora asked in a voice of awe.</p> - -<p>“She is dead, as we say; and content, having had her heart’s desire.”</p> - -<p>“Was that me?” cried Dora, humbled by a great wonder. “Me? Why should -she have wanted me so much as that, and not to let me go?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, child, I know no more than you, and yet I know well, well! Because -she was your mother, and you were all she had in the world.”</p> - -<p>“My mother’s sister,” said Dora, with childish sternness; “and,” she -added after a moment, “not my father’s friend.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hard life and hard judgment!” cried Miss Bethune. “Your mother’s -own self, a poor martyr: except that at the last she has had, what not -every woman has, for a little moment, her heart’s desire!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Young</span> Gordon went into Miss Bethune’s sitting-room next morning so early -that she was still at breakfast, lingering over her second cup of tea. -His eyes had the look of eyes which had not slept, and that air of -mingled fatigue and excitement which shows that a great crisis which had -just come was about his whole person. His energetic young limbs were -languid with it. He threw himself into a chair, as if even that support -and repose were comfortable, and an ease to his whole being.</p> - -<p>“She rallied for a moment after you were gone,” he said in a low voice, -not looking at his companion, “but not enough to notice anything. The -doctor said there was no pain or suffering—if he knows anything about -it.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, if he knows,” Miss Bethune said.</p> - -<p>“And so she is gone,” said the young man with a deep sigh. He struggled -for a moment with his voice, which went from him in the sudden access of -sorrow. After a minute he resumed: “She’s gone, and my occupation, all -my reasons for living, seem to be gone too. I know no more what is going -to happen. I was her son yesterday, and did everything for her; now I -don’t know what I am. I am nobody, with scarcely the right even to be -there.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<p>“What do you mean? Everybody must know what you have been to her, and -her to you, all your life.”</p> - -<p>The young man was leaning forward in his chair bent almost double, with -his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes,” he said, “I never understood it -before: but I know now what it is to have no rightful place, to have -been only a dependent on their kindness. When my guardian died I did not -feel it, because she was still there to think of me, and I was her -representative in everything; but now the solicitor has taken the -command, and makes me see I am nobody. It is not for the money,” the -young man said, with a wave of his hand. “Let that go however she -wished. God knows I would never complain. But I might have been allowed -to do something for her, to manage things for her as I have done—oh, -almost ever since I can remember.” He looked up with a pale and troubled -smile, wistful for sympathy. “I feel as if I had been cut adrift,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“My poor boy! But she must have provided for you, fulfilled the -expectations——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that!” he cried quickly. “There were no expectations. I can -truly say I never thought upon the subject—never!—until we came here -to London. Then it was forced upon me that I was good for nothing, did -not know how to make my living. It was almost amusing at first, I was so -unused to it; but not now I am afraid I am quite useless,” he added, -with again a piteous smile. “I am in the state of the poor fellow in the -Bible. ‘I can’t dig, and to beg I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> am ashamed.’ I don’t know,” he cried, -“why I should trouble you with all this. But you said I was to come to -you in the morning, and I feel I can speak to you. That’s about all the -explanation there is.”</p> - -<p>“It’s the voice of nature,” cried Miss Bethune quickly, an eager flush -covering her face. “Don’t you know, don’t you feel, that there is nobody -but me you could come to?—that you are sure of me whoever fails -you—that there’s a sympathy, and more than a sympathy? Oh, my boy, I -will be to you all, and more than all!”</p> - -<p>She was so overcome with her own emotion that she could not get out -another word.</p> - -<p>A flush came also upon Harry Gordon’s pale face, a look abashed and full -of wonder. He felt that this lady, whom he liked and respected, went so -much too far, so much farther than there was any justification for -doing. He was troubled instinctively for her, that she should be so -impulsive, so strangely affected. He shook his head. “Don’t think me -ungrateful,” he cried. “Indeed, I don’t know if you mean all that your -words seem to mean—as how should you indeed, and I only a stranger to -you? But, dear Miss Bethune, that can never be again. It is bad enough, -as I find out, to have had no real tie to her, my dear lady that’s -gone—and to feel that everybody must think my grief for my poor aunt is -partly disappointment because she has not provided for me. But no such -link could be forged again. I was a child when that was made. It was -natural; they settled things for me as they pleased, and I knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> nothing -but that I was very happy there, and loved them, and they me. But now I -am a man, and must stand for myself. Don’t think me ungracious. It’s -impossible but that a man with full use of his limbs must be able to -earn his bread. It’s only going back to South America, if the worst -comes to the worst, where everybody knows me,” he said.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune’s countenance had been like a drama while young Gordon made -this long speech, most of which was uttered with little breaks and -pauses, without looking at her, in the same attitude, with his eyes on -the ground. Yet he looked up once or twice with that flitting sad smile, -and an air of begging pardon for anything he said which might wound her. -Trouble, and almost shame, and swift contradiction, and anger, and -sympathy, and tender pity, and a kind of admiration, all went over her -face in waves. She was wounded by what he said, and disappointed, and -yet approved. Could there be all these things in the hard lines of a -middle-aged face? And yet there were all, and more. She recovered -herself quickly as he came to an end, and with her usual voice -replied:—</p> - -<p>“We must not be so hasty to begin with. It is more than likely that the -poor lady has made the position clear in her will. We must not jump to -the conclusion that things are not explained in that and set right; it -would be a slur upon her memory even to think that it would not be so.”</p> - -<p>“There must be no slur on her memory,” said young Gordon quickly; “but I -am almost sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> that it will not be so. She told me repeatedly that I -was not to blame her—as if it were likely I should blame her!”</p> - -<p>“She would deserve blame,” cried Miss Bethune quickly, “if after all -that has passed she should leave you with no provision, no -acknowledgment——”</p> - -<p>He put up his hand to stop her.</p> - -<p>“Not a word of that! What I wanted was to keep my place until -after—until all was done for her. I am a mere baby,” he cried, dashing -away the tears from his eyes. “It was that solicitor coming in to take -charge of everything, to lock up everything, to give all the orders, -that was more than I could bear.”</p> - -<p>She did not trust herself to say anything, but laid her hand upon his -arm. And the poor young fellow was at the end of his forces, worn out -bodily with anxiety and want of sleep, and mentally by grief and the -conflict of emotions. He bent down his face upon her hand, kissing it -with a kind of passion, and burst out, leaning his head upon her arm, -into a storm of tears, that broke from him against his will. Miss -Bethune put her other hand upon his bowed head; her face quivered with -the yearning of her whole life. “Oh, God, is he my bairn?—Oh, God, that -he were my bairn!” she cried.</p> - -<p>But nobody would have guessed what this crisis had been who saw them a -little after, as Dora saw them, who came into the room pale too with the -unusual vigil of the previous night, but full of an indignant something -which she had to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> say. “Miss Bethune,” she cried, almost before she had -closed the door, “do you know what Gilchrist told father about last -night?—that I was tired when I came in, and had a headache, and she had -put me to bed! And now I have to tell lies too, to say I am better, and -to agree when he thanks Gilchrist for her care, and says it was the best -thing for me. Oh, what a horrible thing it is to tell lies! To hide -things from him, and invent excuses, and cheat him—cheat him with -stories that are not true!”</p> - -<p>Her hair waved behind her, half curling, crisp, inspired by indignation: -her slim figure seemed to expand and grow, her eyes shone. Miss Bethune -had certainly not gained anything by the deceptions, which were very -innocent ones after all, practised upon Mr. Mannering: but she had to -bear the brunt of this shock with what composure she might. She laughed -a little, half glad to shake off the fumes of deeper emotion in this new -incident. “As soon as he is stronger you shall explain everything to -him, Dora,” she said. “When the body is weak the mind should not be -vexed more than is possible with perplexing things or petty cares. But -as soon as he is better——”</p> - -<p>“And now,” cried Dora, flinging back her hair, all crisped, and almost -scintillating, with anger and distress, her eyes filled with tears, -“here comes the doctor now—far, far worse than any bills or any -perplexities, and tells him straight out that he must ask for a year’s -holiday and go away, first for the rest of the summer, and then for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> -winter, as father says, to one of those places where all the fools -go!—father, whose life is in the Museum, who cares for nothing else, -who can’t bear to go away! Oh!” cried Dora, stamping her foot, “to think -I should be made to lie, to keep little, little things from -him—contemptible things! and that then the doctor should come straight -upstairs and without any preface, without any apology, blurt out that!”</p> - -<p>“The doctor must have thought, Dora, it was better for him to know. He -says all will go well, he will get quite strong, and be able to work in -the Museum to his heart’s content, if only he will do this now.”</p> - -<p>“If only he will do this! If only he will invent a lot of money, father -says, which we haven’t got. And how is the money to be invented? It is -like telling poor Mrs. Hesketh not to walk, but to go out in a carriage -every day. Perhaps that would make her quite well, poor thing. It would -make the beggar at the corner quite well if he had turtle soup and -champagne like father. And we must stop even the turtle soup and the -champagne. He will not have them; they make him angry now that he has -come to himself. Cannot you see, Miss Bethune,” cried Dora with youthful -superiority, as if such a thought could never have occurred to her -friend, “that we can only do things which we can do—that there are some -things that are impossible? Oh!” she said suddenly, perceiving for the -first time young Gordon with a start of annoyance and surprise. “I did -not know,” cried Dora, “that I was discussing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> our affairs before a -gentleman who can’t take any interest in them.”</p> - -<p>“Dora, is that all you have to say to one that shared our watch last -night—that has just come, as it were, from her that is gone? Have you -no thought of that poor lady, and what took place so lately? Oh, my -dear, have a softer heart.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Bethune,” said Dora with dignity, “I am very sorry for the poor -lady of last night. I was a little angry because I was made to deceive -father, but my heart was not hard. I was very sorry. But how can I go on -thinking about her when I have father to think of? I could not be fond -of her, could I? I did not know her—I never saw her but once before. If -she was my mother’s sister, she was—she confessed it herself—father’s -enemy. I must—I must be on father’s side,” cried Dora. “I have had no -one else all my life.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune and her visitor looked at each other,—he with a strange -painful smile, she with tears in her eyes. “It is just the common way,” -she said,—“just the common way! You look over the one that loves you, -and you heap love upon the one that loves you not.”</p> - -<p>“It cannot be the common way,” said Gordon, “for the circumstances are -not common. It is because of strange things, and relations that are not -natural. I had no right to that love you speak of, and Dora had. But I -have got all the advantages of it for many a year. There is no injustice -if she who has the natural right to it gets it now.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor boy,” cried Miss Bethune, “you argue well, but you know -better in your heart.”</p> - -<p>“I have not a grudge in my heart,” he exclaimed, “not one, nor a -complaint. Oh, believe me!—except to be put away as if I were nobody, -just at this moment when there was still something to do for her,” he -said, after a pause.</p> - -<p>Dora looked from one to the other, half wondering, half impatient. “You -are talking of Mr. Gordon’s business now,” she said; “and I have nothing -to do with that, any more than he has to do with mine. I had better go -back to father, Miss Bethune, if you will tell Dr. Roland that he is -cruel—that he ought to have waited till father was stronger—that it -was wicked—wicked—to go and pour out all that upon him without any -preparation, when even I was out of the way.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I think there is reason in what you say, Dora,” said Miss -Bethune, as the girl went away.</p> - -<p>“It will not matter,” said Gordon, after the door was closed. “That is -one thing to be glad of, there will be no more want of money. Now,” he -said, rising, “I must go back again. It has been a relief to come and -tell you everything, but now it seems as if I had a hunger to go back: -and yet it is strange to go back. It is strange to walk about the -streets and to know that I have nobody to go home to, that she is far -away, and unmoved by anything that can happen to me.” He paused a -moment, and added, with that low laugh which is the alternative of -tears: “Not to say that there is no home to go back to, nothing but a -room in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> hotel which I must get out of as soon as possible, and nobody -belonging to me, or that I belong to. It is so difficult to get -accustomed to the idea.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune gave a low cry. It was inarticulate, but she could not -restrain it. She put out both her hands, then drew them back again; and -after he had gone away, she went on pacing up and down the room, making -this involuntary movement, murmuring that outcry, which was not even a -word, to herself. She put out her hands, sometimes her arms, then -brought them back and pressed them to the heart which seemed to be -bursting from her breast. “Oh, if it might still be that he were mine! -Oh, if I might believe it (as I do—I do!) and take him to me whether or -no!” Her thoughts shaped themselves as their self-repression gave way to -that uncontrollable tide. “Oh, well might he say that it was not the -common way! the woman that had been a mother to him, thinking no more of -him the moment her own comes in! And might I be like that? If I took him -to my heart, that I think must be mine, and then the other, the true -one—that would know nothing of me! And he, what does he know of -me?—what does he think of me?—an old fool that puts out my arms to him -without rhyme or reason. But then it’s to me he comes when he’s in -trouble; he comes to me, he leans his head on me, just by instinct, by -nature. And nature cries out in me here.” She put her hands once more -with unconscious dramatic action to her heart. “Nature cries out—nature -cries out!”</p> - -<p>Unconsciously she said these words aloud, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> herself startled by the -sound of her own voice, looked up suddenly, to see Gilchrist, who had -just come into the room, standing gazing at her with an expression of -pity and condemnation which drove her mistress frantic. Miss Bethune -coloured high. She stopped in a moment her agitated walk, and placed -herself in a chair with an air of hauteur and loftiness difficult to -describe. “Well,” she said, “were you wanting anything?” as if the -excellent and respectable person standing before her had been, as -Gilchrist herself said afterwards, “the scum of the earth".</p> - -<p>“No’ much, mem,” said Gilchrist; “only to know if you were"—poor -Gilchrist was so frightened by her mistress’s aspect that she invented -reasons which had no sound of truth in them—“going out this morning, or -wanting your seam or the stocking you were knitting.”</p> - -<p>“Did you think I had all at once become doited, and did not know what I -wanted?” asked Miss Bethune sternly.</p> - -<p>Gilchrist made no reply, but dropped her guilty head.</p> - -<p>“To think,” cried the lady, “that I cannot have a visitor in the -morning—a common visitor like those that come and go about every idle -person,—nor take a thought into my mind, nor say a word even to myself, -but in comes an intrusive serving-woman to worm out of me, with her -frightened looks and her peety and her compassion, what it’s all about! -Lord! if it were any other than a woman that’s been about me twenty -years, and had just got herself in to be a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> habit and a custom, that -would dare to come with her soft looks peetying me!”</p> - -<p>Having come to a climax, voice and feeling together, in those words, -Miss Bethune suddenly burst into the tempest of tears which all this -time had been gathering and growing beyond any power of hers to restrain -them.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear leddy, my dear leddy!” Gilchrist said; then, gradually -drawing nearer, took her mistress’s head upon her ample bosom till the -fit was over.</p> - -<p>When Miss Bethune had calmed herself again, she pushed the maid away.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have no communication with you,” she said. “You’re a good enough -servant, you’re not an ill woman; but as for real sympathy or support in -what is most dear, it’s no’ you that will give them to any person. I’m -neither wanting to go out nor to take my seam. I will maybe read a book -to quiet myself down, but I’m not meaning to hold any communication with -you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem!” said Gilchrist, in appeal: but she was not deeply cast down. -“If it was about the young gentleman,” she added, after a moment, “I -just think he is as nice a young gentleman as the world contains.”</p> - -<p>“Did I not tell you so?” cried the mistress in triumph. “And like the -gracious blood he’s come of,” she said, rising to her feet again, as if -she were waving a flag of victory. Then she sat down abruptly, and -opened upside down the book she had taken from the table. “But I’ll hold -no communication with you on that subject,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Mannering</span> had got into his sitting-room the next day, as the first -change for which he was able in his convalescent state. The doctor’s -decree, that he must give up work for a year, and spend the winter -abroad, had been fulminated forth upon him in the manner described by -Dora, as a means of rousing him from the lethargy into which he was -falling. After Dr. Roland had refused to permit of his speedy return to -the Museum, he had become indifferent to everything except the expenses, -concerning which he was now on the most jealous watch, declining to -taste the dainties that were brought to him. “I cannot afford it,” was -his constant cry. He had ceased to desire to get up, to dress, to read, -which, in preparation, as he hoped, for going out again, he had been at -first so eager to do. Then the doctor had delivered his full broadside. -“You may think what you like of me, Mannering; of course, it’s in your -power to defy me and die. You can if you like, and nobody can stop you: -but if you care for anything in this world,—for that child who has no -protector but you,"—here the doctor made a pause full of force, and -fixed the patient with his eyes,—“you will dismiss all other -considerations, and make up your mind to do what will make you well -again, without any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> more nonsense. You must do it, and nothing less will -do.”</p> - -<p>“Tell the beggar round the corner to go to Italy for the winter,” said -the invalid; “he’ll manage it better than I. A man can beg anywhere, he -carries his profession about with him. That’s, I suppose, what you mean -me to do.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care what you do,” cried Dr. Roland, “as long as you do what I -say.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering was so indignant, so angry, so roused and excited, that he -walked into his sitting-room that afternoon breathing fire and flame. “I -shall return to the Museum next week,” he said. “Let them do what they -please, Dora. Italy! And what better is Italy than England, I should -like to know? A blazing hot, deadly cold, impudently beautiful country. -No repose in it, always in extremes like a scene in a theatre, or else -like chill desolation, misery, and death. I’ll not hear a word of Italy. -The South of France is worse; all the exaggerations of the other, and a -volcano underneath. He may rave till he burst, I will not go. The Museum -is the place for me—or the grave, which might be better still.”</p> - -<p>“Would you take me there with you, father?” said Dora.</p> - -<p>“Child!” He said this word in such a tone that no capitals in the world -could give any idea of it; and then that brought him to a pause, and -increased the force of the hot stimulant that already was working in his -veins. “But we have no money,” he cried,—“no money—no money.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> Do you -understand that? I have been a fool. I have been going on spending -everything I had. I never expected a long illness, doctors and nurses, -and all those idiotic luxuries. I can eat a chop—do you hear, Dora?—a -chop, the cheapest you can get. I can live on dry bread. But get into -debt I will not—not for you and all your doctors. There’s that Fiddler -and his odious book—three pounds ten—what for? For a piece of vanity, -to say I had the 1490 edition: not even to say it, for who cares except -some of the men at the Museum? What does Roland understand about the -1490 edition? He probably thinks the latest edition is always the best. -And I—a confounded fool—throwing away my money—your money, my poor -child!—for I can’t take you with me, Dora, as you say. God forbid—God -forbid!”</p> - -<p>“Well, father,” said Dora, who had gone through many questions with -herself since the conversation in Miss Bethune’s room, “suppose we were -to try and think how it is to be done. No doubt, as he is the doctor, -however we rebel, he will make us do it at the last.”</p> - -<p>“How can he make us do it? He cannot put money in my pocket, he cannot -coin money, however much he would like it; and if he could, I suppose he -would keep it for himself.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure of that, father.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure of this, that he ought to, if he is not a fool. Every man -ought to who has a spark of sense in him. I have not done it, and you -see what happens. Roland may be a great idiot, but not so great an idiot -as I.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, father, what is the use of talking like this? Let us try and think -how we are to do it,” Dora cried.</p> - -<p>His renewed outcry that he could not do it, that it was not a thing to -be thought of for a moment, was stopped by a knock at the door, at -which, when Dora, after vainly bidding the unknown applicant come in, -opened it, there appeared an old gentleman, utterly unknown to both, and -whose appearance was extremely disturbing to the invalid newly issued -from his sick room, and the girl who still felt herself his nurse and -protector.</p> - -<p>“I hope I do not come at a bad moment,” the stranger said. “I took the -opportunity of an open door to come straight up without having myself -announced. I trust I may be pardoned for the liberty. Mr. Mannering, you -do not recollect me, but I have seen you before. I am Mr. Templar, of -Gray’s Inn. I have something of importance to say to you, which will, I -trust, excuse my intrusion.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Dora. “I am sure you cannot know that my father has been -very ill. He is out of his room for the first time to-day.”</p> - -<p>The old gentleman said that he was very sorry, and then that he was very -glad. “That means in a fair way of recovery,” he said. “I don’t know,” -he added, addressing Mannering, who was pondering over him with a -somewhat sombre countenance, “whether I may speak to you about my -business, Mr. Mannering, at such an early date: but I am almost forced -to do so by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> my orders: and whether you would rather hear my commission -in presence of this young lady or not.”</p> - -<p>“Where is it we have met?” Mannering said, with a more and more gloomy -look.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you afterwards, if you will hear me in the first place. I -come to announce to you, Mr. Mannering, the death of a client of mine, -who has left a very considerable fortune to your daughter, Dora -Mannering—this young lady, I presume: and with it a prayer that the -young lady, to whom she leaves everything, may be permitted to—may, -with your consent——”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Dora, “I know! It is the poor lady from South America!” And -then she became silent and grew red. “Father, I have hid something from -you,” she said, faltering. “I have seen a lady, forgive me, who was your -enemy. She said you would never forgive her. Oh, how one’s sins find one -out! It was not my fault that I went, and I thought you would never -know. She was mamma’s sister, father.”</p> - -<p>“She was—who?” Mr. Mannering rose from his chair. He had been pale -before, he became now livid, yellow, his thin cheek-bones standing out, -his hollow eyes with a glow in them, his mouth drawn in. He towered over -the two people beside him—Dora frightened and protesting, the visitor -very calm and observant—looking twice his height in his extreme -leanness and gauntness. “Who—who was it? Who?” His whole face asked the -question. He stood a moment tottering, then dropped back in complete -exhaustion into his chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span></p> - -<p>“Father,” cried Dora, “I did not know who she was. She was very ill and -wanted me. It was she who used to send me those things. Miss Bethune -took me, it was only once, and I—I was there when she died.” The -recollection choked her voice, and made her tremble. “Father, she said -you would not forgive her, that you were never to be told; but I could -not believe,” cried Dora, “that there was any one, ill or sorry, and -very, very weak, and in trouble, whom you would not forgive.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering sat gazing at his child, with his eyes burning in their -sockets. At these words he covered his face with his hands. And there -was silence, save for a sob of excitement from Dora, excitement so long -repressed that it burst forth now with all the greater force. The -visitor, for some time, did not say a word. Then suddenly he put forth -his hand and touched the elbow which rested like a sharp point on the -table. He said softly: “It was the lady you imagine. She is dead. She -has led a life of suffering and trouble. She has neither been well nor -happy. Her one wish was to see her child before she died. When she was -left free, as happened by death some time ago, she came to England for -that purpose. I can’t tell you how much or how little the friends knew, -who helped her. They thought it, I believe, a family quarrel.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering uncovered his ghastly countenance. “It is better they -should continue to think so.”</p> - -<p>“That is as you please. For my own part,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> I think the child at least -should know. The request, the prayer that was made on her deathbed in -all humility, was that Dora should follow her remains to the grave.”</p> - -<p>“To what good?” he cried, “to what good?”</p> - -<p>“To no good. Have you forgotten her, that you ask that? I told her, if -she had asked to see you, to get your forgiveness——”</p> - -<p>“Silence!” cried Mr. Mannering, lifting his thin hand as if with a -threat.</p> - -<p>“But she had not courage. She wanted only, she said, her own flesh and -blood to stand by her grave.”</p> - -<p>Mannering made again a gesture with his hand, but no reply.</p> - -<p>“She has left everything of which she died possessed—a considerable, I -may say a large fortune—to her only child.”</p> - -<p>“I refuse her fortune!” cried Mannering, bringing down his clenched hand -on the table with a feverish force that made the room ring.</p> - -<p>“You will not be so pitiless,” said the visitor; “you will not pursue an -unfortunate woman, who never in her unhappy life meant any harm.”</p> - -<p>“In her unhappy life!—in her pursuit of a happy life at any cost, that -is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“I will not argue. She is dead. Say she was thoughtless, fickle. I can’t -tell. She did only what she was justified in doing. She meant no harm.”</p> - -<p>“I will allow no one,” cried Mr. Mannering, “to discuss the question -with me. Your client, I understand, is dead,—it was proper, perhaps, -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> I should know,—and has left a fortune to my daughter. Well, I -refuse it. There is no occasion for further parley. I refuse it. Dora, -show this gentleman downstairs.”</p> - -<p>“There is only one thing to be said,” said the visitor, rising, “you -have not the power to refuse it. It is vested in trustees, of whom I am -one. The young lady herself may take any foolish step—if you will allow -me to say so—when she comes of age. But you have not the power to do -this. The allowance to be made to her during her minority and all other -particulars will be settled as soon as the arrangements are sufficiently -advanced.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you that I refuse it,” repeated Mr. Mannering.</p> - -<p>“And I repeat that you have no power to do so. I leave her the -directions in respect to the other event, in which you have full power. -I implore you to use it mercifully,” the visitor said.</p> - -<p>He went away without any further farewell—Mannering, not moving, -sitting at the table with his eyes fixed on the empty air. Dora, who had -followed the conversation with astonished uncomprehension, but with an -acute sense of the incivility with which the stranger had been treated, -hurried to open the door for him, to offer him her hand, to make what -apologies were possible.</p> - -<p>“Father has been very ill,” she said. “He nearly died. This is the first -time he has been out of his room. I don’t understand what it all means, -but please do not think he is uncivil. He is excited, and still ill and -weak. I never in my life saw him rude to any one before.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span></p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said the old gentleman, pausing outside the door; “I can -make allowances. You and I may have a great deal to do with each other, -Miss Dora. I hope you will have confidence in me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what it all means,” Dora said.</p> - -<p>“No, but some day you will; and in the meantime remember that some one, -who has the best right to do so, has left you a great deal of money, and -that whenever you want anything, or even wish for anything, you must -come to me.”</p> - -<p>“A great deal of money?” Dora said. She had heard him speak of a -fortune—a considerable fortune, but the words had not struck her as -these did. A great deal of money? And money was all that was wanted to -make everything smooth, and open out vistas of peace and pleasure, where -all had been trouble and care. The sudden lighting up of her countenance -was as if the sun had come out all at once from among the clouds. The -old gentleman, who, like so many old gentlemen, entertained cynical -views, chuckled to see that even at this youthful age, and in -Mannering’s daughter, who had refused it so fiercely, the name of a -great deal of money should light up a girl’s face. “They are all alike,” -he said to himself as he went downstairs.</p> - -<p>When Dora returned to the room, she found her father as she had left -him, staring straight before him, seeing nothing, his head supported on -his hands, his hollow eyes fixed. He did not notice her return, as he -had not noticed her absence. What was she to do? One of those crises -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> arrived which are so petty, yet so important, when the wisest of -women are reduced to semi-imbecility by an emergency not contemplated in -any moral code. It was time for him to take his beef tea. The doctor had -commanded that under no circumstances was this duty to be omitted or -postponed; but who could have foreseen such circumstances as these, in -which evidently matters of life and death were going through his mind? -After such an agitating interview he wanted it more and more, the -nourishment upon which his recovery depended. But how suggest it to a -man whose mind was gone away into troubled roamings through the past, or -still more troubled questions about the future? It could have been no -small matters that had been brought back to Mr. Mannering’s mind by that -strange visit. Dora, who was not weak-minded, trembled to approach him -with any prosaic, petty suggestion. And yet how did she dare to pass it -by? Dora went about the room very quietly, longing to rouse yet -unwilling to disturb him. How was she to speak of such a small matter as -his beef tea? And yet it was not a small matter. She heard Gilchrist go -into the other room, bringing it all ready on the little tray, and -hurried thither to inquire what that experienced woman would advise. “He -has had some one to see him about business. He has been very much put -out, dreadfully disturbed. I don’t know how to tell you how much. His -mind is full of some dreadful thing I don’t understand. How can I ask -him to take his beef tea? And yet he must want it. He is looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> so -ill. He is so worn out. Oh, Gilchrist, what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“It is just a very hard question, Miss Dora. He should not have seen any -person on business. He’s no’ in a fit state to see anybody the first day -he is out of his bedroom: though, for my part, I think he might have -been out of his bedroom three or four days ago,” Gilchrist said.</p> - -<p>“As if that was the question now! The question is about the beef tea. -Can I go and say, ‘Father, never mind whatever has happened, there is -nothing so important as your beef tea’? Can I tell him that everything -else may come and go, but that beef tea runs on for ever? Oh, Gilchrist, -you are no good at all! Tell me what to do.”</p> - -<p>Dora could not help being light-hearted, though it was in the present -circumstances so inappropriate, when she thought of that “great deal of -money"—money that would sweep all bills away, that would make almost -everything possible. That consciousness lightened more and more upon -her, as she saw the little bundle of bills carefully labelled and tied -up, which she had intended to remove surreptitiously from her father’s -room while he was out of it. With what comfort and satisfaction could -she remove them now!</p> - -<p>“Just put it down on the table by his side, Miss Dora,” said Gilchrist. -“Say no word, just put it there within reach of his hand. Maybe he will -fly out at you, and ask if you think there’s nothing in the world so -important as your confounded—— But no, he will not say that; he’s no’ a -man that gets relief in that way. But, on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> other hand, he will maybe -just be conscious that there’s a good smell, and he will feel he’s -wanting something, and he will drink it off without more ado. But do -not, Miss Dora, whatever you do, let more folk on business bother your -poor papaw, for I could not answer for what might come of it. You had -better let me sit here on the watch, and see that nobody comes near the -door.”</p> - -<p>“I will do what you say, and you can do what you like,” said Dora. She -could almost have danced along the passage. Poor lady from America, who -was dead! Dora had been very sorry. She had been much troubled by the -interview about her which she did not understand: but even if father -were pitiless, which was so incredible, it could do that poor woman no -harm now: and the money—money which would be deliverance, which would -pay all the bills, and leave the quarter’s money free to go to the -country with, to go abroad with! Dora had to tone her countenance down, -not to look too guiltily glad when she went in to where her father was -sitting in the same abstraction and gloom. But this time he observed her -entrance, looking up as if he had been waiting for her. She had barely -time to follow Gilchrist’s directions when he stretched out his hand and -took hers, drawing her near to him. He was very grave and pale, but no -longer so terrible as before.</p> - -<p>“Dora,” he said, “how often have you seen this lady of whom I have heard -to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Twice, father; once in Miss Bethune’s room, where she had come. I don’t -know how.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span></p> - -<p>“In this house?” he said with a strong quiver, which Dora felt, as if it -had been communicated to herself.</p> - -<p>“And the night before last, when Miss Bethune took me to where she was -living, a long way off, by Hyde Park. I knelt at the bed a long time, -and then they put me in a chair. She said many things I did not -understand—but chiefly,” Dora said, her eyes filling with tears—the -scene seemed to come before her more touchingly in recollection than -when, to her wonder and dismay, it took place, “chiefly that she loved -me, that she had wanted me all my life, and that she wished for me above -everything before she died.”</p> - -<p>“And then?” he said, with a catch in his breath.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know, father; I was so confused and dizzy with being there so -long. All of a sudden they took me away, and the others all came round -the bed. And then there was nothing more. Miss Bethune brought me home. -I understood that the lady—that my poor—my poor aunt—if that is what -she was—was dead. Oh, father, whatever she did, forgive her now!”</p> - -<p>Dora for the moment had forgotten everything but the pity and the -wonder, which she only now began to realise for the first time, of that -strange scene. She saw, as if for the first time, the dark room, the -twinkling lights, the ineffable smile upon the dying face: and her big -tears fell fast upon her father’s hand, which held hers in a trembling -grasp. The quiver that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> in him ran through and through her, so that -she trembled too.</p> - -<p>“Dora,” he said, “perhaps you ought to know, as that man said. The lady -was not your aunt: she was your mother—my"—there seemed a convulsion -in his throat, as though he could not pronounce the word—“my wife. And -yet she was not to blame, as the world judges. I went on a long -expedition after you were born, leaving her very young still, and poor. -I did not mean her to be poor. I did not mean to be long away. But I -went to Africa, which is terrible enough now, but was far more terrible -in those days. I fell ill again and again. I was left behind for dead. I -was lost in those dreadful wilds. It was more than three years before I -came to the light of day at all, and it seemed a hundred. I had been -given up by everybody. The money had failed her, her people were poor, -the Museum gave her a small allowance as to the widow of a man killed in -its service. And there was another man who loved her. They meant no -harm, it is true. She did nothing that was wrong. She married him, -thinking I was dead.”</p> - -<p>“Father!” Dora cried, clasping his arm with both her hands: his other -arm supported his head.</p> - -<p>“It was a pity that I was not dead—that was the pity. If I had known, I -should never have come back to put everything wrong. But I never heard a -word till I came back. And she would not face me—never. She fled as if -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> had been guilty. She was not guilty, you know. She had only married -again, which the best of women do. She fled by herself at first, leaving -you to me. She said it was all she could do, but that she never, never -could look me in the face again. It has not been that I could not -forgive her, Dora. No, but we could not look each other in the face -again.”</p> - -<p>“Is it she,” said Dora, struggling to speak, “whose picture is in your -cabinet, on its face? May I take it, father? I should like to have it.”</p> - -<p>He put his other arm round her and pressed her close. “And after this,” -he said, “my little girl, we will never say a word on this subject -again.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> little old gentleman had withdrawn from the apartment of the -Mannerings very quietly, leaving all that excitement and commotion -behind him; but he did not leave in this way the house in Bloomsbury. He -went downstairs cautiously and quietly, though why he should have done -so he could not himself have told, since, had he made all the noise in -the world, it could have had no effect upon the matter in hand in either -case. Then he knocked at Miss Bethune’s door. When he was bidden to -enter, he opened the door gently, with great precaution, and going in, -closed it with equal care behind him.</p> - -<p>“I am speaking, I think, to Mrs. Gordon Grant?” he said.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune was alone. She had many things to think of, and very likely -the book which she seemed to be reading was not much more than a -pretence to conceal her thoughts. It fell down upon her lap at these -words, and she looked at her questioner with a gasp, unable to make any -reply.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Gordon Grant, I believe?” he said again, then made a step farther -into the room. “Pardon me for startling you, there is no one here. I am -a solicitor, John Templar, of Gray’s Inn. Precautions taken with other -persons need<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> not apply to me. You are Mrs. Gordon Grant, I know.”</p> - -<p>“I have never borne that name,” she said, very pale. “Janet Bethune, -that is my name.”</p> - -<p>“Not as signed to a document which is in my possession. You will pardon -me, but this is no doing of mine. You witnessed Mrs. Bristow’s will?”</p> - -<p>She gave a slight nod with her head in acquiescence.</p> - -<p>“And then, to my great surprise, I found this name, which I have been in -search of for so long.”</p> - -<p>“You have been in search of it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, for many years. The skill with which you have concealed it is -wonderful. I have advertised, even. I have sought the help of old -friends who must see you often, who come to you here even, I know. But I -never found the name I was in search of, never till the other day at the -signing of Mrs. Bristow’s will—which, by the way,” he said, “that young -fellow might have signed safely enough, for he has no share in it.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that she has left him nothing—nothing, Mr. Templar? -The boy that was like her son!”</p> - -<p>“Not a penny,” said the old gentleman—“not a penny. Everything has gone -the one way—perhaps it was not wonderful—to her own child.”</p> - -<p>“I could not have done that!” cried the lady. “Oh, I could not have done -it! I would have felt it would bring a curse upon my own child.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, madam, you never had a child of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> your own, which would make -all the difference,” he said.</p> - -<p>She looked at him again, silent, with her lips pressed very closely -together, and a kind of defiance in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“But this,” he said again, softly, “is no answer to my question. You -were a witness of Mrs. Bristow’s will, and you signed a certain name to -it. You cannot have done so hoping to vitiate the document by a feigned -name. It would have been perfectly futile to begin with, and no woman -could have thought of such a thing. That was, I presume, your lawful -name?”</p> - -<p>“It is a name I have never borne; that you will very easily ascertain.”</p> - -<p>“Still it is your name, or why should you have signed it—in -inadvertence, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Not certainly in inadvertence. Has anything ever made it familiar to -me? If you will know, I had my reasons. I thought the sight of it might -put things in a lawyer’s hands, would maybe guide inquiries, would make -easier an object of my own.”</p> - -<p>“That object,” said Mr. Templar, “was to discover your husband?”</p> - -<p>She half rose to her feet, flushed and angry.</p> - -<p>“Who said I had a husband, or that to find him or lose him was anything -to me?” Then, with a strong effort, she reseated herself in her chair. -“That was a bold guess,” she said, “Mr. Templar, not to say a little -insulting, don’t you think, to a respectable single lady that has never -had a finger lifted upon her? I am of a well-known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> race enough. I have -never concealed myself. There are plenty of people in Scotland who will -give you full details of me and all my ways. It is not like a lawyer—a -cautious man, bound by his profession to be careful—to make such a -strange attempt upon me.”</p> - -<p>“I make no attempt. I only ask a question, and one surely most -justifiable. You did not sign a name to which you had no right, on so -important a document as a will; therefore you are Mrs. Gordon Grant, and -a person to whom for many years I have had a statement to make.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him again with a dumb rigidity of aspect, but said not a -word.</p> - -<p>“The communication I had to make to you,” he said, “was of a death—not -one, so far as I know, that could bring you any advantage, or harm -either, I suppose. I may say that it took place years ago. I have no -reason, either, to suppose that it would be the cause of any deep -sorrow.”</p> - -<p>“Sorrow?” she said, but her lips were dry, and could articulate no more.</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to do with your reasons for having kept your marriage so -profound a secret,” he said. “The result has naturally been the long -delay of a piece of information which perhaps would have been welcome to -you. Mrs. Grant, your husband, George Gordon Grant, died nearly twenty -years ago.”</p> - -<p>“Twenty years ago!” she cried, with a start, “twenty years?” Then she -raised her voice suddenly and cried, “Gilchrist!” She was very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> pale, -and her excitement great, her eyes gleaming, her nerves quivering. She -paid no attention to the little lawyer, who on his side observed her so -closely. “Gilchrist,” she said, when the maid came in hurriedly from the -inner room in which she had been, “we have often wondered why there was -no sign of him when I came into my fortune. The reason is he was dead -before my uncle died.”</p> - -<p>“Dead?” said Gilchrist, and put up at once her apron to her eyes, “dead? -Oh, mem, that bonnie young man!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Bethune. She rose up and began to move about the room -in great excitement. “Yes, he would still be a bonnie young man -then—oh, a bonnie young man, as his son is now. I wondered how it was -he made no sign. Before, it was natural: but when my uncle was -dead—when I had come into my fortune! That explains it—that explains -it all. He was dead before the day he had reckoned on came.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dinna say that, now!” cried Gilchrist. “How can we tell if it was -the day he had reckoned on? Why might it no’ be your comfort he was aye -thinking of—that you might lose nothing, that your uncle might keep his -faith in you, that your fortune might be safe?”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that my fortune might be safe, that was the one thing. What did it -matter about me? Only a woman that was so silly as to believe in -him—and believed in him, God help me, long after he had proved what he -was. Gilchrist, go down on your knees and thank God that he did not live -to cheat us more, to come when you and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> me made sure he would come, and -fleece us with his fair face and his fair ways, till he had got what he -wanted,—the filthy money which was the end of all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, again weeping, “dinna say that now. Even if -it were true, which the Lord forbid, dinna say it now!”</p> - -<p>But her mistress was not to be controlled. The stream of recollection, -of pent-up feeling, the brooding of a lifetime, set free by this sudden -discovery of her story, which was like the breaking down of a dyke to a -river, rushed forth like that river in flood. “I have thought many a -time,” she cried,—“when my heart was sick of the silence, when I still -trembled that he would come, and wished he would come for all that I -knew, like a fool woman that I am, as all women are,—that maybe his not -coming was a sign of grace, that he had maybe forgotten, maybe been -untrue; but that it was not at least the money, the money and nothing -more. To know that I had that accursed siller and not to come for it was -a sign of grace. I was a kind of glad. But it was not that!” she cried, -pacing to and fro like a wild creature,—“it was not that! He would have -come, oh, and explained everything, made everything clear, and told me -to my face it was for my sake!—if it had not been that death stepped in -and disappointed him as he had disappointed me!”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune ended with a harsh laugh, and after a moment seated herself -again in her chair. The tempest of personal feeling had carried her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> -away, quenching even the other and yet stronger sentiment, which for so -many years had been the passion of her life. She had been suddenly, -strangely driven back to a period which even now, in her sober middle -age, it was a kind of madness to think of—the years which she had lived -through in awful silence, a wife yet no wife, a mother yet no mother, -cut off from everything but the monotonous, prolonged, unending formula -of a girlhood out of date, the life without individuality, without -meaning, and without hope, of a large-minded and active woman, kept to -the rôle of a child, in a house where there was not even affection to -sweeten it. The recollection of those terrible, endless, changeless -days, running into years as indistinguishable, the falsehood of every -circumstance and appearance, the secret existence of love and sacrifice, -of dread knowledge and disenchantment, of strained hope and failing -illusion, and final and awful despair, of which Gilchrist alone knew -anything,—Gilchrist, the faithful servant, the sole companion of her -heart,—came back upon her with all that horrible sense of the -intolerable which such a martyrdom brings. She had borne it in its -day—how had she borne it? Was it possible that a woman could go through -that and live? her heart torn from her bosom, her baby torn from her -side, and no one, no one but Gilchrist, to keep a little life alive in -her heart! And it had lasted for years—many, many, many years,—all the -years of her life, except those first twenty which tell for so little. -In that rush of passion she did not know how time passed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> whether it -was five minutes or an hour that she sat under the inspection of the old -lawyer, whom this puzzle of humanity filled with a sort of professional -interest, and who did not think it necessary to withdraw, or had any -feeling of intrusion upon the sufferer. It was not really a long time, -though it might have been a year, when she roused herself and took hold -of her forces, and the dread panorama rolled away.</p> - -<p>Gradually the familiar things around her came back. She remembered -herself, no despairing girl, no soul in bondage, but a sober woman, -disenchanted in many ways, but never yet cured of those hopes and that -faith which hold the ardent spirit to life. Her countenance changed with -her thoughts, her eyes ceased to be abstracted and visionary, her colour -came back. She turned to the old gentleman with a look which for the -first time disturbed and bewildered that old and hardened spectator of -the vicissitudes of life. Her eyes filled with a curious liquid light, -an expression wistful, flattering, entreating. She looked at him as a -child looks who has a favour to ask, her head a little on one side, her -lips quivering with a smile. There came into the old lawyer’s mind, he -could not tell how, a ridiculous sense of being a superior being, a kind -of god, able to confer untold advantages and favours. What did the woman -want of him? What—it did not matter what she wanted—could he do for -her? Nothing that he was aware of: and a sense of the danger of being -cajoled came into his mind, but along with that, which was ridiculous, -though he could not help it, a sense of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> being really a superior being, -able to grant favours, and benignant, as he had never quite known -himself to be.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Templar,” she said, “now all is over there is not another word to -say: and now the boy—my boy——”</p> - -<p>“The boy?” he repeated, with a surprised air.</p> - -<p>“My child that was taken from me as soon as he was born, my little -helpless bairn that never knew his mother—my son, my son! Give me a -right to him, give me my lawful title to him, and there can be no more -doubt about it—that nobody may say he is not mine.”</p> - -<p>The old lawyer was more confused than words could say. The very sense -she had managed to convey to his mind of being a superior being, full of -graces and gifts to confer, made his downfall the more ludicrous to -himself. He seemed to tumble down from an altitude quite visionary, yet -very real, as if by some neglect or ill-will of his own. He felt himself -humiliated, a culprit before her. “My dear lady,” he said, “you are -going too fast and too far for me. I did not even know there was any—— -Stop! I think I begin to remember.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, breathless,—“yes!” looking at him with supplicating -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Now it comes back to me,” he said. “I—I—am afraid I gave it no -importance. There was a baby—yes, a little thing a few weeks, or a few -months old—that died.”</p> - -<p>She sprang up again once more to her feet, menacing, terrible. She was -bigger, stronger, far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> more full of life, than he was. She towered over -him, her face full of tragic passion. “It is not true—it is not true!” -she cried.</p> - -<p>“My dear lady, how can I know? What can I do? I can but tell you the -instructions given to me; it had slipped out of my mind, it seemed of -little importance in comparison. A baby that was too delicate to bear -the separation from its mother—I remember it all now. I am very sorry, -very sorry, if I have conveyed any false hopes to your mind. The baby -died not long after it was taken away.”</p> - -<p>“It is not true,” Miss Bethune said, with a hoarse and harsh voice. -After the excitement and passion, she stood like a figure cut out of -stone. This statement, so calm and steady, struck her like a blow. Her -lips denied, but her heart received the cruel news. It may be necessary -to explain good fortune, but misery comes with its own guarantee. It -struck her like a sword, like a scythe, shearing down her hopes. She -rose into a brief blaze of fury, denying it. “Oh, you think I will -believe that?” she cried,—“me that have followed him in my thoughts -through every stage, have seen him grow and blossom, and come to be a -man! Do you think there would have been no angel to stop me in my vain -imaginations, no kind creature in heaven or earth that would have -breathed into my heart and said, ‘Go on no more, hope no more’? Oh -no—oh no! Heaven is not like that, nor earth! Pain comes and trouble, -but not cruel fate. No, I do not believe it—I will not believe it! It -is not true.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear lady,” said the old gentleman, distressed.</p> - -<p>“I am no dear lady to you. I am nothing to you. I am a poor, deserted, -heartbroken woman, that have lived false, false, but never meant it: -that have had no one to stand by me, to help me out of it. And now you -sit there calm, and look me in the face, and take away my son. My baby -first was taken from me, forced out of my arms, new-born: and now you -take the boy I’ve followed with my heart these long, long years, the -bonnie lad, the young man I’ve seen. I tell you I’ve seen him, then. How -can a mother be deceived? We’ve seen him, both Gilchrist and me. Ask -her, if you doubt my word. We have seen him, can any lie stand against -that? And my heart has spoken, and his heart has spoken; we have sought -each other in the dark, and taken hands. I know him by his bonnie eyes, -and a trick in his mouth that is just my father over again: and he knows -me by nature, and the touch of kindly blood.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem,” Gilchrist cried, “I warned ye—I warned ye! What is a -likeness to lippen to? And I never saw it,” the woman said, with tears.</p> - -<p>“And who asked ye to see it, or thought ye could see it, a -serving-woman, not a drop’s blood to him or to me? It would be a bonnie -thing,” said Miss Bethune, pausing, looking round, as if to appeal to an -unseen audience, with an almost smile of scorn, “if my hired woman’s -word was to be taken instead of his mother’s. Did she bear him in pain -and anguish? Did she wait for him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> lying dreaming, month after month, -that he was to cure all? She got him in her arms when he was born, but -he had been in mine for long before; he had grown a man in my heart -before ever he saw the light of day. Oh, ask her, and there is many a -fable she will tell ye. But me!"—she calmed down again, a smile came -upon her face,—“I have seen my son. Now, as I have nobody but him, he -has nobody but me: and I mean from this day to take him home and -acknowledge him before all the world.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Templar had risen, and stood with his hand on the back of his chair. -“I have nothing more to say,” he said. “If I can be of any use to you in -any way, command me, madam. It is no wish of mine to take any comfort -from you, or even to dispel any pleasing illusion.”</p> - -<p>“As if you could!” she said, rising again, proud and smiling. “As if any -old lawyer’s words, as dry as dust, could shake my conviction, or -persuade me out of what is a certainty. It is a certainty. Seeing is -believing, the very vulgar say. And I have seen him—do you think you -could make me believe after that, that there is no one to see?”</p> - -<p>He shook his head and turned away. “Good-morning to you, ma’am,” he -said. “I have told you the truth, but I cannot make you believe it, and -why should I try? It may be happier for you the other way.”</p> - -<p>“Happier?” she said, with a laugh. “Ay, because it’s true. Falsehood has -been my fate too long—I am happy because it is true.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Bethune sat down again, when her visitor closed the door behind -him. The triumph and brightness gradually died out of her face. “What -are you greetin’ there for, you fool?” she said, “and me the happiest -woman, and the proudest mother! Gilchrist,” she said, suddenly turning -round upon her maid, “the woman that is dead was a weak creature, bound -hand and foot all her life. She meant no harm, poor thing, I will allow, -but yet she broke one man’s life in pieces, and it must have been a poor -kind of happiness she gave the other, with her heart always straying -after another man’s bairn. And I’ve done nothing, nothing to injure any -mortal. I was true till I could be true no longer, till he showed all he -was; and true I have been in spite of that all my life, and endured and -never said a word. Do you think it’s possible, possible that yon woman -should be rewarded with her child in her arms, and her soul -satisfied?—and me left desolate, with my very imaginations torn from -me, torn out of me, and my heart left bleeding, and all my thoughts -turned into lies, like myself, that have been no better than a -lie?—turned into lies?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem!” cried Gilchrist—“oh, my dear leddy, that has been more to me -than a’ this world! Is it for me to say that it’s no’ justice we have to -expect, for we deserve nothing; and that the Lord knows His ain reasons; -and that the time will come when we’ll get it all back—you, your bairn, -the Lord bless him! and me to see ye as happy as the angels, which is -all I ever wanted or thought to get either here or otherwhere!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was nothing more said to Mr. Mannering on the subject of Mr. -Templar’s mission, neither did he himself say anything, either to -sanction or prevent his child from carrying out the strange desire of -her mother—her mother! Dora did not accept the thought. She made a -struggle within herself to keep up the fiction that it was her mother’s -sister—a relation, something near, yet ever inferior to the vision of a -benignant, melancholy being, unknown, which a dead mother so often is to -an imaginative girl.</p> - -<p>It pleased her to find, as she said to herself, “no likeness” to the -suffering and hysterical woman she had seen, in that calm, pensive -portrait, which she instantly secured and took possession of—the little -picture which had lain so long buried with its face downward in the -secret drawer. She gazed at it for an hour together, and found -nothing—nothing, she declared to herself with indignant satisfaction, -to remind her of the other face—flushed, weeping, middle-aged—which -had so implored her affection. Had it been her mother, was it possible -that it should have required an effort to give that affection? No! Dora -at sixteen believed very fully in the voice of nature. It would have -been impossible, her heart at once would have spoken, she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> have -known by some infallible instinct. She put the picture up in her own -room, and filled her heart with the luxury, the melancholy, the sadness, -and pleasure of this possession—her mother’s portrait, more touching to -the imagination than any other image could be. But then there began to -steal a little shadow over Dora’s thoughts. She would not give up her -determined resistance to the idea that this face and the other face, -living and dying, which she had seen, could be one; but when she raised -her eyes suddenly, to her mother’s picture, a consciousness would steal -over her, an involuntary glance of recognition. What more likely than -that there should be a resemblance, faint and far away, between sister -and sister? And then there came to be a gleam of reproach to Dora in -those eyes, and the girl began to feel as if there was an irreverence, a -want of feeling, in turning that long recluse and covered face to the -light of day, and carrying on all the affairs of life under it, as if it -were a common thing. Finally she arranged over it a little piece of -drapery, a morsel of faded embroidered silk which was among her -treasures, soft and faint in its colours—a veil which she could draw in -her moments of thinking and quiet, those moments which it would not be -irreverent any longer to call a dead mother or an angelic presence to -hallow and to share.</p> - -<p>But she said nothing when she was called to Miss Bethune’s room, and -clad in mourning, recognising with a thrill, half of horror, half of -pride, the crape upon her dress which proved her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> right to that new -exaltation among human creatures—that position of a mourner which is in -its way a step in life. Dora did not ask where she was going when she -followed Miss Bethune, also in black from head to foot, to the plain -little brougham which had been ordered to do fit and solemn honour to -the occasion; the great white wreath and basket of flowers, which filled -up the space, called no observation from her. They drove in silence to -the great cemetery, with all its gay flowers and elaborate aspect of -cheerfulness. It was a fine but cloudy day, warm and soft, yet without -sunshine; and Dora had a curious sense of importance, of meaning, as if -she had attained an advanced stage of being. Already an experience had -fallen to her share, more than one experience. She had knelt, troubled -and awe-stricken, by a death-bed; she was now going to stand by a grave. -Even where real sorrow exists, this curious sorrowful elation of -sentiment is apt to come into the mind of the very young. Dora was -deeply impressed by the circumstances and the position, but it was -impossible that she could feel any real grief. Tears came to her eyes as -she dropped the shower of flowers, white and lovely, into the darkness -of that last abode. Her face was full of awe and pity, but her breast of -that vague, inexplainable expansion and growth, as of a creature entered -into the larger developments and knowledge of life. There were very few -other mourners. Mr. Templar, the lawyer, with his keen but veiled -observation of everything, serious and businesslike; the doctor, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> -professional gravity and indifference; Miss Bethune, with almost stern -seriousness, standing like a statue in her black dress and with her pale -face. Why should any of these spectators care? The woman was far the -most moved, thinking of the likeness and difference of her own fate, of -the failure of that life which was now over, and of her own, a deeper -failure still, without any fault of hers. And Dora, wondering, -developing, her eyes full of abstract tears, and her mind of awe.</p> - -<p>Only one mourner stood pale with watching and thought beside the open -grave, his heart aching with loneliness and a profound natural vacancy -and pain. He knew that she had neglected him, almost wronged him at the -last, cut him off, taking no thought of what was to become of him. He -felt even that in so doing this woman was unfaithful to her trust, and -had done what she ought not to have done. But all that mattered nothing -in face of natural sorrow, natural love. She had been a mother to him, -and she was gone. The ear always open to his boyish talk and confidence, -always ready to listen, could hear him no more; and, almost more -poignant, his care of her was over, there was nothing more to do for -her, none of the hundred commissions that used to send him flying, the -hundred things that had to be done. His occupation in life seemed to be -over, his home, his natural place. It had not perhaps ever been a -natural place, but he had not felt that. She had been his mother, though -no drop of her blood ran in his veins; and now he was nobody’s son, -belonging to no family. The other people round looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> like ghosts to -Harry Gordon. They were part of the strange cutting off, the severance -he already felt; none of them had anything to do with her, and yet it -was he who was pushed out and put aside, as if he had nothing to do with -her, the only mother he had ever known! The little sharp old lawyer was -her representative now, not he who had been her son. He stood languid, -in a moment of utter depression, collapse of soul and body, by the -grave. When all was over, and the solemn voice which sounds as no other -voice ever does, falling calm through the still air, bidding earth -return to earth, and dust to dust, had ceased, he still stood as if -unable to comprehend that all was over—no one to bid him come away, no -other place to go to. His brain was not relieved by tears, or his mind -set in activity by anything to do. He stood there half stupefied, left -behind, in that condition when simply to remain as we are seems the only -thing possible to us.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune had placed Dora in the little brougham, in rigorous -fulfilment of her duty to the child. Mr. Templar and the doctor had both -departed, the two other women, Mrs. Bristow’s maid and the nurse who had -accompanied her, had driven away: and still the young man stood, not -paying any attention. Miss Bethune waited for a little by the carriage -door. She did not answer the appeal of the coachman, asking if he was to -drive away; she said nothing to Dora, whose eyes endeavoured in vain to -read the changes in her friend’s face; but, after standing there for a -few minutes quite silent, she suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> turned and went back to the -cemetery. It was strange to her to hesitate in anything she did, and -from the moment she left the carriage door all uncertainty was over. She -went back with a quick step, treading her way among the graves, and put -her hand upon young Gordon’s arm.</p> - -<p>“You are coming home with me,” she said.</p> - -<p>The new, keen voice, irregular and full of life, so unlike the measured -tones to which he had been listening, struck the young man uneasily in -the midst of his melancholy reverie, which was half trance, half -exhaustion. He moved a step away, as if to shake off the interruption, -scarcely conscious what, and not at all who it was.</p> - -<p>“My dear young man, you must come home with me,” she said again.</p> - -<p>He looked at her, with consciousness re-awakening, and attempted to -smile, with his natural ready response to every kindness. “It is you,” -he said, and then, “I might have known it could only be you.”</p> - -<p>What did that mean? Nothing at all. Merely his sense that the one person -who had spoken kindly to him, looked tenderly at him (though he had -never known why, and had been both amused and embarrassed by the -consciousness), was the most likely among all the strangers by whom he -was surrounded to be kind to him now. But it produced an effect upon -Miss Bethune which was far beyond any meaning it bore.</p> - -<p>A great light seemed suddenly to blaze over her face; her eyes, which -had been so veiled and stern, awoke; every line of a face which could -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> harsh and almost rigid in repose, began to melt and soften; her -composure, which had been almost solemn, failed; her lip began to -quiver, tears came dropping upon his arm, which she suddenly clasped -with both her hands, clinging to it. “You say right,” she cried, “my -dear, my dear!—more right than all the reasons. It is you and nature -that makes everything clear. You are just coming home with me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t seem,” he said, “to know what the word means.”</p> - -<p>“But you will soon learn again. God bless the good woman that cherished -you and loved you, my bonnie boy. I’ll not say a word against her—oh, -no, no! God’s blessing upon her as she lies there. I will never grudge a -good word you say of her, never a regret. But now"—she put her arm -within his with a proud and tender movement, which so far penetrated his -languor as to revive the bewilderment which he had felt before—“now you -are coming home with me.”</p> - -<p>He did not resist; he allowed himself to be led to the little carriage -and packed into it, which was not quite an easy thing to do. On another -occasion he would have laughed and protested, but on this he submitted -gravely to whatever was required of him, thankful, in the failure of all -motive, to have some one to tell him what to do, to move him as if he -were an automaton. He sat bundled up on the little front seat, with -Dora’s wondering countenance opposite to him, and that other -inexplicable face, inspired and lighted up with tenderness. He had not -strength enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> inquire why this stranger took possession of him so; -neither could Dora tell, who sat opposite to him, her mind awakened, her -thoughts busy. This was the almost son of the woman who they said was -Dora’s mother. What was he to Dora? Was he the nearer to her, or the -farther from her, for that relationship? Did she like him better or -worse for having done everything that it ought, they said, have been her -part to do?</p> - -<p>These questions were all confused in Dora’s mind, but they were not -favourable to this new interloper into her life—he who had known about -her for years while she had never heard of him. She sat very upright, -reluctant to make room for him, yet scrupulously doing so, and a little -indignant that he should thus be brought in to interfere with her own -claims to the first place. The drive to Bloomsbury seemed very long in -these circumstances, and it was indeed a long drive. They all came back -into the streets after the long suburban road with a sense almost of -relief in the growing noise, the rattle of the causeway, and sound of -the carts and carriages—which made it unnecessary, as it had been -impossible for them, to say anything to each other, and brought back the -affairs of common life to dispel the influences of the solemn moment -that was past.</p> - -<p>When they had reached Miss Bethune’s rooms, and returned altogether to -existence, and the sight of a table spread for a meal, it was a shock, -but not an ungrateful one. Miss Bethune at once threw off the gravity -which had wrapped her like a cloak, when she put away her black bonnet.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> -She bade Gilchrist hurry to have the luncheon brought up. “These two -young creatures have eaten nothing, I am sure, this day. Probably they -think they cannot: but when food is set before them they will learn -better. Haste ye, Gilchrist, to have it served up. No, Dora, you will -stay with me too. Your father is a troubled man this day. You will not -go in upon him with that cloud about you, not till you are refreshed and -rested, and have got your colour and your natural look back. And you, my -bonnie man!” She could not refrain from touching, caressing his shoulder -as she passed him; her eyes kept filling with tears as she looked at -him. He for his part moved and took his place as she told him, still in -a dream.</p> - -<p>It was a curious meal, more daintily prepared and delicate than usual, -and Miss Bethune was a woman who at all times was “very particular,” and -exercised all the gifts of the landlady, whose other lodgers demanded -much less of her. And the mistress of the little feast was still less as -usual. She scarcely sat down at her own table, but served her young -guests with anxious care, carving choice morsels for them, watching -their faces, their little movements of impatience, and the gradual -development of natural appetite, which came as the previous spell -gradually wore off. She talked all the time, her countenance a little -flushed and full of emotion, her eyes moist and shining, with frequent -sallies at Gilchrist, who hovered round the table waiting upon the young -guests, and in her excitement making continual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> mistakes and stumblings, -which soon roused Dora to laugh, and Harry to apologise.</p> - -<p>“It is all right,” he cried, when Miss Bethune at last made a dart at -her attendant, and gave her, what is called in feminine language, “a -shake,” to bring her to herself.</p> - -<p>“Are you out of your wits, woman?” Miss Bethune exclaimed. “Go away and -leave me to look after the bairns, if ye cannot keep your head. Are you -out of your wits?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, mem, and I have plenty of reason, Gilchrist said, weeping, and -feeling for her apron, while the dish in her hand wavered wildly; and -then it was that Harry Gordon, coming to himself, cried out that it was -all right.</p> - -<p>“And I am going to have some of that,” he added, steadying the kind -creature, whose instinct of service had more effect than either -encouragement or reproof. And this little touch of reality settled him -too. He began to respond a little, to rouse himself, even to see the -humour of the situation, at which Dora had begun to laugh, but which -brought a soft moisture, in which was ease and consolation, to his eyes.</p> - -<p>It was not until about an hour later that Miss Bethune was left alone -with the young man. He had begun by this time to speak about himself. “I -am not so discouraged as you think,” he said, “I don’t seem to be -afraid. After all, it doesn’t matter much, does it, what happens to a -young fellow all alone in the world? It’s only me, anyhow. I have no -wife,” he said, with a faint laugh, “no sister to be involved—nothing -but my own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> rather useless person, a thing of no account. It wasn’t that -that knocked me down. It was just the feeling of the end of everything, -and that she was laid there that had been so good to me—so good—and -nothing ever to be done for her any more.”</p> - -<p>“I can forgive you that,” said Miss Bethune, with a sort of sob in her -throat. “And yet she was ill to you, unjust at the last.”</p> - -<p>“No, not that. I have had everything, too much for a man capable of -earning his living to accept—but then it seemed all so natural, it was -the common course of life. I was scarcely waking up to see that it could -not be.”</p> - -<p>“And a cruel rousing you have had at last, my poor boy.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said steadily, “I will never allow it was cruel; it has been -sharp and effectual. It couldn’t help being effectual, could it? since I -have no alternative. The pity is I am good for so little. No education -to speak of.”</p> - -<p>“You shall have education—as much as you can set your face to.”</p> - -<p>He looked up at her with a little air of surprise, and shook his head. -“No,” he said, “not now. I am too old. I must lose no more time. The -thing is, that my work will be worth so much less, being guided by no -skill. Skill is a beautiful thing. I envy the very scavengers,” he said -(who were working underneath the window), “for piling up their mud like -that, straight. I should never get it straight.” The poor young fellow -was so near tears that he was glad from time to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> time to have a chance -of a feeble laugh, which relieved him. “And that is humble enough! I -think much the best thing for me will be to go back to South America. -There are people who know me, who would give me a little place where I -could learn. Book-keeping can’t be such a tremendous mystery. There’s an -old clerk or two of my guardians"—here he paused to swallow down the -climbing sorrow—“who would give me a hint or two. And if the pay was -very small at first, why, I’m not an extravagant fellow.”</p> - -<p>“Are you sure of that?” his confidante said.</p> - -<p>He looked at her again, surprised, then glanced at himself and his -dress, which was not economical, and reddened and laughed again. “I am -afraid you are right,” he said. “I haven’t known much what economy was. -I have lived like the other people; but I am not too old to learn, and I -should not mind in the least what I looked like, or how I lived, for a -time. Things would get better after a time.”</p> - -<p>They were standing together near the window, for he had begun to roam -about the room as he talked, and she had risen from her chair with one -of the sudden movements of excitement. “There will be no need,” she -said,—“there will be no need. Something will be found for you at home.”</p> - -<p>He shook his head. “You forget it is scarcely home to me. And what could -I do here that would be worth paying me for? I must no more be dependent -upon kindness. Oh, don’t think I do not feel kindness. What should I -have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> done this miserable day but for you, who have been so good to -me—as good as—as a mother, though I had no claim?”</p> - -<p>She gave a great cry, and seized him by both his hands. “Oh, lad, if you -knew what you were saying! That word to me, that have died for it, and -have no claim! Gilchrist, Gilchrist!” she cried, suddenly dropping his -hands again, “come here and speak to me! Help me! have pity upon me! For -if this is not him, all nature and God’s against me. Come here before I -speak or die!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was young Gordon himself, alarmed but not excited as by any idea of a -new discovery which could affect his fate, who brought Miss Bethune back -to herself, far better than Gilchrist could do, who had no art but to -weep and entreat, and then yield to her mistress whatever she might -wish. <i>A quelque chose malheur est bon.</i> He had been in the habit of -soothing and calming down an excitable, sometimes hysterical woman, -whose <i>accès des nerfs</i> meant nothing, or were, at least, supposed to -mean nothing, except indeed nerves, and the ups and downs which are -characteristic of them. He was roused by the not dissimilar outburst of -feeling or passion, wholly incomprehensible to him from any other point -of view, to which his new friend had given way. He took it very quietly, -with the composure of use and wont. The sight of her emotion and -excitement brought him quite back to himself. He could imagine no reason -whatever for it, except the sympathetic effect of all the troublous -circumstances in which she had been, without any real reason, involved. -It was her sympathy, her kindness for himself and for Dora, he had not -the least doubt, which, by bringing her into those scenes of pain and -trouble, and associating her so completely with the complicated and -intricate story, had brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> on this “attack.” What he had known to be -characteristic of the one woman with whom he had been in familiar -intercourse for so long a period of his life seemed to Harry -characteristic of all women. He was quite equal to the occasion. Dr. -Roland himself, who would have been so full of professional curiosity, -so anxious to make out what it was all about, as perhaps to lessen his -promptitude in action, would scarcely have been of so much real use as -Harry, who had no <i>arrière pensée</i>, but addressed himself to the -immediate emergency with all his might. He soothed the sufferer, so that -she was soon relieved by copious floods of tears, which seemed to him -the natural method of getting rid of all that emotion and excitement, -but which surprised Gilchrist beyond description, and even Miss Bethune -herself, whose complete breakdown was so unusual and unlike her. He left -her quite at ease in his mind as to her condition, having persuaded her -to lie down, and recommended Gilchrist to darken the room, and keep her -mistress in perfect quiet.</p> - -<p>“I will go and look after my things,” he said, “and I’ll come back when -I have made all my arrangements, and tell you everything. Oh, don’t -speak now! You will be all right in the evening if you keep quite quiet -now: and if you will give me your advice then, it will be very, very -grateful to me.” He made a little warning gesture, keeping her from -replying, and then kissed her hand and went away. He had himself pulled -down the blind to subdue a little of the garish July daylight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> and -placed her on a sofa in the corner—ministrations which both mistress -and maid permitted with bewilderment, so strange to them was at once the -care and the authority of such proceedings. They remained, Miss Bethune -on the sofa, Gilchrist, open-mouthed, staring at her, until the door was -heard to close upon the young man. Then Miss Bethune rose slowly, with a -kind of awe in her face.</p> - -<p>“As soon as you think he is out of sight,” she said, “Gilchrist, we’ll -have up the blinds again, but not veesibly, to go against the boy.”</p> - -<p>“Eh, mem,” cried Gilchrist, between laughing and crying, “to bid me -darken the room, and you that canna abide the dark, night or day!”</p> - -<p>“It was a sweet thought, Gilchrist—all the pure goodness of him and the -kind heart.”</p> - -<p>“I am not saying, mem, but what the young gentleman has a very kind -heart.”</p> - -<p>“You are not saying? And what can you know beyond what’s veesible to -every person that sees him? It is more than that. Gilchrist, you and all -the rest, what do I care what you say? If that is not the voice of -nature, what is there to trust to in this whole world? Why should that -young lad, bred up so different, knowing nothing of me or my ways, have -taken to me? Look at Dora. What a difference! She has no instinct, -nothing drawing her to her poor mother. That was a most misfortunate -woman, but not an ill woman, Gilchrist. Look how she has done by mine! -But Dora has no leaning towards her, no tender thought; whereas he, my -bonnie boy—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Mem,” said Gilchrist, “but if it was the voice of nature, it would be -double strong in Miss Dora; for there is no doubt that it was her -mother: and with this one—oh, my dear leddy, you ken yoursel’——”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune gave her faithful servant a look of flame, and going to the -windows, drew up energetically the blinds, making the springs resound. -Then she said in her most satirical tone: “And what is it I ken mysel’?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “there’s a’ the evidence, first his ain -story, and then the leddy’s that convinced ye for a moment; and then, -what is most o’ a, the old gentleman, the writer, one of them that kens -everything: of the father that died so many long years ago, and the baby -before him.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune put up her hands to her ears, she stamped her foot upon the -ground. “How dare ye—how dare ye?” she cried. “Either man or woman that -repeats that fool story to me is no friend of mine. My child, that I’ve -felt in my heart growing up, and seen him boy and man! What’s that old -man’s word—a stranger that knows nothing, that had even forgotten what -he was put up to say—in comparison with what is in my heart? Is there -such a thing as nature, or no? Is a mother just like any other person, -no better, rather worse? Oh, woman!—you that are a woman! with no call -to be rigid about your evidence like a man—what’s your evidence to me? -I will just tell him when he comes back. ‘My bonnie man,’ I will say, -‘you have been driven<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> here and there in this world, and them that liked -you best have failed you; but here is the place where you belong, and -here is a love that will never fail!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear leddy, my own mistress,” cried Gilchrist, “think—think -before you do that! He will ask ye for the evidence, if I am not to ask -for it. He’s a fine, independent-spirited young gentleman, and he will -just shake his head, and say he’ll lippen to nobody again. Oh, dinna -deceive the young man! Ye might find out after——”</p> - -<p>“What, Gilchrist? Do you think I would change my mind about my own son, -and abandon him, like this woman, at the last?”</p> - -<p>“I never knew you forsake one that trusted in ye, I’m not saying that; -but there might come one after all that had a better claim. There might -appear one that even the like of me would believe in—that would have -real evidence in his favour, that was no more to be doubted than if he -had never been taken away out of your arms.”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune turned round quick as lightning upon her maid, her eyes -shining, her face full of sudden colour and light. “God bless you, -Gilchrist!” she cried, seizing the maid by her shoulders with a half -embrace; “I see now you have never believed in that story—no more than -me.”</p> - -<p>Poor Gilchrist could but gape with her mouth open at this unlooked-for -turning of the tables. She had presented, without knowing it, the -strongest argument of all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span></p> - -<p>After this, the patient, whom poor Harry had left to the happy -influences of quiet and darkness, with all the blinds drawn up and the -afternoon sunshine pouring in, went through an hour or two of restless -occupation, her mind in the highest activity, her thoughts and her hands -full. She promised finally to Gilchrist, not without a mental -reservation in the case of special impulse or new light, not to disclose -her conviction to Harry, but to wait for at least a day or two on -events. But even this resolution did not suffice to reduce her to any -condition of quiet, or make the rest which he had prescribed possible. -She turned to a number of things which had been laid aside to be done -one time or another; arrangement of new possessions and putting away of -old, for which previously she had never found a fit occasion, and -despatched them, scarcely allowing Gilchrist to help her, at lightning -speed.</p> - -<p>Finally, she took out an old and heavy jewel-box, which had stood -untouched in her bedroom for years; for, save an old brooch or two and -some habitual rings which never left her fingers, Miss Bethune wore no -ornaments. She took them into her sitting-room as the time approached -when Harry might be expected back. It would give her a countenance, she -thought; it would keep her from fixing her eyes on him while he spoke, -and thus being assailed through all the armour of the heart at the same -time. She could not look him in the face and see that likeness which -Gilchrist, unconvincible, would not see, and yet remain silent. Turning -over the old-fashioned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> jewels, telling him about them, to whom they had -belonged, and all the traditions regarding them, would help her in that -severe task of self-repression. She put the box on the table before her, -and pulled out the trays.</p> - -<p>Nobody in Bloomsbury had seen these treasures before: the box had been -kept carefully locked, disguised in an old brown cover, that no one -might even guess how valuable it was. Miss Bethune was almost tempted to -send for Dora to see the diamonds in their old-fashioned settings, and -that pearl necklace which was still finer in its perfection of lustre -and shape. To call Dora when there was anything to show was so natural, -and it might make it easier for her to keep her own counsel; but she -reflected that in Dora’s presence the young man would not be more than -half hers, and forbore.</p> - -<p>Never in her life had those jewels given her so much pleasure. They had -given her no pleasure, indeed. She had not been allowed to have them in -that far-off stormy youth, which had been lightened by such a sweet, -guilty gleam of happiness, and quenched in such misery of downfall. When -they came to her by inheritance, like all the rest, these beautiful -things had made her heart sick. What could she do with them—a woman -whose life no longer contained any possible festival, who had nobody -coming after her, no heir to make heirlooms sweet? She had locked the -box, and almost thrown away the key, which, however, was a passionate -suggestion repugnant to common sense, and resolved itself naturally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> -into confiding the key to Gilchrist, in whose most secret repositories -it had been kept, with an occasional furtive interval during which the -maid had secretly visited and “polished up” the jewels, making sure that -they were all right. Neither mistress nor maid was quite aware of their -value, and both probably exaggerated it in their thoughts; but some of -the diamonds were fine, though all were very old-fashioned in -arrangement, and the pearls were noted. Miss Bethune pulled out the -trays, and the gems flashed and sparkled in a thousand colours in the -slant of sunshine which poured in its last level ray through one window, -just before the sun set—and made a dazzling show upon the table, almost -blinding Janie, who came up with a message, and could not restrain a -little shriek of wonder and admiration. The letter was one of trouble -and appeal from poor Mrs. Hesketh, who and her husband were becoming -more and more a burden on the shoulders of their friends. It asked for -money, as usual, just a little money to go on with, as the shop in which -they had been set up was not as yet producing much. The letter had been -written with evident reluctance, and was marked with blots of tears. -Miss Bethune’s mind was too much excited to consider calmly any such -petition. Full herself of anticipation, of passionate hope, and -visionary enthusiasm, which transported her above all common things, how -was she to refuse a poor woman’s appeal for the bare necessities of -existence—a woman “near her trouble,” with a useless husband, who was -unworthy, yet whom the poor soul loved?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> She called Gilchrist, who -generally carried the purse, to get something for the poor little pair.</p> - -<p>“Is there anybody waiting?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh ay, mem,” said Gilchrist, “there’s somebody waiting,—just him -himsel’, the weirdless creature, that is good for nothing.” Gilchrist -did not approve of all her mistress’s liberalities. “I would not just be -their milch cow to give them whatever they’re wanting,” she said. “It’s -awful bad for any person to just know where to run when they are in -trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace!” cried her mistress. “Am I one to shut up my heart -when the blessing of God has come to me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem!” cried Gilchrist, remonstrating, holding up her hands.</p> - -<p>But Miss Bethune stamped her foot, and the wiser woman yielded.</p> - -<p>She found Hesketh standing at the door of the sitting-room, when she -went out to give him, very unwillingly, the money for his wife. “The -impident weirdless creature! He would have been in upon my leddy in -another moment, pressing to her very presence with his impident ways!” -cried Gilchrist, hot and indignant. The faithful woman paused at the -door as she came back, and looked at her mistress turning over and -rearranging these treasures. “And her sitting playing with her bonnie -dies, in a rapture like a little bairn!” she said to herself, putting up -her apron to her eyes. And then Gilchrist shook her head—shook it, -growing quicker and quicker in the movement, as if she would have -twisted it off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span></p> - -<p>But Miss Bethune was “very composed” when young Gordon came back. With -an intense sense of the humour of the position, which mistress and maid -communicated to each other with one glance of tacit co-operation, these -two women comported themselves as if the behests of the young visitor -who had taken the management of Miss Bethune’s <i>accès des nerfs</i> upon -himself, had been carried out. She assumed, almost unconsciously, -notwithstanding the twinkle in her eye, the languid aspect of a woman -who has been resting after unusual excitement. All women, they say (as -they say so many foolish things), are actors; all women, at all events, -let us allow, learn as the A B C of their training the art of taking up -a rôle assigned to them, and fulfilling the necessities of a position. -“You will see what I’m reduced to by what I’m doing,” she said. “As if -there was nothing of more importance in life, I am just playing myself -with my toys, like Dora, or any other little thing.”</p> - -<p>“So much the best thing you could do,” said young Harry; and he was -eager and delighted to look through the contents of the box with her.</p> - -<p>He was far better acquainted with their value than she was, and while -she told him the family associations connected with each ornament, he -discussed very learnedly what they were, and distinguished the -old-fashioned rose diamonds which were amongst those of greater value, -with a knowledge that seemed to her extraordinary. They spent, in fact, -an hour easily and happily over that box, quite relieved from graver -considerations by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> the interposition of a new thing, in which there were -no deep secrets of the heart or commotions of being involved: and thus -were brought down into the ordinary from the high and troublous level of -feeling and excitement on which they had been. To Miss Bethune the -little episode was one of child’s play in the midst of the most serious -questions of the world. Had she thought it possible beforehand that such -an interval could have been, she would, in all likelihood, have scorned -herself for the dereliction, and almost scorned the young man for being -able to forget at once his sorrow and the gravity of his circumstances -at sight of anything so trifling as a collection of trinkets. But in -reality this interlude was balm to them both. It revealed to Miss -Bethune a possibility of ordinary life and intercourse, made sweet by -understanding and affection, which was a revelation to her repressed and -passionate spirit; and it soothed the youth with that renewing of fresh -interests, reviving and succeeding the old, which gives elasticity to -the mind, and courage to face the world anew. They did not know how long -they had been occupied over the jewels, when the hour of dinner came -round again, and Gilchrist appeared with her preparations, still further -increasing that sense of peaceful life renewed, and the order of common -things begun again. It was only after this meal was over, the jewels -being all restored to their places, and the box to its old brown cover -in Miss Bethune’s bedroom, that the discussion of the graver question -was resumed.</p> - -<p>“There is one thing,” Miss Bethune said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> “that, however proud you may -be, you must let me say: and that is, that everything having turned out -so different to your thoughts, and you left—you will not be -offended?—astray, as it were, in this big unfriendly place——”</p> - -<p>“I cannot call it unfriendly,” said young Gordon. “If other people find -it so, it is not my experience. I have found you.” He looked up at her -with a half laugh, with moisture in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ay,” she said, with emphasis, “you have found me—you say well—found -me when you were not looking for me. I accept the word as a good omen. -And after that?”</p> - -<p>If only she would not have abashed him from time to time with those dark -sayings, which seemed to mean something to which he had no clue! He felt -himself brought suddenly to a standstill in his grateful effusion of -feeling, and put up his hand to arrest her in what she was evidently -going on to say.</p> - -<p>“Apart from that,” he said hurriedly, “I am not penniless. I have not -been altogether dependent; at least, the form of my dependence has been -the easiest one. I have had my allowance from my guardian ever since I -came to man’s estate. It was my own, though, of course, of his giving. -And I am not an extravagant fellow. It was not as if I wanted money for -to-morrow’s living, for daily bread.” He coloured as he spoke, with the -half pride, half shame, of discussing such a subject. “I think,” he -said, throwing off that flush with a shake of his head,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> “that I have -enough to take me back to South America, and there, I told you, I have -friends. I don’t think I can fail to find work there.”</p> - -<p>“But under such different circumstances! Have you considered? A poor -clerk where you were one of the fine gentlemen of the place. Such a -change of position is easier where you are not known.”</p> - -<p>He grew red again, with a more painful colour. “I don’t think so,” he -said quickly. “I don’t believe that my old friends would cast me off -because, instead of being a useless fellow about town, I was a poor -clerk.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe you are right,” said Miss Bethune very gravely. “I am not one -that thinks so ill of human nature. They would not cast you off. But -you, working hard all day, wearied at night, with no house to entertain -them in that entertained you, would it not be you that would cast off -them?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, startled, for a moment. “Do you think,” he cried, -“that poverty makes a man mean like that?” And then he added slowly: “It -is possible, perhaps, that it might be so.” Then he brightened up again, -and looked her full in the face. “But then there would be nobody to -blame for that, it would be simply my own fault.”</p> - -<p>“God bless you, laddie!” cried Miss Bethune quite irrelevantly; and then -she too paused. “If it should happen so that there was a place provided -for you at home. No, no, not what you call dependence—far from it, hard -work. I know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> one—a lady that has property in the North—property that -has not been well managed—that has given her more trouble than it is -worth. But there’s much to be made of it, if she had a man who would -give his mind to it as if—as if it were his own.”</p> - -<p>“But I,” he said, “know nothing about the North. I would not know how to -manage. I told you I had no education. And would this lady have me, -trust me, put that in my hands, without knowing, without——”</p> - -<p>“She would trust you,” said Miss Bethune, clasping her hands together -firmly, and looking him in the face, in a rigid position which showed -how little steady she was—“she would trust you, for life and death, on -my word.”</p> - -<p>His eyes fell before that unfathomable concentration of hers. “And you -would trust me like that—knowing so little, so little? And how can you -tell even that I am honest—even that I am true? That there’s nothing -behind, no weakness, no failure?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to me,” she said harshly. “I know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> evening passed, however, without any further revelations. Miss -Bethune explained to the young man, with all the lucidity of a man of -business, the situation and requirements of that “property in the -North,” which would give returns, she believed, of various kinds, not -always calculated in balance sheets, if it was looked after by a man who -would deal with it “as if it were his own.” The return would be -something in money and rents, but much more in human comfort and -happiness. She had never had the courage to tackle that problem, she -said, and the place had been terrible to her, full of associations which -would be thought of no more if he were there. The result was, that young -Gordon went away thoughtful, somewhat touched by the feeling with which -Miss Bethune had spoken of her poor crofters, somewhat roused by the -thought of “the North,” that vague and unknown country which was the -country of his fathers, the land of brown heath and shaggy wood, the -country of Scott, which is, after all, distinction enough for any -well-conditioned stranger. Should he try that strange new opening of -life suddenly put before him? The unknown of itself has a charm—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">If the pass were dangerous known,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">The danger’s self were lure alone.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span></p> - -<p>He went back to his hotel with at least a new project fully occupying -all his thoughts.</p> - -<p>On the next evening, in the dusk of the summer night, Miss Bethune was -in her bed-chamber alone. She had no light, though she was a lover of -the light, and had drawn up the blinds as soon as the young physician -who prescribed a darkened room had disappeared. She had a habit of -watching out the last departing rays of daylight, and loved to sit in -the gloaming, as she called it, reposing from all the cares of the day -in that meditative moment. It was a bad sign of Miss Bethune’s state of -mind when she called early for her lamp. She was seated thus in the -dark, when young Gordon came in audibly to the sitting-room, introduced -by Gilchrist, who told him her mistress would be with him directly; but, -knowing Miss Bethune would hear what she said, did not come to call her. -The lamps were lighted in that room, and showed a little outline of -light through the chinks of the door. She smiled to herself in the dark, -with a beatitude that ought to have lighted it up, as she listened to -the big movements of the young man in the lighted room next door. He had -seated himself under Gilchrist’s ministrations; but when she went away -he got up and moved about, looking, as Miss Bethune divined, at the -pictures on the walls and the books and little silver toys on the -tables.</p> - -<p>He made more noise, she thought to herself proudly, than a woman does: -filled the space more, seemed to occupy and fill out everything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> Her -countenance and her heart expanded in the dark; she would have liked to -peep at him through the crevice of light round the door, or even the -keyhole, to see him when he did not know she was looking, to read the -secrets of his heart in his face. There were none there, she said to -herself with an effusion of happiness which brought the tears to her -eyes, none there which a mother should be afraid to discover. The luxury -of sitting there, holding her breath, hearing him move, knowing him so -near, was so sweet and so great, that she sat, too blessed to move, -taking all the good out of that happy moment before it should fleet -away.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, however, there came a dead silence. Had he sat down again? Had -he gone out on the balcony? What had become of him? She sat breathless, -wondering, listening for the next sound. Surely he had stepped outside -the window to look out upon the Bloomsbury street, and the waving of the -trees in the Square, and the stars shining overhead. Not a sound—yet, -yes, there was something. What was it? A faint, stealthy rustling, not -to be called a sound at all, rather some stealthy movement to annihilate -sound—the strangest contrast to the light firm step that had come into -the room, and the free movements which she had felt to be bigger than a -woman’s.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune in the dark held her breath; fear seized possession of her, -she knew not why; her heart sank, she knew not why. Oh, his father—his -father was not a good man!</p> - -<p>The rustling continued, very faint; it might have been a small animal -rubbing against the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> door. She sat bolt upright in her chair, -motionless, silent as a waxen image, listening. If perhaps, after all, -it should be only one of the little girls, or even the cat rubbing -against the wall idly on the way downstairs! A troubled smile came over -her face, her heart gave a throb of relief. But then the sound changed, -and Miss Bethune’s face again grew rigid, her heart stood still.</p> - -<p>Some one was trying very cautiously, without noise, to open the door; to -turn the handle without making any sound required some time; it creaked -a little, and then there was silence—guilty silence, the pause of -stealth alarmed by the faintest noise; then it began again. Slowly, -slowly the handle turned round, the door opened, a hair’s breadth at a -time. O Lord above! his father—his father was an ill man.</p> - -<p>There was some one with her in the room—some one unseen, as she was, -swallowed up in the darkness, veiled by the curtains at the windows, -which showed faintly a pale streak of sky only, letting in no light. -Unseen, but not inaudible; a hurried, fluttering breath betraying him, -and that faint sound of cautious, uneasy movement, now and then -instantly, guiltily silenced, and then resumed. She could feel the -stealthy step thrill the flooring, making a jar, which was followed by -one of those complete silences in which the intruder too held his -breath, then another stealthy step.</p> - -<p>A thousand thoughts, a very avalanche, precipitated themselves through -her mind. A man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> did not steal into a dark room like that if he were -doing it for the first time. And his words last night, “How do you know -even that I am honest?” And then his father—his father—oh, God help -him, God forgive him!—that was an ill man! And his upbringing in a -country where lies were common, with a guardian that did him no justice, -and the woman that cut him off. And not to know that he had a creature -belonging to him in the world to be made glad or sorry whatever -happened! Oh, God forgive him, God help him! the unfortunate, the -miserable boy! “Mine all the same—mine all the same!” her heart said, -bleeding—oh, that was no metaphor! bleeding with the anguish, the -awful, immeasurable blow.</p> - -<p>If there was any light at all in the room, it was a faint greyness, just -showing in the midst of the dark the vague form of a little table -against the wall, and a box in a brown cover—a box—no, no, the shape -of a box, but only something standing there, something, the accursed -thing for which life and love were to be wrecked once more. Oh, his -father—his father! But his father would not have done that. Yet it was -honester to take the trinkets, the miserable stones that would bring in -money, than to wring a woman’s heart. And what did the boy know? He had -never been taught, never had any example, God help him, God forgive him! -and mine—mine all the time!</p> - -<p>Then out of the complete darkness came into that faint grey where the -box was, an arm, a hand. It touched, not calculating the distance, the -solid substance with a faint jar, and retired like a ghost,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> while she -sat rigid, looking on; then more cautiously, more slowly still, it stole -forth again, and grasped the box. Miss Bethune had settled nothing what -to do, she had thought of nothing but the misery of it, she had -intended, so far as she had any intention, to watch while the tragedy -was played out, the dreadful act accomplished. But she was a woman of -sudden impulses, moved by flashes of resolution almost independent of -her will.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, more ghostlike still than the arm of the thief, she made a -swift movement forward, and put her hand upon his. Her grasp seemed to -crush through the quivering clammy fingers, and she felt under her own -the leap of the pulses; but the criminal was prepared for every -emergency, and uttered no cry. She felt the quick noiseless change of -attitude, and then the free arm swing to strike her—heaven and earth! -to strike her, a woman twice his age, to strike her, his friend, his—— -She was a strong woman, in the fulness of health and courage. As quick -as lightning, she seized the arm as it descended, and held him as in a -grip of iron. Was it guilt that made him like a child in her hold? He -had a stick in his hand, shortened, with a heavy head, ready to deal a -blow. Oh, the coward, the wretched coward! She held him panting for a -moment, unable to say a word; and then she called out with a voice that -was no voice, but a kind of roar of misery, for “Gilchrist, Gilchrist!”</p> - -<p>Gilchrist, who was never far off, who always <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span>had her ear open for her -mistress, heard, and came flying from up or down stairs with her candle: -and some one else heard it, who was standing pensive on the balcony, -looking out, and wondering what fate had now in store for him, and -mingling his thoughts with the waving of the trees and the nameless -noises of the street. Which of them arrived first was never known, he -from the other room throwing wide the door of communication, or she from -the stairs with the impish, malicious light of that candle throwing in -its sudden illumination as with a pleasure in the deed.</p> - -<p>The spectators were startled beyond measure to see the lady in apparent -conflict with a man, but they had no time to make any remarks. The -moment the light flashed upon her, Miss Bethune gave a great cry. “It’s -you, ye vermin!” she cried, flinging the furtive creature in her grasp -from her against the wall, which half stunned him for the moment. And -then she stood for a moment, her head bent back, her face without a -trace of colour, confronting the eager figure in the doorway, surrounded -by the glow of the light, flying forward to help her.</p> - -<p>“O God, forgive me!” she cried, “God, forgive me, for I am an ill woman: -but I will never forgive myself!”</p> - -<p>The man who lay against the wall, having dropped there on the floor with -the vehemence of her action, perhaps exaggerating the force that had -been used against him, to excite pity—for Gilchrist, no mean opponent, -held one door, and that unexpected dreadful apparition of the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> man -out of the lighted room bearing down upon him, filled the other—was -Alfred Hesketh, white, miserable, and cowardly, huddled up in a wretched -heap, with furtive eyes gleaming, and the heavy-headed stick furtively -grasped, still ready to deal an unexpected blow, had he the opportunity, -though he was at the same time rubbing the wrist that held it, as if in -pain.</p> - -<p>Young Gordon had made a hurried step towards him, when Miss Bethune put -out her hand. She had dropped into a chair, where she sat panting for -breath.</p> - -<p>“Wait,” she said, “wait till I can speak.”</p> - -<p>“You brute!” cried Harry; “how dare you come in here? What have you done -to frighten the lady?”</p> - -<p>He was interrupted by a strange chuckle of a laugh from Miss Bethune’s -panting throat.</p> - -<p>“It’s rather me, I’m thinking, that’s frightened him,” she said. “Ye -wretched vermin of a creature, how did ye know? What told ye in your -meeserable mind that there was something here to steal? And ye would -have struck me—me that am dealing out to ye your daily bread! No, my -dear, you’re not to touch him; don’t lay a finger on him. The Lord be -thanked—though God forgive me for thanking Him for the wickedness of -any man!”</p> - -<p>How enigmatical this all was to Harry Gordon, and how little he could -imagine any clue to the mystery, it is needless to say. Gilchrist -herself thought her mistress was temporarily out of her mind. She was -quicker, however, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> realise what had happened than the young man, who -did not think of the jewels, nor remember anything about them. Gilchrist -looked with anxiety at her lady’s white face and gleaming eyes.</p> - -<p>“Take her into the parlour, Master Harry,” she said: “she’s just done -out. And I’ll send for the police.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Gilchrist,” said Miss Bethune. “Get up, -ye creature. You’re not worth either man’s or woman’s while; you have no -more fusion than a cat. Get up, and begone, ye poor, weak, wretched, -cowardly vermin, for that’s what ye are: and I thank the Lord with all -my heart that it was only you! Gilchrist, stand away from the door, and -let the creature go.”</p> - -<p>He rose, dragging himself up by degrees, with a furtive look at Gordon, -who, indeed, looked a still less easy opponent than Miss Bethune.</p> - -<p>“I take that gentleman to witness,” he said, “as there’s no evidence -against me but just a lady’s fancy: and I’ve been treated very bad, and -my wrist broken, for aught I know, and bruised all over, and I——”</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune stamped her foot on the floor. “Begone, ye born liar and -robber!” she said. “Gilchrist will see ye off the premises; and mind, -you never come within my sight again. Now, Mr. Harry, as she calls ye, -I’ll go into the parlour, as she says; and the Lord, that only knows the -wickedness that has been in my mind, forgive me this night! and it would -be a comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> to my heart, my bonnie man, if you would say Amen.”</p> - -<p>“Amen with all my heart,” said the young man, with a smile, “but, so far -as I can make out, your wickedness is to be far too good and forgiving. -What did the fellow do? I confess I should not like to be called a -vermin, as you called him freely—but if he came with intent to steal, -he should have been handed over to the police, indeed he should.”</p> - -<p>“I am more worthy of the police than him, if ye but knew: but, heaven be -praised, you’ll never know. I mind now, he came with a message when I -was playing with these wretched diamonds, like an old fool: and he must -have seen or scented them with the creeminal instinct Dr. Roland speaks -about.”</p> - -<p>She drew a long breath, for she had not yet recovered from the panting -of excitement, and then told her story, the rustling without, the -opening of the door, the hand extended to the box. When she had told all -this with much vividness, Miss Bethune suddenly stopped, drew another -long breath, and dropped back upon the sofa where she was sitting. It -was not her way; the lights had been dazzling and confusing her ever -since they blazed upon her by the opening of the two doors, and the -overwhelming horror, and blessed but tremendous revulsion of feeling, -which had passed in succession over her, had been more than her -strength, already undermined by excitement, could bear. Her breath, her -consciousness, her life, seemed to ebb away in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> moment, leaving only a -pale shadow of her, fallen back upon the cushions.</p> - -<p>Once more Harry was the master of the situation. He had seen a woman -faint before, which was almost more than Gilchrist, with all her -experience, had done, and he had the usual remedies at his fingers’ -ends. But this was not like the usual easy faints, over in a minute, to -which young Gordon had been accustomed, and Dr. Roland had to be -summoned from below, and a thrill of alarm had run through the house, -Mrs. Simcox herself coming up from the kitchen, with strong salts and -feathers to burn, before Miss Bethune came to herself. The house was -frightened, and so at last was the experienced Harry; but Dr. Roland’s -interest and excitement may be said to have been pleasurable. “I have -always thought this was what was likely. I’ve been prepared for it,” he -said to himself, as he hovered round the sofa. It would be wrong to -suppose that he lengthened, or at least did nothing to shorten, this -faint for his own base purposes, that he might the better make out -certain signs which he thought he had recognised. But the fact was, that -not only Dora had come from abovestairs, but even Mr. Mannering had -dragged himself down, on the alarm that Miss Bethune was dead or dying; -and that the whole household had gathered in her room, or on the landing -outside; while she lay, in complicity (or not) with the doctor, in that -long-continued swoon, which the spectators afterwards said lasted an -hour, or two, or even three hours, according to their temperaments.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span></p> - -<p>When she came to herself at last, the scene upon which she opened her -eyes was one which helped her recovery greatly, by filling her with -wrath and indignation. She lay in the middle of her room, in a strong -draught, the night air blowing from window to window across her, the -lamp even under its shade, much more the candles on the mantelpiece, -blown about, and throwing a wavering glare upon the agitated group, -Gilchrist in the foreground with her apron at her eyes, and behind her -Dora, red with restrained emotions, and Janie and Molly crying freely, -while Mrs. Simcox brandished a bunch of fuming feathers, and Mr. -Mannering peered over the landlady’s head with his “pince-nez” -insecurely balanced on his nose, and his legs trembling under him in a -harmony of unsteadiness, but anxiety. Miss Bethune’s wrist was in the -grasp of the doctor; and Harry stood behind with a fan, which, in the -strong wind blowing across her from window to window, struck the patient -as ludicrously unnecessary. “What is all this fuss about?” she cried, -trying to raise herself up.</p> - -<p>“There’s no fuss, my dear lady,” said the doctor; “but you must keep -perfectly quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re there, Dr. Roland? Then there’s one sane person. But, for -goodness’ sake, make Mr. Mannering sit down, and send all these idiots -away. What’s the matter with me, that I’ve to get my death of cold, and -be murdered with that awful smell, and even Harry Gordon behaving like a -fool, making an air with a fan, when there’s a gale blowing? Go away, go -away.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<p>“You see that our friend has come to herself,” said the doctor. “Shut -that window, somebody, the other will be enough; and, my dear woman, for -the sake of all that’s good, take those horrid feathers away.”</p> - -<p>“I am murdered with the smell!” cried Miss Bethune, placing her hands -over her face. “But make Mr. Mannering sit down, he’s not fit to stand -after his illness; and Harry, boy, sit down, too, and don’t drive me out -of my senses. Go away, go all of you away.”</p> - -<p>The last to be got rid of was Dr. Roland, who assured everybody that the -patient was now quite well, but languid. “You want to get rid of me too, -I know,” he said, “and I’m going; but I should like to see you in bed -first.”</p> - -<p>“You shall not see me in bed, nor no other man,” said Miss Bethune. “I -will go to bed when I am disposed, doctor. I’m not your patient, mind, -at all events, now.”</p> - -<p>“You were half an hour since: but I’m not going to pretend to any -authority,” said the doctor. “I hope I know better. Don’t agitate -yourself any more, if you’ll be guided by me. You have been screwing up -that heart of yours far too tight.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know,” she said, “that I have got a heart at all?”</p> - -<p>“Probably not from the sentimental point of view,” he replied, with a -little fling of sarcasm: “but I know you couldn’t live without the -physical organ, and it’s over-strained. Good-night, since I see you want -to get rid of me. But I’ll be handy downstairs, and mind you come for -me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> Gilchrist, on the moment if she should show any signs again.”</p> - -<p>This was said to Gilchrist in an undertone as the doctor went away.</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune sat up on her sofa, still very pale, still with a singing -in her ears, and the glitter of fever in her eyes. “You are not to go -away, Harry,” she said. “I have something to tell you before you go.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mem,” said Gilchrist, “for any sake, not to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Go away, and bide away till I send for you,” cried the mistress. “And, -Harry, sit you down here by me. I am going to tell you a story. This -night has taught me many things. I might die, or I might be murdered for -the sake of a few gewgaws that are nothing to me, and go down to my -grave with a burden on my heart. I want to speak before I die.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-night,” he cried. “You are in no danger. I’ll sleep here on the -sofa by way of guard, and to-morrow you will send them to your bankers. -Don’t tire yourself any more to-night.”</p> - -<p>“You are like all the rest, and understand nothing about it,” she cried -impatiently. “It is just precisely now that I will speak, and no other -time. Harry, I am going to tell you a story. It is like most women’s -stories—about a young creature that was beguiled and loved a man. He -was a man that had a fine outside, and looked as good as he was bonnie, -or at least this misfortunate thing thought so. He had nothing, and she -had nothing. But she was the last of her family,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> and would come into a -good fortune if she pleased her uncle that was the head of the name. But -the uncle could not abide this man. Are you listening to me? Mind, it is -a story, but not an idle story, and every word tells. Well, she was sent -away to a lonely country place, an old house, with two old servants in -it, to keep her free of the man. But the man followed; and in that -solitude who was to hinder them seeing each other? They did for a while -every day. And then the two married each other, as two can do in -Scotland that make up their minds to risk it, and were living together -in secret in the depths of the Highlands, as I told you, nobody knowing -but the old servants that had been far fonder of her father than of the -uncle that was head of the house, and were faithful to her in life and -death. And then there came terrible news that the master was coming -back. That poor young woman—oh, she was a fool, and I do not defend -her!—had just been delivered in secret, in trouble and misery—for she -dared not seek help or nursing but what she got at home—of a bonnie -bairn,"—she put out her hand and grasped him by the arm,—“a boy, a -darling, though she had him but for two or three days. Think if you can -what that was. The master coming that had, so to speak, the power of -life and death in his hands, and the young, subdued girl that he had put -there to be in safety, the mother of a son——” Miss Bethune drew a long -breath. She silenced the remonstrance on the lips of her hearer by a -gesture, and went on:—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<p>“It was the man, her husband, that she thought loved her, that brought -the news. He said everything was lost if it should be known. He bid her -to be brave and put a good face upon it, for his sake and the boy’s. -Keep her fortune and cling to her inheritance she must, whatever -happened, for their sake. And while she was dazed in her weakness, and -could not tell what to think, he took the baby out of her arms, and -carried him away.</p> - -<p>“Harry Gordon, that’s five and twenty years ago, and man or bairn I have -never seen since, though I did that for them. I dreed my weird for ten -long years—ten years of mortal trouble—and never said a word, and -nobody knew. Then my uncle died, and the money, the terrible money, -bought with my life’s blood, became mine. And I looked for him then to -come back. But he never came back nor word nor sign of him. And my -son—the father, I had discovered what he was, I wanted never to hear -his name again—but my son—Harry Gordon, that’s you! They may say what -they will, but I know better. Who should know, if not the mother who -bore you? My heart went out to you when I saw you first, and yours to -me. You’ll not tell me that your heart did not speak for your mother? It -is you, my darling, it is you!”</p> - -<p>He had staggered to his feet, pale, trembling, and awe-stricken. The -sight of her emotion, the pity of her story, the revolt and resistance -in his own heart were too much for him. “I!” he cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Harry Gordon</span> passed the night upon the sofa in Miss Bethune’s -sitting-room. It was his opinion that her nerves were so shaken and her -mind so agitated that the consciousness of having some one at hand -within call, in case of anything happening, was of the utmost -consequence. I don’t know that any one else in the house entertained -these sentiments, but it was an idea in which he could not be shaken, -his experience all tending in that way.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, his nerves were scarcely less shaken than he -imagined hers to be. His mother! Was that his mother who called -good-night to him from the next room? who held that amusing colloquy -with the doctor through the closed door, defying all interference, and -bidding Dr. Roland look after his patient upstairs, and leave her in -peace with Gilchrist, who was better than any doctor? Was that his -mother? His heart beat with a strange confusion, but made no answer. And -his thoughts went over all the details with an involuntary scepticism. -No, there was no voice of nature, as she had fondly hoped; nothing but -the merest response to kind words and a kind look had drawn him towards -this old Scotch maiden lady, who he had thought, with a smile, reminded -him of something in Scott, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> therefore had an attraction such as -belongs to those whom we may have known in some previous state of being.</p> - -<p>What a strange fate was his, to be drawn into one circle after another, -one family after another, to which he had no right! And how was he to -convince this lady, who was so determined in her own way of thinking, -that he had no right, no title, to consider himself her son? But had he -indeed no title? Was she likely to make such a statement without proof -that it was true, without evidence? He thought of her with a kind of -amused but by no means disrespectful admiration, as she had stood -flinging from her the miserable would-be thief, the wretched, furtive -creature who was no match for a resolute and dauntless woman. All the -women Harry had ever known would have screamed or fled or fainted at -sight of a live burglar in their very bed-chamber. She flung him off -like a fly, like a reptile. That was not a weak woman, liable to be -deceived by any fancy. She had the look in her eyes of a human creature -afraid of nothing, ready to confront any danger. And could she then be -so easily deceived? Or was it true, actually true? Was he the son—not -of a woman whom it might be shame to discover, as he had always -feared—but of a spotless mother, a person of note, with an established -position and secure fortune? The land which he was to manage, which she -had roused him almost to enthusiasm about, by her talk of crofters and -cotters to be helped forward, and human service to be done—was that -land his own, coming to him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> by right, his natural place and -inheritance? Was he no waif and stray, no vague atom in the world -drifting hither and thither, but a man with an assured position, a -certain home, a place in society? How different from going back to South -America, and at the best becoming a laborious clerk where he had been -the young master! But he could not believe in it.</p> - -<p>He lay there silent through the short summer night, moving with -precaution upon the uneasy couch, which was too short and too small, but -where the good fellow would have passed the night waking and dosing for -anybody’s comfort, even were it only an old woman’s who had been kind to -him. But was she his mother—his mother? He could not believe it—he -could not, he could not! Her wonderful speeches and looks were all -explained now, and went to his heart: but they did not convince him, or -bring any enlightenment into his. Was she the victim of an illusion, -poor lady, self-deceived altogether? Or was there something in it, or -was there nothing in it? He thought of his father, and his heart -revolted. His poor father, whom he remembered with the halo round him of -childish affection, but whom he had learned to see through other -people’s eyes, not a strong man, not good for very much, but yet not one -to desert a woman who trusted in him. But of the young man’s thoughts -through that long uneasy night there was no end. He heard whisperings -and movements in the next room, subdued for his sake as he subdued his -inclination to turn and toss upon his sofa for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> hers, during half the -night. And then when the daylight came bright into the room through the -bars of the venetian blind there came silence, just when he had fully -woke up to the consciousness that life had begun again in a new world. A -little later, Gilchrist stole into his room, bringing him a cup of tea. -“You must come upstairs now; there’s a room where ye will get some -sleep. She’s sound now, and it’s broad daylight, and no fear of any -disturbance,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I want no more sleep. I’ll go and get a bath, and be ready for whatever -is wanted.” He caught her apron as she was turning away, that apron on -which so many hems had been folded. “Don’t go away,” he said. “Speak to -me, tell me, Gilchrist, for heaven’s sake, is this true?”</p> - -<p>“The Lord knows!” cried Gilchrist, shaking her head and clasping her -hands; “but oh, my young gentleman, dinna ask me!”</p> - -<p>“Whom can I ask?” he said. “Surely, surely you, that have been always -with her, can throw some light upon it. Is it true?”</p> - -<p>“It is true—true as death,” said the woman, “that all that happened to -my dear leddy; but oh, if you are the bairn, the Lord knows; he was but -two days old, and he would have been about your age. I can say not a -word, but only the Lord knows. And there’s nothing—nothing, though she -thinks sae, that speaks in your heart?”</p> - -<p>He shook his head, with a faint smile upon his face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dinna laugh, dinna laugh. I canna bear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> it, Mr. Harry; true or no’ -true, it’s woven in with every fibre o’ her heart. You have nae parents, -my bonnie man. Oh, could you no’ take it upon ye, true or no’ true? -There’s naebody I can hear of that it would harm or wrong if you were to -accept it. And there’s naebody kens but me how good she is. Her exterior -is maybe no’ sae smooth as many; but her heart it is gold—oh, her heart -it is gold! For God’s sake, who is the Father of all of us, and full of -mercy—such peety as a father hath unto his children dear—oh, my young -man, let her believe it, take her at her word! You will make her a happy -woman at the end of a’ her trouble, and it will do ye nae harm.”</p> - -<p>“Not if it is a fiction all the time,” he said, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“Who is to prove it’s a fiction? He would have been your age. She thinks -you have your grandfather’s een. I’m no’ sure now I look at you but -she’s right. She’s far more likely to be right than me: and now I look -at you well I think I can see it. Oh, Mr. Harry, what harm would it do -you? A good home and a good inheritance, and to make her happy. Is that -no’ worth while, even if maybe it were not what you would think perfitly -true?”</p> - -<p>“It can’t be half true, Gilchrist; it must be whole or nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Weel, then, it’s whole true; and I’ll gang to the stake for it. Is she -not the one that should know? And if you were to cast her off the morn -and break her heart, she would still believe it till<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> her dying day. -Turn round your head and let me look at you again. Oh, laddie, if I were -to gang to the stake for it, you have—you have your grandfather’s -een!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house in Bloomsbury was profoundly agitated by all these -discoveries. Curiously enough, and against all the previsions of his -friends, Mr. Mannering had not been thrown back by the excitement. The -sharp sting of these events which had brought back before him once more -the tragic climax of his life—the time when he had come back as out of -the grave and found his home desolate—when his wife had fled before his -face, not daring to meet his eye, although she had not knowingly sinned -against him, and when all the triumph of his return to life, and of his -discoveries and the fruit of his dreadful labours, had become bitterness -to him and misery—came back upon him, every incident standing out as if -it had been yesterday. He had fallen into the dead calm of failure, he -had dropped his tools from his hands, and all his ambition from his -heart. He had retired—he who had reappeared in existence after all his -sufferings, with the consciousness that now the ball was at his foot, -and fame if not fortune secured—into the second desert, more -impenetrable than any African forest, of these rooms in Bloomsbury, and -vegetated there all these years, forgetting more or less all that had -happened to him, and all that might have happened to him, and desiring -only to linger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> out the last of his life unknowing and unknown. And now -into his calm there had come back, clear as yesterday, all that terrible -climax, every detail of his own tragedy.</p> - -<p>It ought to have killed him: that would have seemed the most likely -event in his weakness, after his long illness; and perhaps,—who could -say?—the best thing that could have happened, in face of the new -circumstances, which he could not accept and had no right to refuse. But -no, it did not kill him. It acted upon him as great trouble acts on some -minds, like a strong stimulant. It stung him back into life, it seemed -to transfuse something, some new revivifying principle, into his veins. -He had wanted, perhaps, something to disperse the mists of illness and -physical dejection. He found it not in soothing influences or pleasure, -but in pain. From the day when he stumbled downstairs to Miss Bethune’s -room on the dreadful report that she was dying, he began at once to -resume his usual habits, and with almost more than his usual strength. -Was it possible that Death, that healer of all wounds, that peacemaker -in all tumults, had restored a rest that was wanting to the man’s secret -heart, never disclosed to any ear? She was dead, the woman who -unwittingly, without meaning it, had made of his life the silent tragedy -it had been. That she was guiltless, and that the catastrophe was all a -terrible mistake, had made it worse instead of better. He had thought -often that had she erred in passion, had she been carried away from him -by some strong gale of personal feeling, it would have been more -bearable:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> but the cruel fatality, the network of accident which had -made his life desolate, and hers he knew not what—this was what was -intolerable, a thing not to bear thinking of.</p> - -<p>But now she was dead, all the misery over, nothing left but the silence. -She had been nothing to him for years, torn out of his heart, flung out -of his life, perhaps with too little pity, perhaps with little -perception of the great sacrifice she had made in giving up to him -without even a protest her only child: but her very existence had been a -canker in his life; the thought that still the same circle of earth -enclosed them—him and the woman who had once been everything to him, -and then nothing, yet always something, something, a consciousness, a -fever, a jarring note that set all life out of tune. And now she was -dead. The strong pain of all this revival stung him back to strength. He -went out in defiance of the doctor, back to his usual work, resuming the -daily round. He had much to meet, to settle, to set right again, in his -renewed existence. And she was dead. The other side of life was closed -and sealed, and the stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre. Nothing -could happen to bring that back, to renew any consciousness of it more. -Strange and sad and disturbing as this event was, it seemed to settle -and clear the turbid current of a spoiled life.</p> - -<p>And perhaps the other excitement and climax of the life of his neighbour -which had been going on under the same roof, helped Mr. Mannering in the -renewal of his own history. When he heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> Miss Bethune’s story, the -silent rebellion against his own, which had been ever in his mind, was -silenced. It is hard, in the comparison of troubles, which people who -have been more or less crushed in life are so fond of making, when -brought into sufficiently intimate relation with each other, to have to -acknowledge that perhaps a brother pilgrim, a sister, has had more to -bear than oneself. Even in misery we love to be foremost, to have the -bitter in our cup acknowledged as more bitter than that of others. But -yet, when Mr. Mannering heard, as she could tell him, the story of the -woman who had lived so near him for years with that unsuspected secret, -he did not deny that her lot had been more terrible than his own. Miss -Bethune was eager to communicate her own tale in those days of -excitement and transition. She went to him of her own accord after the -first day of his return to his work, while the doctor hovered about the -stairs, up and down, and could not rest, in terror for the result. Dr. -Roland could not believe that his patient would not break down. He could -not go out, nor even sit quietly in his own room, less he should be -wanted, and not ready at the first call. He could not refrain from a -gibe at the lady he met on the stairs. “Yes, by all means,” he said, “go -and tell him all about your own business. Go and send him out to look -after that wretched Hesketh, whom you are going to keep up, I hear, all -the same.”</p> - -<p>“Not him, doctor. The poor unhappy young creature, his wife.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; that is how these miserable villains get hold upon people of -weak minds. His wife! I’d have sent him to gaol. His wife would have -been far better without a low blackguard like that. But don’t let me -keep you. Go and give the <i>coup de grace</i> to Mannering. I shall be -ready, whatever happens, downstairs.”</p> - -<p>But Miss Bethune did not give Mannering the <i>coup de grace</i>. On the -contrary, she helped forward the cure which the climax of his own -personal tragedy had begun. It gave both these people a kind of forlorn -pleasure to think that there was a kind of resemblance in their fate, -and that they had lived so long beside each other without knowing it, -without suspecting how unlike other people their respective lives had -been. The thought of the unhappy young woman, whose husband of a year -and whose child of a day had been torn from her, who had learnt so sadly -to know the unworthiness of the one, and whose heart and imagination had -for five and twenty years dwelt upon the other, without any possible -outlet, and with a hope which she had herself known to be fantastic and -without hope, filled Mannering with a certain awe. He had suffered for -little more than half that time, and he had not been deprived of his -Dora. He began to think pitifully, even mercifully, of the woman who had -left him that one alleviation in his life.</p> - -<p>“I bow my head before her,” Miss Bethune said. “She must have been a -just woman. The bairn was yours, and she had no right to take her from -you. She fled before your appearance, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> could not look you in the -face, but she left the little child that she adored to be your comfort. -Mr. Mannering, you will come with me to that poor woman’s grave, and you -will forgive her. She gave you up what was most dear to her in life.”</p> - -<p>He shook his head. “She had others that were more dear to her.”</p> - -<p>“I could find it in my heart, if I were you, to hope that it was so; but -I do not believe it. How could she look you in the face again, having -sinned against you? But she left you what she loved most. ‘Dora, Dora,’ -was all her cry: but she put Dora out of her arms for you. Think kindly -of her, man! A woman loves nothing on this earth,” cried Miss Bethune -with passion, “like the little child that has come from her, and is of -her, flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone: and she gave that over to -you. She must have been a woman more just than most other women,” Miss -Bethune said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering made no reply. Perhaps he did not understand or believe in -that definition of what a woman loves best; but he thought of the -passion of the other woman before him, and of the long hunger of her -heart, with nothing to solace her, nothing to divert her thoughts from -that hopeless loss and vacancy, nothing to compensate her for the ruin -of her life. She had been a spirit in prison, shut up as in an iron -cage, and she had borne it and not uttered even a cry. All three, or -rather all four, of these lives, equally shipwrecked, came before him. -His own stricken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> low in what would have been the triumph of another -man; his wife’s, turned in a moment from such second possibilities of -happiness as he could not yet bear to think of, and from the bliss of -her child, into shame and guilt such as did not permit her to look her -husband in the face, but drove her into exile and renunciation. And then -this other pair. The woman with her secret romance, and long, long -penitence and punishment. The man (whom she condemned yet more bitterly, -perhaps with better cause than he had condemned his wife), a fugitive -too, disappearing from country and home with the infant who died, or who -did not die. What a round of dreadful mistake, misapprehension, -rashness, failure! And who was he that he should count himself more -badly treated than other men?</p> - -<p>Miss Bethune thus gave him no <i>coup de grace</i>. She helped him after the -prick of revival, to another more steadfast philosophy, in the -comparison of his fate with that of others. He saw with very clear eyes -her delusion—that Harry Gordon was no son of hers, and that she would -be compelled to acknowledge this and go back to the dreariness and -emptiness of her life, accepting the dead baby as all that ever was -hers: and he was sorry for her to the bottom of his heart; while she, -full of her illusions, went back to her own apartment full of pity for -him, to whom Dora did not make up for everything as Harry, she felt -triumphantly, did to herself.</p> - -<p>Dr. Roland watched them both, more concerned for Mannering, who had been -ill, than for Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> Bethune, who had all that curious elasticity which -makes a woman generally so much more the servant of her emotions than a -man, often, in fact, so much less affected by them. But there still -remained in the case of the patient another fiery trial to go through, -which still kept the doctor on the alert and anxiously watching the -course of events. Mannering had said nothing of Dora’s fortune, of the -money which he had refused vehemently for her, but which he had no right -to refuse, and upon which, as Dr. Roland was aware, she had already -drawn. One ordeal had passed, and had done no harm, but this other was -still to come.</p> - -<p>It came a day or two after, when Dr. Roland sat by Mannering’s side -after his return from the Museum, holding his pulse, and investigating -in every way the effect upon him of the day’s confinement. It was -evening, and the day had been hot and fatiguing. Mr. Mannering was a -little tired of this medical inspection, which occurred every evening. -He drew his wrist out of the doctor’s hold, and turned the conversation -abruptly to a new subject.</p> - -<p>“There are a number of papers which I cannot find,” he said, almost -sharply, to Dora, with a meaning which immediately seemed to make the -air tingle. He had recovered his usual looks in a remarkable degree, and -had even a little colour in his cheek. His head was not drooping, nor -his eye dim. The stoop of a man occupied all day among books seemed to -have disappeared. He leaned back in his chair a little, perhaps, but -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> forward, as is the habit of weakness, and was not afraid to look -the doctor in the face. Dora stood near him, alarmed, in the attitude of -one about to flee. She was eager to leave him with the doctor, of whom -he could ask no such difficult questions.</p> - -<p>“Papers, father? What papers?” she said, with an air of innocence which -perhaps was a little overdone.</p> - -<p>“My business affairs are not so extensive,” he said, with a faint smile; -“and both you, doctor, who really are the author of the extravagance, -and Dora, who is too young to meddle with such matters, know all about -them. My bills!—Heaven knows they are enough to scare a poor man: but -they must be found. They were all there a few days ago, now I can’t find -them. Bring them, Dora. I must make a composition with my creditors,” he -said, again, with that forced and uncomfortable smile. Then he added, -with some impatience: “My dear, do what I tell you, and do it at once.”</p> - -<p>It was an emergency which Dora had been looking forward to, but that did -not make it less terrible when it came. She stood very upright, holding -by the table.</p> - -<p>“The bills? I don’t know where to find them,” she said, growing suddenly -very red, and then very pale.</p> - -<p>“Dora!” cried her father, in a warning tone. Then he added, with an -attempt at banter: “Never mind the doctor. The doctor is in it; he ought -to pay half. We will take his advice. How small a dividend will content -our creditors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> for the present? Make haste, and do not lose any more -time.”</p> - -<p>Dora stood her ground without wavering. “I cannot find them, father,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“You cannot find them? Nonsense! This is for my good, I suppose, lest I -should not be able to bear it. My dear, your father declines to be -managed for his good.”</p> - -<p>“I have not got them,” said Dora firmly, but very pale. “I don’t know -where to find them; I don’t want to find them, if I must say it, -father,—not to manage you, but on my own account.”</p> - -<p>He raised himself upright too, and looked at her. Their eyes shone with -the same glow; the two faces bore a strange resemblance,—his, the lines -refined and softened by his illness; hers, every curve straightened and -strengthened by force of passionate feeling.</p> - -<p>“Father,” said Dora almost fiercely, “I am not a child!”</p> - -<p>“You are not a child?” A faint smile came over his face. “You are -curiously like one,” he said; “but what has that got to do with it?”</p> - -<p>“Mannering, she is quite right. You ought to let her have her own way.”</p> - -<p>A cloud crossed Mr. Mannering’s face. He was a mild man, but he did not -easily brook interference. He made a slight gesture, as if throwing the -intruder off.</p> - -<p>“Father,” said Dora again, “I have been the mistress of everything while -you have been ill. You may say the doctor has done it, or Miss Bethune -has done it,—they were very kind friends,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> and told me what to do,—but -it was only your own child that had the right to do things for you, and -the real person was me. I was a little girl when you began to be ill, -but I am not so now. I’ve had to act for myself, father,” the girl -cried, the colour flaming back into her pale cheeks, “I’ve had to be -responsible for a great many things; you can’t take that from me, for it -had to be. And you have not got a bill in the world.”</p> - -<p>He sat staring at her, half angry, half admiring, amazed by the change, -the development; and yet to find her in her impulsive, childish -vehemence exactly the same.</p> - -<p>“They’re all gone,” cried Dora, with that dreadful womanish inclination -to cry; which spoils so many a fine climax. “I had a right to them—they -were mine all through, and not yours. Father, even Fiddler! I’ve given -you a present of that big book, which I almost broke my arm (if it had -not been for Harry Gordon) carrying back. And now I know it’s quarter -day, and you’re quite well off. Father, now I’m your little girl again, -to do what you like and go where you like, and never, never hear a word -of this more,” cried Dora, flinging herself upon his shoulder, with her -arms round his neck, in a paroxysm of tenderness and tears.</p> - -<p>What was the man to do or say? He had uttered a cry of pain and shame, -and something like fury; but with the girl clinging round his neck, -sobbing, flung upon his mercy, he was helpless. He looked over Dora’s -bright head at Dr. Roland with, notwithstanding his impatience of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> -interference, a sort of appeal for help. However keen the pang was both -to his heart and his pride, he could not throw off his only child from -her shelter in his arms. After a moment his hand instinctively came upon -her hair, smoothing it down, soothing her, though half against his will. -The other arm, with which he had half put her away, stole round her with -a softer pressure. His child, his only child, all of his, belonging to -no one but him, and weeping her heart out upon his neck, altogether -thrown upon him to be excused and pardoned for having given him all the -tendance and care and help which it was in her to give. He looked at -Roland with a half appeal, yet with that unconscious pride of -superiority in the man who has, towards the man who has not.</p> - -<p>“She has the right,” said the doctor, himself moved, but not perhaps -with any sense of inferiority, for though he was nearly as old as Mr. -Mannering, the beatitude of having a daughter had not yet become an -ideal bliss to him—“she has the right; if anybody in the world has it, -she has it, Mannering, and though she is a child, she has a heart and -judgment as good as any of us. You’ll have to let her do in certain -matters what seemeth good in her own eyes.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Mannering shook his head, and then bent it in reluctant acquiescence -with a sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house in Bloomsbury became vacant and silent.</p> - -<p>The people who had given it interest and importance were dispersed and -gone. Dr. Roland only remained, solitary and discontented, feeling -himself cast adrift in the world, angry at the stillness overhead, where -the solid foot of Gilchrist no longer made the floor creak, or the -lighter step of her mistress sent a thrill of energy and life through -it; but still more angry when new lodgers came, and new steps sounded -over the carpet, which, deprived of all Miss Bethune’s rugs, was thin -and poor. The doctor thought of changing his lodging himself, in the -depression of that change; but it is a serious matter for a doctor to -change his abode, and Janie’s anæmia was becoming a serious case, and -wanted more looking after than ever would be given to it were he out of -the way. So he consented to the inevitable, and remained. Mrs. Simcox -had to refurnish the second floor, when all Mr. Mannering’s pretty -furniture and his books were taken away, and did it very badly, as was -natural, and got “a couple” for her lodgers, who were quite satisfied -with second-hand mahogany and hair-cloth. Dr. Roland looked at the new -lodgers when he met them with eyes blank, and a total<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> absence of -interest: but beginning soon to see that the stock market was telling -upon the first floor, and that the lady on the second had a cough, he -began to allow himself a little to be shaken out of his indifference. -They might, however, be objects of professional interest, but no more. -The Mannerings were abroad. After that great flash in the pan of a -return to the Museum, Nature had reclaimed her rights, and Mr. Mannering -had been obliged to apply for a prolonged leave, which by degrees led to -retirement and a pension. Miss Bethune had returned to her native -country, and to the old house near the Highland line which belonged to -her. Vague rumours that she was not Miss Bethune at all, but a married -lady all the time, had reached Bloomsbury; but nobody knew, as Mrs. -Simcox said, what were the rights of the case.</p> - -<p>In a genial autumn, some years after the above events, Dr. Roland, who -had never ceased to keep a hold upon his former neighbours, whose -departure had so much saddened his life, arrived on a visit at that -Highland home. It was a rambling house, consisting of many additions and -enlargements built on to the original fabric of a small, strait, and -high semi-fortified dwelling-place, breathing that air of austere and -watchful defence which lingers about some old houses, though the -parlours of the eighteenth century, not to say the drawing-rooms of the -nineteenth, with their broad open windows, accessible from the ground, -were strangely unlike the pointed tall gable with its crow steps, and -the high post<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> of watchfulness up among the roofs, the little balcony or -terrace which swept the horizon on every side. There Miss Bethune, still -Miss Bethune, abode in the fulness of a life which sought no further -expansion, among her own people. She had called to her a few of the most -ancient and trusted friends of the family on her first arrival there, -and had disclosed to them her secret story, and asked their advice. She -had never borne her husband’s name. There had been no break, so far as -any living person except Gilchrist was aware, in the continuity of her -life. The old servants were dead, and the old minister, who had been -coaxed and frightened into performing a furtive ceremony. No one except -Gilchrist was aware of any of those strange events which had gone on in -the maze of little rooms and crooked passages. Miss Bethune was strong -in the idea of disclosing everything when she returned home. She meant -to publish her strange and painful story among her friends and to the -world at large, and to acknowledge and put in his right place, as she -said, her son. A small knot of grave county gentlemen sat upon the -matter, and had all the evidence placed before them in order to decide -this question.</p> - -<p>Harry Gordon himself was the first to let them know that his claims were -more than doubtful—that they were, in fact, contradicted by his own -recollections and everything he really knew about himself; and Mr. -Templar brought his report, which made it altogether impossible to -believe in the relationship. But Miss Bethune’s neighbours<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> soon came to -perceive that these were nothing to her own fervid conviction, which -they only made stronger the oftener the objections were repeated. She -would not believe that part of Mr. Templar’s story which concerned the -child; there was no documentary proof. The husband’s death could be -proved, but it was not even known where that of the unfortunate baby had -taken place, and nothing could be ascertained about it. She took no -notice of the fact that her husband and Harry Gordon’s father had -neither died at the same place nor at the same time. As it actually -happened, there was sufficient analogy between time and place to make it -possible to imagine, had there been no definite information, that they -were the same person. And this was more than enough for Miss Bethune. -She was persuaded at last, however, by the unanimous judgment of the -friends she trusted, to depart from her first intention, to make no -scandal in the countryside by changing her name, and to leave her -property to Harry, describing him as a relation by the mother’s side. -“It came to you by will, not in direct inheritance,” the chief of these -gentlemen of the county said. “Let it go to him in the same way. We all -respect the voice of nature, and you are not a silly woman, my dear -Janet, to believe a thing that is not: but the evidence would not bear -investigation in a court of law. He is a fine young fellow, and has -spoken out like a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“As he has a good right—the last of the Bethunes, as well as a Gordon -of no mean name!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span></p> - -<p>“Just so,” said the convener of the county; “there is nobody here that -will not give him his hand. But you have kept the secret so long, it is -my opinion you should keep it still. We all know—all that are worth -considering—and what is the use of making a scandal and an outcry among -all the silly auld wives of the countryside? And leave him your land by -will, as the nearest relation you care to acknowledge on his mother’s -side.”</p> - -<p>This was the decision that was finally come to; and Miss Bethune was not -less a happy mother, nor Harry Gordon the less a good son, that the -relationship between them was quite beyond the reach of proof, and -existed really in the settled conviction of one brain alone. The -delusion made her happy, and it gave him a generous reason for -acquiescing in the change so much to his advantage which took place in -his life.</p> - -<p>The Mannerings arrived at Beaton Castle shortly after the doctor, on -their return from the Continent. Dora was now completely woman-grown, -and had gradually and tacitly taken the command of her father and all -his ways. He had been happy in the certainty that when he left off work -and consented to take that long rest, it was his own income upon which -they set out—an income no longer encumbered with any debts to pay, even -for old books. He had gone on happily upon that conviction ever since; -they had travelled a great deal together, and he had completely -recovered his health, and in a great degree his interest, both in -science and life. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> even taken up those studies which had been -interrupted by the shipwreck of his happiness, and the breaking up of -his existence, and had recently published some of the results of them, -with a sudden lighting up once again of the fame of the more youthful -Mannering, from whom such great things had been expected. The more he -had become interested in work and the pursuits of knowledge, the less he -had known or thought of external affairs; and for a long time Dora had -acted very much as she pleased, increasing such luxuries as he liked, -and encouraging every one of the extravagances into which, when left to -himself, he naturally fell. Sometimes still he would pause over an -expensive book, with a half hesitation, half apology.</p> - -<p>“But perhaps we cannot afford it. I ought not to give myself so many -indulgences, Dora.”</p> - -<p>“You know how little we spend, father,” Dora would say,—“no house going -on at home to swallow up the money. We live for next to nothing here.” -And he received her statement with implicit faith.</p> - -<p>Thus both the elder personages of this history were deceived, and found -a great part of their happiness in it. Was it a false foundation of -happiness, and wrong in every way, as Dr. Roland maintained? He took -these two young people into the woods, and read them the severest of -lessons.</p> - -<p>“You are two lies,” he said; “you are deceiving two people who are of -more moral worth than either of you. It is probably not your fault,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> but -that of some wicked grandmother; but you ought to be told it, all the -same. And I don’t say that I blame you. I daresay I should do it also in -your case. But it’s a shame, all the same.”</p> - -<p>“In the case of my—mistress, my friend, my all but mother,” said young -Gordon, with some emotion, “the deceit is all her own. I have said all I -could say, and so have her friends. We have proved to her that it could -not be I, everything has been put before her; and if she determines, -after all that, that I am the man, what can I do? I return her affection -for affection cordially, for who was ever so good to any one as she is -to me? And I serve her as her son might do. I am of use to her actually, -though you may not think it. And why should I try to wound her heart, by -reasserting that I am not what she thinks, and that she is deceived? I -do my best to satisfy, not to deceive her. Therefore, do not say it; I -am no lie.”</p> - -<p>“All very well and very plausible,” said the doctor, “but in no wise -altering my opinion. And, Miss Dora, what have you got to say?”</p> - -<p>“I say nothing,” said Dora; “there is no deceit at all. If you only knew -how particular I am! Father’s income suffices for himself; he is not in -debt to any one. He has a good income—a very good income—four hundred -a year, enough for any single man. Don’t you think so? I have gone over -it a great many times, and I am sure he does not spend more than -that—not so much; the calculation is all on paper. Do you remember -teaching me to do accounts long ago?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> I am very good at it now. Father -is not bound to keep me, when there are other people who will keep on -sending me money: and he has quite enough—too much for himself; then -where is the deceit, or shame either? My conscience is quite clear.”</p> - -<p>“You are two special pleaders,” the doctor said; “you are too many for -me when you are together. I’ll get you apart, and convince you of your -sin. And what,” he cried suddenly, taking them by surprise, “my fine -young sir and madam, would happen if either one or other of you took it -into your heads to marry? That is what I should like to know.”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other for a moment as it were in a flash of crimson -light, which seemed to fly instantaneously from one to another. They -looked first at him, and then exchanged one lightning glance, and then -each turned a little aside on either side of the doctor. Was it to hide -that something which was nothing, that spontaneous, involuntary -momentary interchange of looks, from his curious eyes? Dr. Roland was -struck as by that harmless lightning. He, the expert, had forgotten what -contagion there might be in the air. They were both tall, both fair, two -slim figures in their youthful grace, embodiments of all that was -hopeful, strong, and lifelike. The doctor had not taken into -consideration certain effects known to all men which are not in the -books. “Whew-ew!” he breathed in a long whistle of astonishment, and -said no more.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's A House in Bloomsbury, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY *** - -***** This file should be named 55140-h.htm or 55140-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/4/55140/ - -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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