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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..8a8049b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55212 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55212) diff --git a/old/55212-0.txt b/old/55212-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 08e4c9d..0000000 --- a/old/55212-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11321 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Why Frau Frohmann Raised her Prices and -other stories, by Anthony Trollope - -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: Why Frau Frohmann Raised her Prices and other stories - -Author: Anthony Trollope - -Release Date: July 28, 2017 [EBook #55212] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES *** - - - - -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) - - - - - - - - - - - - WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED - HER PRICES - _AND OTHER STORIES_ - - - - - WHY FRAU FROHMANN - RAISED HER PRICES - And other Stories - - BY - ANTHONY TROLLOPE - - AUTHOR OF “FRAMLEY PARSONAGE,” “SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON,” &c., &c. - - LONDON - WM. ISBISTER, LIMITED - 56, LUDGATE HILL - 1882 - - LONDON: - PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, - CITY ROAD. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES. - -CHAP. PAGE - - I. THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK 1 - - II. THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES 17 - - III. THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT 29 - - IV. THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD DAYS 40 - - V. A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER 51 - - VI. HOFF THE BUTCHER 67 - - VII. “AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP” 79 - -VIII. IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM 91 - - -THE LADY OF LAUNAY. - - I. HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE 105 - - II. HOW BESSY PRYOR WOULDN’T MARRY THE PARSON 111 - - III. HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY 120 - - IV. HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED 128 - - V. HOW BESSY PRYOR CEASED TO BE A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE 136 - - VI. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS TO BE BANISHED 144 - - VII. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BANISHED TO NORMANDY 151 - -VIII. HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY 159 - - IX. HOW BESSY PRYOR ANSWERED THE TWO LETTERS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 167 - - X. HOW BESSY PRYOR’S LOVER ARGUED HIS CASE 174 - - XI. HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER 182 - - XII. HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BROUGHT BACK, AND WHAT THEN BECAME OF HER 190 - - -CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL. - - I. MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS 201 - - II. MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE 214 - - III. MRS. BROWN ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE 223 - - IV. MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE 234 - - V. MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL 249 - - -THE TELEGRAPH GIRL. - - I. LUCY GRAHAM AND SOPHY WILSON 263 - - II. ABRAHAM HALL 275 - - III. SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS 286 - - IV. MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER 298 - - V. ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED 310 - - -ALICE DUGDALE. - - I. THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY 323 - - II. MAJOR ROSSITER 333 - - III. LADY WANLESS 342 - - IV. THE BEETHAMITES 352 - - V. THE INVITATION 362 - - VI. THE ARCHERY MEETING 371 - - VII. AFTER THE PARTY 381 - -VIII. SIR WALTER UP IN LONDON 391 - - IX. LADY DEEPBELL 400 - - X. THE BIRD THAT PECKED AT THE WINDOW 409 - - - - -WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED -HER PRICES. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK. - - -If ever there was a Tory upon earth, the Frau Frohmann was a Tory; for I -hold that landed possessions, gentle blood, a gray-haired butler behind -one’s chair, and adherence to the Church of England, are not necessarily -the distinguishing marks of Toryism. The Frau Frohmann was a woman who -loved power, but who loved to use it for the benefit of those around -her,--or at any rate to think that she so used it. She believed in the -principles of despotism and paternal government,--but always on the -understanding that she was to be the despot. In her heart of hearts she -disliked education, thinking that it unfitted the minds of her humbler -brethren for the duties of their lives. She hated, indeed, all -changes,--changes in costume, changes in hours, changes in cookery, and -changes in furniture; but of all changes she perhaps hated changes in -prices the most. Gradually there had come over her a melancholy -conviction that the world cannot go on altogether unaltered. There was, -she felt, a fate in things,--a necessity which, in some dark way within -her own mind, she connected with the fall of Adam and the general -imperfection of humanity,--which demanded changes, but they were always -changes for the worse; and therefore, though to those around her she was -mostly silent on this matter, she was afflicted by a general idea that -the world was going on towards ruin. That all things throve with herself -was not sufficient for her comfort; for, being a good woman with a large -heart, she was anxious for the welfare not only of herself and of her -children, but for that of all who might come after her, at any rate in -her own locality. Thus, when she found that there was a tendency to dine -at one instead of twelve, to wear the same clothes on week days as on -Sundays, to desire easy chairs, and linen that should be bleached -absolutely white, thoughts as to the failing condition of the world -would get the better of her and make her melancholy. - -These traits are perhaps the evidences of the weakness of Toryism;--but -then Frau Frohmann also had all its strength. She was thoroughly -pervaded by a determination that, in as far as in her lay, all that had -aught to do with herself should be “well-to-do” in the world. It was a -grand ambition in her mind that every creature connected with her -establishment, from the oldest and most time-honoured guest down to the -last stray cat that had taken refuge under her roof, should always have -enough to eat. Hunger, unsatisfied hunger, disagreeable hunger, on the -part of any dependent of hers, would have been a reproach to her. Her -own eating troubled her little or not at all, but the cooking of the -establishment generally was a great care to her mind. In bargaining she -was perhaps hard, but hard only in getting what she believed to be her -own right. Aristides was not more just. Of bonds, written bonds, her -neighbours knew not much; but her word for twenty miles round was as -good as any bond. And though she was perhaps a little apt to domineer in -her bargains,--to expect that she should fix the prices and to resent -opposition,--it was only to the strong that she was tyrannical. The poor -sick widow and the little orphan could generally deal with her at their -own rates; on which occasions she would endeavour to hide her dealings -from her own people, and would give injunctions to the favoured ones -that the details of the transaction should not be made public. And then, -though the Frau was, I regret to say, no better than a Papist, she was a -thoroughly religious woman, believing in real truth what she professed -to believe, and complying, as far as she knew how, with the ordinances -of her creed. - -Therefore I say that if ever there was a Tory, the Frau Frohmann was -one. - -And now it will be well that the reader should see the residence of the -Frau, and learn something of her condition in life. In one of the -districts of the Tyrol, lying some miles south of Innsbruck, between -that town and Brixen, there is a valley called the Brunnenthal, a most -charming spot, in which all the delights of scenery may be found without -the necessity of climbing up heart-rending mountains, or sitting in oily -steamboats, or paying for greedy guides, or riding upon ill-conditioned -ponies. In this valley Frau Frohmann kept an hotel called the Peacock, -which, however, though it was known as an inn, and was called by that -name, could hardly be regarded as a house of common public -entertainment. Its purpose was to afford recreation and comfort to a -certain class of customers during the summer months,--persons well -enough to do in the world to escape from their town work and their town -residences for a short holiday, and desirous during that time of -enjoying picturesque scenery, good living, moderate comfort, and some -amount of society. Such institutions have now become so common that -there is hardly any one who has not visited or at any rate seen such a -place. They are to be found in every country in Europe, and are very -common in America. Our own Scotland is full of them. But when the -Peacock was first opened in Brunnenthal they were not so general. - -Of the husband of the Frau there are not many records in the -neighbourhood. The widow has been a widow for the last twenty years at -least, and her children,--for she has a son and daughter,--have no vivid -memories of their father. The house and everything in it, and the -adjacent farm, and the right of cutting timber in the forests, and the -neighbouring quarry, are all the undoubted property of the Frau, who -has a reputation for great wealth. Though her son is perhaps nearly -thirty, and is very diligent in the affairs of the establishment, he has -no real authority. He is only, as it were, the out-of-doors right hand -of his mother, as his sister, who is perhaps five years younger, is an -in-doors right hand. But they are only hands. The brain, the -intelligence, the mind, the will by which the Brunnenthal Peacock is -conducted and managed, come all from the Frau Frohmann herself. To this -day she can hardly endure a suggestion either from Peter her son or from -her daughter Amalia, who is known among her friends as Malchen, but is -called “the fraulein” by the Brunnenthal world at large. A suggestion as -to the purchase of things new in their nature she will not stand at all, -though she is liberal enough in maintaining the appurtenances of the -house generally. - -But the Peacock is more than a house. It is almost a village; and yet -every shed, cottage, or barn at or near the place forms a part of the -Frau’s establishment. The centre or main building is a large ordinary -house of three stories,--to the lower of which there is an ascent by -some half-dozen stone steps,--covered with red tiles, and with gable -ends crowded with innumerable windows. The ground-floor is devoted to -kitchens, offices, the Frau’s own uses, and the needs of the servants. -On the first-story are the two living rooms of the guests, the greater -and by far the more important being devoted to eating and drinking. -Here, at certain hours, are collected all the forces of the -establishment,--and especially at one o’clock, when, with many ringing -of bells and great struggles in the culinary department, the dinner is -served. For to the adoption of this hour has the Frau at last been -driven by the increasing infirmities of the world around her. The -scenery of the locality is lovely; the air is considered to be -peculiarly health-compelling; the gossipings during the untrammelled -idleness of the day are very grateful to those whose lives are generally -laborious; the love-makings are frequent, and no doubt sweet; skittles -and bowls and draughts and dominoes have their devotees; and the smoking -of many pipes fills up the vacant hours of the men. - -But, at the Brunnenthal, dinner is the great glory of the day. It would -be vain for any æsthetical guest, who might conceive himself to be -superior to the allurements of the table, to make little of the Frau’s -dinner. Such a one had better seek other quarters for his summer’s -holiday. At the Brunnenthal Peacock it is necessary that you should -believe in the paramount importance of dinner. Not to come to it at the -appointed time would create, first marvel, in the Frau’s mind, then -pity,--as to the state of your health,--and at last hot anger should it -be found that such neglect arose from contempt. What muse will assist me -to describe these dinners in a few words? They were commenced of course -by soup,--real soup, not barley broth with a strong prevalence of the -barley. Then would follow the boiled meats, from which the soup was -supposed to have been made,--but such boiled meat, so good, that the -supposition must have contained a falsehood. With this there would be -always potatoes and pickled cabbages and various relishes. Then there -would be two other kinds of meat, generally with accompaniment of stewed -fruit; after that fish,--trout from the neighbouring stream, for the -preservation of which great tanks had been made. Vegetables with unknown -sauces would follow,--and then would come the roast, which consisted -always of poultry, and was accompanied of course by salad. But it was -after this that were made the efforts on which the Frau’s fame most -depended. The puddings, I think, were the subject of her greatest -struggles and most complete success. Two puddings daily were, by the -rules of the house, required to be eaten; not two puddings brought -together so that you might choose with careless haste either one or the -other; but two separate courses of puddings, with an interval between -for appreciation, for thought, and for digestion. Either one or both -can, no doubt, be declined. No absolute punishment,--such as notice to -leave the house,--follows such abstention. But the Frau is displeased, -and when dressed in her best on Sundays does not smile on those who -abstain. After the puddings there is dessert, and there are little cakes -to nibble if you will. They are nibbled very freely. But the heat of the -battle is over with the second pudding. - -They have a great fame, these banquets; so that ladies and gentlemen -from Innsbruck have themselves driven out here to enjoy them. The -distance each way is from two to three hours, so that a pleasant -holiday is made by a visit to the Frau’s establishment. There is a -ramble up to the waterfall and a smoking of pipes among the rocks, and -pleasant opportunities for secret whispers among young people;--but the -Frau would not be well pleased if it were presumed that the great -inducement for the visit were not to be found in the dinner which she -provides. In this way, though the guests at the house may not exceed -perhaps thirty in number, it will sometimes be the case that nearly -twice as many are seated at the board. That the Frau has an eye to -profit cannot be doubted. Fond of money she is certainly;--fond of -prosperity generally. But, judging merely from what comes beneath his -eye, the observer will be led to suppose that her sole ambition on these -occasions is to see the food which she has provided devoured by her -guests. A weak stomach, a halting appetite, conscientious scruples as to -the over-enjoyment of victuals, restraint in reference to subsequent -excesses or subsequent eatings,--all these things are a scandal to her. -If you can’t, or won’t, or don’t eat your dinner when you get it, you -ought not to go to the Brunnenthal Peacock. - -This banqueting-hall, or Speise-Saal, occupies a great part of the -first-floor; but here also is the drawing-room, or reading-room, as it -is called, having over the door “Lese-Saal” painted, so that its purpose -may not be doubted. But the reading-room is not much, and the guests -generally spend their time chiefly out of doors or in their bedrooms -when they are not banqueting. There are two other banquets, breakfast -and supper, which need not be specially described;--but of the latter it -may be said that it is a curtailed dinner, having limited courses of hot -meat, and only one pudding. - -On this floor there is a bedroom or two, and a nest of others above; but -the accommodation is chiefly afforded in other buildings, of which the -one opposite is longer, though not so high, as the central house; and -there is another, a little down the road, near the mill, and another as -far up the stream, where the baths have been built,--an innovation to -which Frau Frohmann did not lend herself without much inward suffering. -And there are huge barns and many stables; for the Frau keeps a posting -establishment, and a diligence passes the door three times each way in -the course of the day and night, and the horses are changed at the -Peacock;--or it was so, at any rate, in the days of which I am speaking, -not very long ago. And there is the blacksmith’s forge, and the great -carpenter’s shed, in which not only are the carts and carriages mended, -but very much of the house furniture is made. And there is the mill, as -has been said before, in which the corn is ground, and three or four -cottages for married men, and a pretty little chapel, built by the Frau -herself, in which mass is performed by her favourite priest once a -month,--for the parish chapel is nearly three miles distant if you walk -by the mountain path, but is fully five if you have yourself carried -round by the coach road. It must, I think, be many years since the Frau -can have walked there, for she is a dame of portly dimensions. - -Whether the buildings are in themselves picturesque I will not pretend -to say. I doubt whether there has been an attempt that way in regard to -any one except the chapel. But chance has so grouped them, and nature -has so surrounded them, that you can hardly find anywhere a prettier -spot. Behind the house, so as to leave only space for a little meadow -which is always as green as irrigation can make it, a hill rises, not -high enough to be called a mountain, which is pine-clad from the foot to -the summit. In front and around the ground is broken, but immediately -before the door there is a way up to a lateral valley, down which comes -a nameless stream which, just below the house, makes its way into the -Ivil, the little river which runs from the mountain to the inn, taking -its course through that meadow which lies between the hill and the -house. It is here, a quarter of a mile perhaps up this little stream, at -a spot which is hidden by many turnings from the road, that visitors -come upon the waterfall,--the waterfall which at Innsbruck is so often -made to be the excuse of these outings which are in truth performed in -quest of Frau Frohmann’s dinners. Below the Peacock, where the mill is -placed, the valley is closely confined, as the sombre pine-forests rise -abruptly on each side; and here, or very little lower, is that gloomy or -ghost-like pass through the rocks, which is called the Höllenthor; a -name which I will not translate. But it is a narrow ravine, very dark -in dark weather, and at night as black as pitch. Among the superstitious -people of the valley the spot is regarded with the awe which belonged to -it in past ages. To visitors of the present day it is simply picturesque -and sublime. Above the house the valley spreads itself, rising, however, -rapidly; and here modern engineering has carried the road in various -curves and turns round knolls of hills and spurs of mountains, till the -traveller as he ascends hardly knows which way he is going. From one or -two points among these curves the view down upon the Peacock with its -various appendages, with its dark-red roofs, and many windows glittering -in the sun, is so charming, that the tourist is almost led to think that -they must all have been placed as they are with a view to effect. - -The Frau herself is what used to be called a personable woman. To say -that she is handsome would hardly convey a proper idea. Let the reader -suppose a woman of about fifty, very tall and of large dimensions. It -would be unjust to call her fat, because though very large she is still -symmetrical. When she is dressed in her full Tyrolese costume,--which is -always the case at a certain hour on Sunday, and on other stated and by -no means unfrequent days as to which I was never quite able to learn the -exact rule,--when she is so dressed her arms are bare down from her -shoulders, and such arms I never saw on any human being. Her back is -very broad and her bust expansive. But her head stands erect upon it as -the head of some old Juno, and in all her motions,--though I doubt -whether she could climb by the mountain path to her parish church,--she -displays a certain stately alertness which forbids one to call her fat. -Her smile,--when she really means to smile and to show thereby her -good-will and to be gracious,--is as sweet as Hebe’s. Then it is that -you see that in her prime she must in truth have been a lovely woman. -There is at these moments a kindness in her eyes and a playfulness about -her mouth which is apt to make you think that you can do what you like -with the Frau. Who has not at times been charmed by the frolic -playfulness of the tiger? Not that Frau Frohmann has aught of the tiger -in her nature but its power. But the power is all there, and not -unfrequently the signs of power. If she be thwarted, contradicted, -counselled by unauthorised counsellors,--above all if she be -censured,--then the signs of power are shown. Then the Frau does not -smile. At such times she is wont to speak her mind very plainly, and to -make those who hear her understand that, within the precincts and -purlieus of the Brunnenthal Peacock, she is an irresponsible despot. -There have been guests there rash enough to find some trifling faults -with the comforts provided for them,--whose beds perhaps have been too -hard, or their towels too limited, or perhaps their hours not agreeably -arranged for them. Few, however, have ever done so twice, and they who -have so sinned,--and have then been told that the next diligence would -take them quickly to Innsbruck if they were discontented,--have rarely -stuck to their complaints and gone. The comforts of the house, and the -prices charged, and the general charms of the place have generally -prevailed,--so that the complainants, sometimes with spoken apologies, -have in most cases sought permission to remain. In late years the Frau’s -certainty of victory has created a feeling that nothing is to be said -against the arrangements of the Peacock. A displeased guest can exercise -his displeasure best by taking himself away in silence. - -The Frau of late years has had two counsellors; for though she is but -ill inclined to admit advice from those who have received no authority -to give it, she is not therefore so self-confident as to feel that she -can live and thrive without listening to the wisdom of others. And those -two counsellors may be regarded as representing--the first or elder her -conscience, and the second and younger her worldly prudence. And in the -matter of her conscience very much more is concerned than simple -honesty. It is not against cheating or extortion that her counsellor is -sharp to her; but rather in regard to those innovations which he and she -think to be prejudicial to the manner and life of Brunnenthal, of -Innsbruck, of the Tyrol, of the Austrian empire generally, and, indeed, -of the world at large. To be as her father had been before her,--for her -father, too, had kept the Peacock; to let life be cheap and simple, but -yet very plentiful as it had been in his days, this was the counsel -given by Father Conolin the old priest, who always spent two nights in -each month at the establishment, and was not unfrequently to be seen -there on other occasions. He had been opposed to many things which had -been effected,--that alteration of the hour of dinner, the erection of -the bathhouse, the changing of plates at each course, and especially -certain, notifications and advertisements by which foreigners may have -been induced to come to the Brunnenthal. The kaplan, or chaplain, as he -was called, was particularly averse to strangers, seeming to think that -the advantages of the place should be reserved, if not altogether for -the Tyrolese, at any rate for the Germans of Southern Germany, and was -probably of opinion that no real good could be obtained by harbouring -Lutherans. But, of late, English also had come, to whom, though he was -personally very courteous, he was much averse in his heart of hearts. -Such had ever been the tendency of his advice, and it had always been -received with willing, nay, with loving ears. But the fate of the kaplan -had been as is the fate of all such counsellors. Let the toryism of the -Tory be ever so strong, it is his destiny to carry out the purposes of -his opponents. So it had been, and was, with the Frau. Though she was -always in spirit antagonistic to the other counsellor, it was the other -counsellor who prevailed with her. - -At Innsbruck for many years there had lived a lawyer, or rather a family -of lawyers, men always of good repute and moderate means, named -Schlessen; and in their hands had been reposed by the Frau that -confidence as to business matters which almost every one in business -must have in some lawyer. The first Schlessen whom the Frau had known -in her youth, and who was then a very old man, had been almost as -Conservative as the priest. Then had come his son, who had been less so, -but still lived and died without much either of the light of progress or -contamination of revolutionary ideas from the outer world. But about -three years before the date of our tale he also had passed away, and now -young Fritz Schlessen sat in the chair of his forefathers. It was the -opinion of Innsbruck generally that the young lawyer was certainly -equal, probably superior, in attainments and intellect to any of his -predecessors. He had learned his business both at Munich and Vienna, and -though he was only twenty-six when he was left to manage his clients -himself, most of them adhered to him. Among others so did our Frau, and -this she did knowing the nature of the man and of the counsel she might -expect to receive from him. For though she loved the priest, and loved -her old ways, and loved to be told that she could live and thrive on the -rules by which her father had lived and thriven before her,--still, -there was always present to her mind the fact that she was engaged in -trade, and that the first object of a tradesman must be to make money. -No shoemaker can set himself to work to make shoes having as his first -intention an ambition to make the feet of his customers comfortable. -That may come second, and to him, as a conscientious man, may be -essentially necessary. But he sets himself to work to make shoes in -order that he may earn a living. That law,--almost of nature we may -say,--had become so recognised by the Frau that she felt that it must -be followed, even in spite of the priest if need were, and that, in -order that it might be followed, it would be well that she should listen -to the advice of Herr Schlessen. She heard, therefore, all that her -kaplan would say to her with gracious smiles, and something of what her -lawyer would say to her, not always very graciously; but in the long-run -she would take her lawyer’s advice. - -It will have to be told in a following chapter how it was that Fritz -Schlessen had a preponderating influence in the Brunnenthal, arising -from other causes than his professional soundness and general prudence. -It may, however, be as well to explain here that Peter Frohmann the son -sided always with the priest, and attached himself altogether to the -conservative interest. But he, though he was honest, diligent, and -dutiful to his mother, was lumpy, uncouth, and slow both of speech and -action. He understood the cutting of timber and the making of -hay,--something perhaps of the care of horses and of the nourishment of -pigs; but in money matters he was not efficient. Amalia, or Malchen, the -daughter, who was four or five years her brother’s junior, was much -brighter, and she was strong on the reforming side. British money was to -her thinking as good as Austrian, or even Tyrolese. To thrive even -better than her forefathers had thriven seemed to her to be desirable. -She therefore, though by her brightness and feminine ways she was very -dear to the priest, was generally opposed to him in the family -conclaves. It was chiefly in consequence of her persistency that the -table napkins at the Peacock were now changed twice a week. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES. - - -Of late days, and up to the time of which we are speaking, the chief -contest between the Frau, with the kaplan and Peter on one side, and -Malchen with Fritz Schlessen on the other, was on that most important -question whether the whole rate of charges should not be raised at the -establishment. The prices had been raised, no doubt, within the last -twenty years, or the Frau could not have kept her house open;--but this -had been done indirectly. That the matter may not be complicated for our -readers, we will assume that all charges are made at the Peacock in -zwansigers and kreutzers, and that the zwansiger, containing twenty -kreutzers, is worth eightpence of English money. Now it must be -understood that the guests at the Peacock were entertained at the rate -of six zwansigers, or four shillings, a day, and that this included -everything necessary,--a bed, breakfast, dinner, a cup of coffee after -dinner, supper, as much fresh milk as anybody chose to drink when the -cows were milked, and the use of everything in and about the -establishment. Guests who required wine or beer, of course, were charged -for what they had. Those who were rich enough to be taken about in -carriages paid so much per job,--each separate jaunt having been -inserted in a tariff. No doubt there were other possible and probable -extras; but an ordinary guest might live for his six zwansigers a -day;--and the bulk of them did so live, with the addition of whatever -allowance of beer each might think appropriate. From time to time a -little had been added to the cost of luxuries. Wine had become dearer, -and perhaps the carriages. A bath was an addition to the bill, and -certain larger and more commodious rooms were supposed to be entitled to -an extra zwansiger per week;--but the main charge had always remained -fixed. In the time of the Frau’s father guests had been entertained at, -let us say, four shillings a head, and guests were so entertained now. -All the world,--at any rate all the Tyrolese world south of -Innsbruck,--knew that six zwansigers was the charge in the Brunnenthal. -It would be like adding a new difficulty to the path of life to make a -change. The Frau had always held her head high,--had never been ashamed -of looking her neighbour in the face, but when she was advised to rush -at once up to seven zwansigers and a half (or five shillings a day), she -felt that, should she do so, she would be overwhelmed with shame. Would -not her customers then have cause of complaint? Would not they have such -cause that they would in truth desert her? Did she not know that Herr -Weiss, the magistrate from Brixen, with his wife, and his wife’s sister, -and the children, who came yearly to the Peacock, could not afford to -bring his family at this increased rate of expenses? And the Fraulein -Tendel with her sister would never come from Innsbruck if such an -announcement was made to her. It was the pride of this woman’s heart to -give all that was necessary for good living, to those who would come and -submit themselves to her, for four shillings a day. Among the “extras” -she could endure some alteration. She did not like extras, and if people -would have luxuries they must be made to pay for them. But the Peacock -had always been kept open for six zwansigers, and though Fritz Schlessen -was very eloquent, she would not give way to him. - -Fritz Schlessen simply told her that the good things which she provided -for her guests cost at present more than six zwansigers, and could not -therefore be sold by her at that price without a loss. She was rich, -Fritz remarked, shrugging his shoulders, and having amassed property -could if she pleased dispose of it gradually by entertaining her guests -at a loss to herself;--only let her know what she was doing. That might -be charity, might be generosity, might be friendliness; but it was not -trade. Everything else in the world had become dearer, and therefore -living at the Peacock should be dearer. As to the Weisses and the -Tendels, no doubt they might be shocked, and perhaps hindered from -coming. But their places would surely be filled by others. Was not the -house always full from the 1st of June till the end of September? Were -not strangers refused admittance week after week from want of -accommodation? If the new prices were found to be too high for the -Tyrolese and Bavarians, they would not offend the Germans from the -Rhine, or the Belgians, or the English. Was it not plain to every one -that people now came from greater distances than heretofore? - -These were the arguments which Herr Schlessen used; and, though they -were very disagreeable, they were not easily answered. The Frau -repudiated altogether the idea of keeping open her house on other than -true trade principles. When the young lawyer talked to her about -generosity she waxed angry, and accused him of laughing at her. “Dearest -Frau Frohmann,” he said, “it is so necessary you should know the truth! -Of course you intend to make a profit;--but if you cannot do so at your -present prices, and yet will not raise them, at any rate understand what -it is that you are doing.” Now the last year had been a bad year, and -she knew that she had not increased her store. This all took place in -the month of April, when a proposition was being made as to the prices -for the coming season. The lawyer had suggested that a circular should -be issued, giving notice of an altered tariff. - -Malchen was clearly in favour of the new idea. She could not see that -the Weisses and Tendels, and other neighbours, should be entertained at -a manifest loss; and, indeed, she had prepossessions in favour of -foreigners, especially of the English, which, when expressed, brought -down upon her head sundry hard words from her mother, who called her a -“pert hussey,” and implied that if Fritz Schlessen wanted to pull the -house down she, Malchen, would be willing that it should be done. -“Better do that, mother, than keep the roof on at a loss,” said Malchen; -who upon that was turned at once out of the little inner room in which -the conference was being held. - -Peter, who was present on the occasion, was decidedly opposed to all -innovations, partly because his conservative nature so prompted him, and -partly because he did not regard Herr Schlessen with a friendship so -warm as that entertained by his sister. He was, perhaps, a little -jealous of the lawyer. And then he had an idea that as things were -prosperous to the eye, they would certainly come right at last. The -fortunes of the house had been made at the rate of six zwansigers a day, -and there was, he thought, no wisdom more clear than that of adhering to -a line of conduct which had proved itself to be advantageous. - -The kaplan was clear against any change of prices; but then he burdened -his advice on the question with a suggestion which was peculiarly -disagreeable to the Frau. He acknowledged the truth of much that the -lawyer had said. It appeared to him that the good things provided could -not in truth be sold at the terms as they were now fixed. He was quite -alive to the fact that it behoved the Frau as a wise woman to make a -profit. Charity is one thing, and business is another. The Frau did her -charities like a Christian, generally using Father Conolin as her -almoner in such matters. But, as a keeper of a house of public -entertainment, it was necessary that she should live. The kaplan was as -wide awake to this as was the Frau herself, or the lawyer. But he -thought that the changes should not be in the direction indicated by -Schlessen. The condition of the Weisses and of the Tendels should be -considered. How would it be if one of the “meats” and one of the -puddings were discontinued, and if the cup of coffee after dinner were -made an extra? Would not that so reduce the expenditure as to leave a -profit? And in that case the Weisses and the Tendels need not -necessarily incur any increased charges. - -When the kaplan had spoken the lawyer looked closely into the Frau’s -face. The proposition might no doubt for the present meet the -difficulty, but he knew that it would be disagreeable. There came a -cloud upon the old woman’s brow, and she frowned even upon the priest. - -“They’d want to be helped twice out of the one pudding, and you’d gain -nothing,” said Peter. - -“According to that,” said the lawyer, “if there were only one course the -dinner would cost the same. The fewer the dishes, the less the cost, no -doubt.” - -“I don’t believe you know anything about it,” said the Frau. - -“Perhaps not,” said the lawyer. “On those little details no doubt you -are the best judge. But I think I have shown that something should be -done.” - -“You might try the coffee, Frau Frohmann,” said the priest. - -“They would not take any. You’d only save the coffee,” said the lawyer. - -“And the sugar,” said the priest. - -“But then they’d never ask for brandy,” suggested Peter. - -The Frau on that occasion said not a word further, but after a little -while got up from her chair and stood silent among them; which was known -to be a sign that the conference was dismissed. - -All this had taken place immediately after dinner, which at this period -of the year was eaten at noon. It had simply been a family meal, at -which the Frau had sat with her two children and her two friends. The -kaplan on such occasions was always free. Nothing that he had in that -house ever cost him a kreutzer. But the attorney paid his way like any -one else. When called on for absolute work done,--not exactly for advice -given in conference,--he made his charges. It might be that a time was -coming in which no money would pass on either side, but that time had -not arrived as yet. As soon as the Frau was left alone, she reseated -herself in her accustomed arm-chair, and set herself to work in sober -and almost solemn sadness to think over it all. It was a most perplexing -question. There could be no doubt that all the wealth which she at -present owned had been made by a business carried on at the present -prices and after the existing fashion. Why should there be any change? -She was told that she must make her customers pay more because she -herself was made to pay more. But why should she pay more? She could -understand that in the general prosperity of the Brunnenthal those about -her should have somewhat higher wages. As she had prospered, why should -not they also prosper? The servants of the poor must, she thought, be -poorer than the servants of the rich. But why should poultry be dearer, -and meat? Some things she knew were cheaper, as tea and sugar and -coffee. She had bought three horses during the winter, and they -certainly had been costly. Her father had not given such prices, nor, -before this, had she. But that probably had been Peter’s fault, who had -too rashly acceded to the demands made upon him. And now she remembered -with regret that, on the 1st of January, she had acceded to a petition -from the carpenter for an addition of six zwansigers to his monthly -wages. He had made the request on the plea of a sixth child, adding -also, that journeymen carpenters both at Brixen and at Innsbruck were -getting what he asked. She had granted to the coming of the additional -baby that which she would probably have denied to the other argument; -but it had never occurred to her that she was really paying the -additional four shillings a month because carpenters were becoming -dearer throughout the world. Malchen’s clothes were certainly much more -costly than her own had been, when she was young; but then Malchen was a -foolish girl, fond of fashion from Munich, and just at this moment was -in love. It could hardly be right that those poor Tendel females, with -their small and fixed means, should be made to pay more for their -necessary summer excursions because Malchen would dress herself in -so-called French finery, instead of adhering, as she ought, to Tyrolese -customs. - -The Frau on this occasion spent an hour in solitude, thinking over it -all. She had dismissed the conference, but that could not be regarded as -an end to the matter. Herr Schlessen had come out from Innsbruck with a -written document in his pocket, which he was proposing to have printed -and circulated, and which, if printed and circulated, would intimate to -the world at large that the Frau Frohmann had raised her prices. Therein -the new rates, seven zwansigers and a half a head, were inserted -unblushingly at full length, as though such a disruption of old laws was -the most natural thing in the world. There was a flippancy about it -which disgusted the old woman. Malchen seemed to regard an act which -would banish from the Peacock the old friends and well-known customers -of the house as though it were an easy trifle; and almost desirable with -that very object. The Frau’s heart warmed to the well-known faces as she -thought of this. Would she not have infinitely greater satisfaction in -cooking good dinners for her simple Tyrolese neighbours, than for rich -foreigners who, after all, were too often indifferent to what was done -for them? By those Tendel ladies her puddings were recognised as real -works of art. They thought of them, talked of them, ate them, and no -doubt dreamed of them. And Herr Weiss--how he enjoyed her dinners, and -how proud he always was as he encouraged his children around him to help -themselves to every dish in succession! And the Frau Weiss--with all -her cares and her narrow means--was she to be deprived of that cheap -month’s holiday which was so necessary for her, in order that the -Peacock and the charms of the Brunnenthal generally might be devoted to -Jews from Frankfort, or rich shopkeepers from Hamburg, or, worse still, -to proud and thankless Englishmen? At the end of the hour the Frau had -determined that she would not raise her prices. - -But yet something must be done. Had she resolved, even silently -resolved, that she would carry on her business at a loss, she would have -felt that she was worthy of restraint as a lunatic. To keep a house of -public entertainment and to lose by it was, to her mind, a very sad -idea! To work and be out of pocket by working! To her who knew little or -nothing of modern speculation, such a catastrophe was most melancholy. -But to work with the intention of losing could be the condition only of -a lunatic. And Schlessen had made good his point as to the last season. -The money spent had been absolutely more than the money received. -Something must be done. And yet she would not raise her prices. - -Then she considered the priest’s proposition. Peter, she knew, had shown -himself to be a fool. Though his feelings were good, he always was a -fool. The expenses of the house no doubt might be much diminished in the -manner suggested by Herr Conolin. Salt butter could be given instead of -fresh at breakfast. Cheaper coffee could be procured. The courses at -dinner might be reduced. The second pudding might be discontinued with -economical results. But had not her success in these things been the -pride of her life; and of what good would her life be to her if its -pride were crushed? The Weisses no doubt would come all the same, but -how would they whisper and talk of her among themselves when they found -these parsimonious changes! The Tendel ladies would not complain. It was -not likely that a breath of complaint would ever pass their humble lips; -but she herself, she, Frau Frohmann, who was perhaps somewhat unduly -proud of her character for wealth, would have to explain to them why it -was that that second pudding had been abolished. She would be forced to -declare that she could no longer afford to supply it, a declaration -which to her would have in it something of meanness, something of -degradation. No! she could not abandon the glory of her dinner. It was -as though you should ask a Royal Academician to cease to exhibit his -pictures, or an actor to consent to have his name withdrawn from the -bills. Thus at last she came to that further resolve. The kaplan’s -advice must be rejected, as must that of the lawyer. - -But something must be done. For a moment there came upon her a sad idea -that she would leave the whole thing to others, and retire into -obscurity at Schwatz, the village from whence the Frohmanns had -originally come. There would be ample means for private comfort. But -then who would carry on the Peacock, who would look after the farm, and -the timber, and the posting, and the mill? Peter was certainly not -efficient for all that. And Malchen’s ambition lay elsewhere. There -was, too, a cowardice in this idea of running away which was very -displeasing to her. - -Why need there be any raising of prices at all,--either in one direction -or in the other?--Had she herself never been persuaded into paying more -to others, then she would not have been driven to demand more from -others. And those higher payments on her part had, she thought, not been -obligatory on her. She had been soft and good-natured, and therefore it -was that she was now called upon to be exorbitant. There was something -abominable to her in this general greed of the world for more money. At -the moment she felt almost a hatred for poor Seppel the carpenter, and -regarded that new baby of his as an impertinent intrusion. She would -fall back upon the old wages, the old prices for everything. There would -be a difficulty with that Innsbruck butcher; but unless he would give -way she would try the man at Brixen. In that matter of fowls she would -not yield a kreutzer to the entreaties of her poor neighbours who -brought them to her for sale. - -Then she walked forth from the house to a little arbour or summer-house -which was close to the chapel opposite, in which she found Schlessen -smoking his pipe with a cup of coffee before him, and Malchen by his -side. “I have made up my mind. Herr Schlessen,” she said. It was only -when she was very angry with him that she called him Herr Schlessen. - -“And what shall I do?” asked the lawyer. - -“Do nothing at all; but just destroy that bit of paper.” So saying, the -Frau walked back to the house, and Fritz Schlessen, looking round at -Malchen, did destroy that bit of paper. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT. - - -About two months after the events described in the last chapter, Malchen -and Fritz Schlessen were sitting in the same little arbour, and he was -again smoking his pipe, and again drinking his coffee. And they were -again alone. When these two were seated together in the arbour, at this -early period of the season, they were usually left alone, as they were -known to be lovers by the guests who would then be assembled at the -Peacock. When the summer had grown into autumn, and the strangers from a -distance had come, and the place was crowded, then the ordinary -coffee-drinkers and smokers would crowd round the arbour, regardless of -the loves of Amalia and Fritz. - -The whole family of the Weisses were now at the Peacock, and the two -Tendel ladies and three or four others, men with their wives and -daughters, from Botzen, Brunecken, and places around at no great -distance. It was now the end of June; but it is not till July that the -house becomes full, and it is in August that the real crowd is gathered -at Frau Frohmann’s board. It is then that folk from a distance cannot -find beds, and the whole culinary resources of the establishment are put -to their greatest stress. It was now Monday, and the lawyer had been -making a holiday, having come to the Brunnenthal on the previous -Saturday. On the Sunday there had been perhaps a dozen visitors from -Innsbruck who had been driven out after early mass for their dinner and -Sunday holiday. Everything had been done at the Peacock on the old -style. There had been no diminution either in the number or in the -excellence of the dishes, nor had there been any increase in the tariff. -It had been the first day of the season at which there had been a full -table, and the Frau had done her best. Everybody had known that the -sojourners in the house were to be entertained at the old rates; but it -had been hoped by the lawyer and the priest, and by Malchen,--even by -Peter himself--that a zwansiger would be added to the charge for dinner -demanded from the townspeople. But at the last moment word had gone -forth that there should be no increase. All the morning the old lady had -been very gloomy. She had heard mass in her own chapel, and had then -made herself very busy in the kitchen. She had spoken no word to any one -till, at the moment before dinner, she gave her instructions to Malchen, -who always made out the bills, and saw that the money was duly received. -There was to be no increase. Then, when the last pudding had been sent -in, she went, according to her custom, to her room and decorated herself -in her grand costume. When the guests had left the dining-room and were -clustering about in the passages and on the seats in front of the house, -waiting for their coffee, she had come forth, very fine, with her grand -cap on her head, with her gold and silver ornaments, with her arms bare, -and radiant with smiles. She shook Madame Weiss very graciously by the -hand and stooped down and kissed the youngest child. To one fraulein -after another she said a civil word. And when, as it happened, Seppel -the carpenter went by, dressed in his Sunday best, with a child in each -hand, she stopped him and asked kindly after the baby. She had made up -her mind that, at any rate for a time, she would not submit to the -humiliation of acknowledging that she was driven to the necessity of -asking increased prices. - -That had taken place on the Sunday, and it was on the following day that -the two lovers were in the arbour together. Now it must be understood -that all the world knew that these lovers were lovers, and that all the -world presumed that they were to become husband and wife. There was not -and never had been the least secrecy about it. Malchen was four or five -and twenty, and he was perhaps thirty. They knew their own minds, and -were, neither of them, likely to be persuaded by others either to marry -or not to marry. The Frau had given her consent,--not with that ecstacy -of joy with which sons-in-law are sometimes welcomed,--but still -without reserve. The kaplan had given in his adhesion. The young lawyer -was not quite the man he liked,--entertained some of the new ideas about -religion, and was given to innovations; but he was respectable and -well-to-do. He was a lover against whom he, as a friend of the family, -could not lift up his voice. Peter did not like the man, and Peter, in -his way, was fond of his sister. But he had not objected. Had he done -so, it would not have mattered much. Malchen was stronger at the -Brunnenthal than Peter. Thus it may be said that things generally smiled -upon the lovers. But yet no one had ever heard that a day was fixed for -their marriage. Madame Weiss had once asked Malchen, and Malchen had -told her--not exactly to mind her own business; but that had been very -nearly the meaning of what she had said. - -There was, indeed, a difficulty; and this was the difficulty. The Frau -had assented--in a gradual fashion, rather by not dissenting as the -thing had gone on, so that it had come to be understood that the thing -was to be. But she had never said a word as to the young lady’s -fortune--as to that “mitgift” which in such a case would certainly be -necessary. Such a woman as the Frau in giving her daughter would surely -have to give something with her. But the Frau was a woman who did not -like parting with her money; and was such a woman that even the lawyer -did not like asking the question. The fraulein had once inquired, but -the mother had merely raised her eyebrows and remained silent. Then the -lawyer had told the priest that in the performance of her moral duties -the Frau ought to settle something in her own mind. The priest had -assented, but had seemed to imply that in the performance of such a duty -an old lady ought not to be hurried. A year or two, he seemed to think, -would not be too much for consideration. And so the matter stood at the -present moment. - -Perhaps it is that the Germans are a slow people. It may be that the -Tyrolese are especially so. Be that as it may, Herr Schlessen did not -seem to be driven into any agony of despair by these delays. He was -fondly attached to his Malchen; but as to offering to take her without -any mitgift,--quite empty-handed, just as she stood,--that was out of -the question. No young man who had anything, ever among his -acquaintances, did that kind of thing. Scales should be somewhat equally -balanced. He had a good income, and was entitled to some substantial -mitgift. He was quite ready to marry her to-morrow, if only this -important question could get itself settled. - -Malchen was quite as well aware as was he that her mother should be -brought to do her duty in this matter; but, perhaps of the two, she was -a little the more impatient. If there should at last be a slip between -the cup and the lip, the effect to her would be so much more disastrous -than to him! He could very easily get another wife. Young women were as -plenty as blackberries. So the fraulein told herself. But she might -find it difficult to suit herself, if at last this affair were to be -broken off. She knew herself to be a fair, upstanding, good-looking -lass, with personal attractions sufficient to make such a young man as -Fritz Schlessen like her society; but she knew also that her good looks, -such as they were, would not be improved by fretting. It might be -possible that Fritz should change his mind some day, if he were kept -waiting till he saw her becoming day by day more commonplace under his -eyes. Malchen had good sense enough not to overrate her own charms, and -she knew the world well enough to be aware that she would be wise to -secure, if possible, a comfortable home while she was at her best. It -was not that she suspected Fritz; but she did not think that she would -be justified in supposing him to be more angelic than other young men -simply because he was her lover. Therefore, Malchen was impatient, and -for the last month or two had been making up her mind to be very “round” -with her mother on the subject. - -At the present moment, however, the lovers, as they were sitting in the -arbour, were discussing rather the Frau’s affairs in regard to the -establishment than their own. Schlessen had, in truth, come to the -Brunnenthal on this present occasion to see what would be done, thinking -that if the thin edge of the wedge could have been got in,--if those -people from the town could have been made to pay an extra zwansiger each -for their Sunday dinner,--then, even yet, the old lady might be induced -to raise her prices in regard to the autumn and more fashionable -visitors. But she had been obstinate, and had gloried in her obstinacy, -dressing herself up in her grandest ornaments and smiling her best -smiles, as in triumph at her own victory. - -“The fact is, you know, it won’t do,” said the lawyer to his love. “I -don’t know how I am to say any more, but anybody can see with half an -eye that she will simply go on losing money year after year. It is all -very fine for the Weisses and Tendels, and very fine for old -Trauss,”--old Trauss was a retired linen-draper from Vienna, who lived -at Innsbruck, and was accustomed to eat many dinners at the Peacock; a -man who could afford to pay a proper price, but who was well pleased to -get a good dinner at a cheap rate,--“and very well for old Trauss,” -continued the lawyer, becoming more energetic as he went on, “to regale -themselves at your mother’s expense;--but that’s what it comes to. -Everybody knows that everybody has raised the price of everything. Look -at the Golden Lion.” The Golden Lion was the grand hotel in the town. -“Do you think they haven’t raised their prices during the last twenty -years?” - -“Why is it, Fritz?” - -“Everything goes up together, of course. If you’ll look into old -accounts you’ll see that three hundred years ago you could buy a sheep -at Salzburg for two florins and a half. I saw, it somewhere in a book. -If a lawyer’s clerk then had eighty florins a year he was well off. That -would not surprise her. She can understand that there should be an -enormous change in three hundred years; but she can’t make out why there -should be a little change in thirty years.” - -“But many things have got cheaper, Fritz.” - -“Living altogether hasn’t got cheaper. Look at wages!” - -“I don’t know why we should pay more. Everybody says that bread is lower -than it used to be.” - -“What sort of bread do the people eat now? Look at that man.” The man -was Seppel, who was dragging a cart which he had just mended out of the -shed which was close by,--in which cart were seated his three eldest -children, so that he might help their mother as assistant nurse even -while he was at his work. “Don’t you think he gets more wheaten flour -into his house in a week than his grandfather did in a year? His -grandfather never saw white bread.” - -“Why should he have it?” - -“Because he likes it, and because he can get it. Do you think he’d have -stayed here if his wages had not been raised?” - -“I don’t think Seppel ever would have moved out of the Brunnenthal, -Fritz.” - -“Then Seppel would have been more stupid than the cow, which knows very -well on which side of the field it can find the best grass. Everything -gets dearer;--and if one wants to live one has to swim with the stream. -You might as well try to fight with bows and arrows, or with the -old-fashioned flint rifles, as to live at the same rate as your -grandfather.” The young lawyer, as he said this, rapped his pipe on the -table to knock out the ashes, and threw himself back on his seat with a -full conviction that he had spoken words of wisdom. - -“What will it all come to, Fritz?” This Malchen asked with real anxiety -in her voice. She was not slow to join two things together. It might -well be that her mother should be induced by her pride to carry on the -business for a while, so as to lose some of her money, but that she -should, at last, be induced to see the error of her ways before serious -damage had been done. Her financial position was too good to be brought -to ruin by small losses. But during the period of her discomfiture she -certainly would not be got to open her hand in that matter of the -mitgift. Malchen’s own little affair would never get itself settled till -this other question should have arranged itself satisfactorily. There -could be no mitgift from a failing business. And if the business were to -continue to fail for the next year or two, where would Malchen be then? -It was not, therefore, wonderful that she should be in earnest. - -“Your mother is a very clever woman,” said the lover. - -“It seems to me that she is very foolish about this,” said Malchen, -whose feeling of filial reverence was not at the moment very strong. - -“She is a clever woman, and has done uncommonly well in the world. The -place is worth double as much as when she married your father. But it is -that very success which makes her obstinate. She thinks that she can -see her way. She fancies that she can compel people to work for her and -deal with her at the old prices. It will take her, perhaps, a couple of -years to find out that this is wrong. When she has lost three or four -thousand florins she’ll come round.” - -Fritz, as he said this, seemed to be almost contented with this view of -the case,--as though it made no difference to him. But with the fraulein -the matter was so essentially personal that she could not allow it to -rest there. She had made up her mind to be round with her mother; but it -seemed to her to be necessary, also, that something should be said to -her lover. “Won’t all that be very bad for you, Fritz?” - -“Her business with me will go on just the same.” - -This was felt to be unkind and very unloverlike. But she could not -afford at the present moment to quarrel with him. “I mean about our -settling,” she said. - -“It ought not to make a difference.” - -“I don’t know about ought;--but won’t it? You don’t see her as I do, -but, of course, it puts her into a bad temper.” - -“I suppose she means to give you some fixed sum. I don’t doubt but she -has it all arranged in her own mind.” - -“Why doesn’t she name it, then?” - -“Ah, my dear,--mein schatz,--there is nobody who likes too well to part -with his money.” - -“But when is there to be an end of it?” - -“You should find that out. You are her child, and she has only two. That -she should hang back is a matter of course. When one has the money of -his own one can do anything. It is all in her own hand. See what I bear. -When I tell her this or that she turns upon me as if I were nobody. Do -you think I should suffer it if she were only just a client? You must -persuade her, and be gentle with her; but if she would name the sum it -would be a comfort, of course.” - -The fraulein herself did not in the least know what the sum ought to be; -but she thought she did know that it was a matter which should be -arranged between her lover and her parent. What she would have liked to -have told him was this,--that as there were only two children, and as -her mother was at any rate an honest woman, he might be sure that a -proper dowry would come at last. But she was well aware that he would -think that a mitgift should be a mitgift. The bride should come with it -in her hand, so that she might be a comfort to her husband’s household. -Schlessen would not be at all willing to wait patiently for the Frau’s -death, or even for some final settlement of her affairs when she might -make up her mind to leave the Peacock and betake herself to Schwatz. -“You would not like to ask her yourself?” she said. - -He was silent for a while, and then he answered her by another question. -“Are you afraid of her?” - -“Not afraid. But she would just tell me I was impertinent. I am not a -bit afraid, but it would do no good. It would be so reasonable for you -to do it.” - -“There is just the difference, Malchen. I am afraid of her.” - -“She could not bite you.” - -“No;--but she might say something sharp, and then I might answer her -sharply. And then there might be a quarrel. If she were to tell me that -she did not want to see me any more in the Brunnenthal, where should we -be then? Mein schatz, if you will take my advice, you will just say a -word yourself, in your softest, sweetest way.” Then he got up and made -his way across to the stable, where was the horse which was to take him -back to Innsbruck. Malchen was not altogether well pleased with her -lover, but she perceived that on the present occasion she must, -perforce, follow his advice. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD DAYS. - - -Two or three weeks went by in the Brunnenthal without any special -occurrence, and Malchen had not as yet spoken to her mother about her -fortune. The Frau had during this time been in more than ordinary good -humour with her own household. July had opened with lovely weather, and -the house had become full earlier than usual. The Frau liked to have the -house full, even though there might be no profit, and therefore she was -in a good humour. But she had been exceptionally busy, and was trying -experiments in her housekeeping, as to which she was still in hope that -they would carry her through all her difficulties. She had been both to -Brixen on one side of the mountain and to Innsbruck on the other, and -had changed her butcher. Her old friend Hoff, at the latter place, had -altogether declined to make any reduction in his prices. Of course they -had been raised within the last five or six years. Who did not know that -that had been the case with butchers’ meat all the world over? As it -was, he charged the Frau less than he charged the people at the Golden -Lion. So at least he swore; and when she told him that unless an -alteration was made she must take her custom elsewhere--he bade her go -elsewhere. Therefore she did make a contract with the butcher at Brixen -on lower terms, and seemed to think that she had got over her -difficulty. But Brixen was further than Innsbruck, and the carriage was -more costly. It was whispered also about the house that the meat was not -equally good. Nobody, however, had as yet dared to say a word on that -subject to the Frau. And she, though in the midst of her new efforts she -was good-humoured herself,--as is the case with many people while they -have faith in the efforts they are making,--had become the cause of much -unhappiness among others. Butter, eggs, poultry, honey, fruit, and -vegetables, she was in the habit of buying from her neighbours, and had -been so excellent a customer that she was as good as a market to the -valley in general. There had usually been some haggling; but that, I -think, by such vendors is considered a necessary and almost an agreeable -part of the operation. The produce had been bought and sold, and the -Frau had, upon the whole, been regarded as a kind of providence to the -Brunnenthal. But now there were sad tales told at many a cottage and -small farmstead around. The Frau had declared that she would give no -more than three zwansigers a pair for chickens, and had insisted on -having both butter and eggs at a lower price than she had paid last -year. And she had succeeded, after infinite clamours. She had been their -one market, their providence, and they had no other immediate customers -to whom to betake themselves. The eggs and the butter, the raspberries -and the currants, must be sold. She had been imperious and had -succeeded, for a while. But there were deep murmurs, and already a -feeling was growing up in favour of Innsbruck and a market cart. It was -very dreadful. How were they to pay their taxes, how were they to pay -anything, if they were to be crimped and curtailed in this way? One poor -woman had already walked to Innsbruck with three dozen eggs, and had got -nearly twice the money which the Frau had offered. The labour of the -walk had been very hard upon her, and the economy of the proceeding -generally may have been doubtful; but it had been proved that the thing -could be done. - -Early in July there had come a letter, addressed to Peter, from an -English gentleman who, with his wife and daughter, had been at the -Brunnenthal on the preceding year. Mr. Cartwright had now written to -say, that the same party would be glad to come again early in August, -and had asked what were the present prices. Now the very question seemed -to imply a conviction on the gentleman’s mind that the prices would be -raised. Even Peter, when he took the letter to his mother, thought that -this would be a good opportunity for taking a step in advance. These -were English people, and entitled to no loving forbearance. The -Cartwrights need know nothing as to the demands made on the Weisses and -Tendels. Peter who had always been on his mother’s side, Peter who hated -changes, even he suggested that he might write back word that seven -zwansigers and a half was now the tariff. “Don’t you know I have settled -all that?” said the old woman, turning upon him fiercely. Then he wrote -to Mr. Cartwright to say that the charge would be six zwansigers a day, -as heretofore. It was certainly a throwing away of money. Mr. Cartwright -was a Briton, and would, therefore, almost have preferred to pay another -zwansiger or two. So at least Peter thought. And he, even an Englishman, -with his wife and daughter, was to be taken in and entertained at a -loss! At a loss!--unless, indeed, the Frau could be successful in her -new mode of keeping her house. Father Conolin in these days kept away. -The complaints made by the neighbours around reached his ears,--very sad -complaints,--and he hardly knew how to speak of them to the Frau. It was -becoming very serious with him. He had counselled her against any rise -in her own prices, but had certainly not intended that she should make -others lower. That had not been his plan; and now he did not know what -advice to give. - -But the Frau, resolute in her attempt, and proud of her success as far -as it had gone, constantly adducing the conduct of these two rival -butchers as evidence of her own wisdom, kept her ground like a Trojan. -All the old courses were served, and the puddings and the fruit were at -first as copious as ever. If the meat was inferior in quality,--and it -could not be so without her knowledge, for she had not reigned so long -in the kitchen of the Peacock without having become a judge in such -matters,--she was willing to pass the fault over for a time. She tried -to think that there was not much difference. She almost tried to believe -that second-rate meat would do as well as first-rate. There should at -least be no lack of anything in the cookery. And so she toiled and -struggled, and was hopeful that she might have her own way and prove to -all her advisers that she knew how to manage the house better than any -of them. - -There was great apparent good humour. Though she had frowned upon Peter -when he had shown a disposition to spoil those Egyptians the -Cartwrights, she had only done so in defence of her own resolute -purpose, and soon returned to her kind looks. She was, too, very civil -to Malchen, omitting for the time her usual gibes and jeers as to her -daughter’s taste for French finery and general rejection of Tyrolese -customs. And she said nothing of the prolonged absence of her two -counsellors, the priest and the lawyer. A great struggle was going on -within her own bosom, as to which she in these days said not a word to -anybody. One counsellor had told her to raise her prices; another had -advised her to lessen the luxuries supplied. As both the one proposition -and the other had gone against her spirit, she had looked about her to -find some third way out of her embarrassments. She had found it, and the -way was one which recommended itself to her own sense of abstract -justice. The old prices should prevail in the valley everywhere. She -would extort nothing from Mr. Cartwright, but then neither should her -neighbours extort anything from her. Seppel’s wife was ill, and she had -told him that in consequence of that misfortune the increased wages -should be continued for three months, but that after that she must -return to the old rate. In the softness of her heart she would have -preferred to say six months, but that in doing so she would have seemed -to herself to have departed from the necessary rigour of her new -doctrine. But when Seppel stood before her, scratching his head, a -picture of wretchedness and doubt, she was not comfortable in her mind. -Seppel had a dim idea of his own rights, and did not like to be told -that his extra zwansigers came to him from the Frau’s charity. To go -away from the Brunnenthal at the end of the summer, to go away at all, -would be terrible to him; but to work for less than fair wages, would -that not be more terrible? Of all which the Frau, as she looked at him, -understood much. - -And she understood much also of the discontent and almost despair which -was filling the minds of the poor women all around her. All those poor -women were dear to her. It was in her nature to love those around her, -and especially those who were dependent on her. She knew the story of -every household,--what children each mother had reared and what she had -lost, when each had been brought to affliction by a husband’s illness or -a son’s misconduct. She had never been deaf to their troubles; and -though she might have been heard in violent discussions, now with one -and now with another, as to the selling value of this or that article, -she had always been held by them to be a just woman and a constant -friend. Now they were up in arms against her, to the extreme grief of -her heart. - -Nevertheless it was necessary that she should support herself by an -outward appearance of tranquillity, so that the world around her might -know that she was not troubled by doubts as to her own conduct. She had -heard somewhere that no return can be made from evil to good courses -without temporary disruptions, and that all lovers of justice are -subject to unreasonable odium. Things had gone astray because there had -been unintentional lapses from justice. She herself had been the -delinquent when she had allowed herself to be talked into higher -payments than those which had been common in the valley in her young -days. She had not understood, when she made these lapses gradually, how -fatal would be their result. Now she understood, and was determined to -plant her foot firmly down on the old figures. All this evil had come -from a departure from the old ways. There must be sorrow and trouble, -and perhaps some ill blood, in this return. That going back to -simplicity is always so difficult! But it should be done. So she smiled, -and refused to give more than three zwansigers a pair for her chickens. - -One old woman came to her with the express purpose of arguing it all -out. Suse Krapp was the wife of an old woodman who lived high up above -the Peacock, among the pines, in a spot which could only be reached by a -long and very steep ascent, and who being old, and having a daughter and -granddaughters whom she could send down with her eggs and wild fruit, -did not very often make her appearance in the valley. But she had known -the Frau well for many years, having been one of those to welcome her -when she had arrived there as a bride, and had always been treated with -exceptional courtesy. Suse Krapp was a woman who had brought up a large -family, and had known troubles; but she had always been able to speak -her own mind; and when she arrived at the house, empty-handed, with -nothing to sell, declaring at once her purpose of remonstrating with the -Frau, the Frau regarded her as a delegate from the commercial females of -the valley generally; and she took the coming in good part, asking Suse -into her own inner room. - -After sundry inquiries on each side, respecting the children and the -guests, and the state of things in the world at large, the real question -was asked, “Ah, meine liebe Frau Frohmann,--my very dear Mrs. Frohmann, -as one might say here,--why are you dealing with us all in the -Brunnenthal after this hard fashion?” - -“What do you call a hard fashion, Suse?” - -“Only giving half price for everything that you buy. Why should anything -be cheaper this year than it was last? Ah, alas! does not everybody know -that everything is dearer?” - -“Why should anything be dearer, Suse? The people who come here are not -charged more than they were twenty years ago.” - -“Who can tell? How can an old woman say? It is all very bad. The world, -I suppose, is getting worse. But it is so. Look at the taxes.” - -The taxes, whether imperial or municipal, was a matter on which Frau did -not want to speak. She felt that they were altogether beyond her reach. -No doubt there had been a very great increase in such demands during her -time, and it was an increase against which nobody could make any stand -at all. But, if that was all, there had been a rise in prices quite -sufficient to answer that. She was willing to pay three zwansigers a -pair for chickens, and yet she could remember when they were to be -bought for a zwansiger each. - -“Yes, taxes,” she said; “they are an evil which we must all endure. It -is no good grumbling at them. But we have had the roads made for us.” - -This was an unfortunate admission, for it immediately gave Suse Krapp an -easy way to her great argument. “Roads, yes! and they are all saying -that they must make use of them to send the things into market. -Josephine Bull took her eggs into the city and got two kreutzers apiece -for them.” - -The Frau had already heard of that journey, and had also heard that poor -Josephine Bull had been very much fatigued by her labours. It had -afflicted her much, both that the poor woman should have been driven to -such a task, and that such an innovation should have been attempted. She -had never loved Innsbruck dearly, and now she was beginning to hate the -place. “What good did she get by that, Suse? None, I fear. She had -better have given her eggs away in the valley.” - -“But they will have a cart.” - -“Do you think a cart won’t cost money? There must be somebody to drive -the cart, I suppose.” On this point the Frau spoke feelingly, as she was -beginning to appreciate the inconvenience of sending twice a week all -the way to Brixen for her meat. There was a diligence, but though the -horses were kept in her own stables, she had not as yet been able to -come to terms with the proprietor. - -“There is all that to think of certainly,” said Suse. “But----. Wouldn’t -you come back, meine liebe Frau, to the prices you were paying last -year? Do you not know that they would sooner sell to you than to any -other human being in all the world, and they must live by their little -earnings?” - -But the Frau could not be persuaded. Indeed had she allowed herself to -be persuaded, all her purpose would have been brought to an end. Of -course there must be trouble, and her refusal of such a prayer as this -was a part of her trouble. She sent for a glass of kirsch-wasser to -mitigate the rigour of her denial, and as Suse drank the cordial she -endeavoured to explain her system. There could be no happiness, no real -prosperity in the valley, till they had returned to their old ways. “It -makes me unhappy,” said the Frau, shaking her head, “when I see the -girls making for themselves long petticoats.” Suse quite agreed with the -Frau as to the long petticoats; but, as she went, she declared that the -butter and eggs must be taken into Innsbruck, and another allusion to -the cart was the last word upon her tongue. - -It was on the evening of that same day that Malchen, unaware that her -mother’s feelings had just then been peculiarly stirred up by an appeal -from the women of the valley, came at last to the determination of -asking that something might be settled as to the “mitgift.” “Mother,” -she said, “Fritz Schlessen thinks that something should be arranged.” - -“Arranged as how?” - -“I suppose he wants--to be married.” - -“If he don’t, I suppose somebody else does,” said the mother smiling. - -“Well, mother! Of course it is not pleasant to be as we are now. You -must feel that yourself. Fritz is a good young man, and there is nothing -about him that I have a right to complain of. But of course, like all -the rest of ’em, he expects some money when he takes a wife. Couldn’t -you tell him what you mean to give?” - -“Not at present, Malchen.” - -“And why not now? It has been going on two years.” - -“Nina Cobard at Schwatz was ten years before her people would let it -come off. Just at present I am trying a great experiment, and I can say -nothing about money till the season is over.” With this answer Malchen -was obliged to be content, and was not slow in perceiving that it almost -contained a promise that the affairs should be settled when the season -was over. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER. - - -In the beginning of August, the Weisses and the Tendels and Herr Trauss -had all left the Brunnenthal, and our friend Frau Frohmann was left with -a house full of guests who were less intimately known to her, but who -not the less demanded and received all her care. But, as those departed -whom she had taught herself to regard as neighbours and who were -therefore entitled to something warmer and more generous than mere -tavern hospitality, she began to feel the hardness of her case in -having to provide so sumptuously for all these strangers at a loss. -There was a party of Americans in the house who had absolutely made no -inquiry whatsoever as to prices till they had shown themselves at her -door. Peter had been very urgent with her to mulct the Americans, who -were likely, he thought, to despise the house merely because it was -cheap. But she would not give way. If the American gentleman should find -out the fact and turn upon her, and ask her why he was charged more than -others, how would she be able to answer him? She had never yet been so -placed as not to be able to answer any complaints, boldly and even -indignantly. It was hard upon her; but if the prices were to be raised -to any, they must be raised to all. - -The whole valley now was in a hubbub. In the matter of butter there had -been so great a commotion that the Frau had absolutely gone back to the -making of her own, a system which had been abandoned at the Peacock a -few years since, with the express object of befriending the neighbours. -There had been a dairy with all its appurtenances; but it had come to -pass that the women around had got cows, and that the Frau had found -that without damage to herself she could buy their supplies. And in this -way her own dairy had gone out of use. She had kept her cows because -there had grown into use a great drinking of milk at the Peacock, and as -the establishment had gradually increased, the demand for cream, -custards, and such luxuries had of course increased also. Now, when, -remembering this, she conceived that she had a peculiar right to receive -submission as to the price of butter, and yet found more strong -rebellion here than on any other point, she at once took the bull by the -horns, and threw not only her energies, but herself bodily into the -dairy. It was repaired and whitewashed, and scoured and supplied with -all necessary furniture in so marvellously short a time, that the owners -of cows around could hardly believe their ears and their eyes. Of course -there was a spending of money, but there had never been any slackness as -to capital at the Peacock when good results might be expected from its -expenditure. So the dairy was set agoing. - -But there was annoyance, even shame, and to the old woman’s feeling -almost disgrace, arising from this. As you cannot eat your cake and have -it, so neither can you make your butter and have your cream. The supply -of new milk to the milk-drinkers was at first curtailed, and then -altogether stopped. The guests were not entitled to the luxury by any -contract, and were simply told that as the butter was now made at home, -the milk was wanted for that purpose. And then there certainly was a -deterioration in the puddings. There had hitherto been a rich plenty -which was now wanting. No one complained; but the Frau herself felt the -falling off. The puddings now were such as might be seen at other -places,--at the Golden Lion for instance. Hitherto her puddings had been -unrivalled in the Tyrol. - -Then there had suddenly appeared a huckster, a pedlar, an itinerant -dealer in the valley who absolutely went round to the old women’s houses -and bought the butter at the prices which she had refused to give. And -this was a man who had been in her own employment, had been brought to -the valley by herself, and had once driven her own horses! And it was -reported to her that this man was simply an agent for a certain -tradesman in Innsbruck. There was an ingratitude in all this which -nearly broke her heart. It seemed to her that those to whom in their -difficulties she had been most kind were now turning upon her in her -difficulty. And she thought that there was no longer left among the -people any faith, any feeling of decent economy, any principle. -Disregarding right or wrong, they would all go where they could get half -a zwansiger more! They knew what it was she was attempting to do; for -had she not explained it all to Suse Krapp? And yet they turned against -her. - -The poor Frau knew nothing of that great principle of selling in the -dearest market, however much the other lesson as to buying in the -cheapest had been brought home to her. When a fixed price had become -fixed, that, she thought, should not be altered. She was demanding no -more than she had been used to demand, though to do so would have been -so easy! But her neighbours, those to whom she had even been most -friendly, refused to assist her in her efforts to re-establish the old -and salutary simplicity. Of course when the butter was taken into -Innsbruck, the chickens and the eggs went with the butter. When she -learned how all this was she sent for Suse Krapp, and Suse Krapp again -came down to her. - -“They mean then to quarrel with me utterly?” said the Frau with her -sternest frown. - -“Meine liebe Frau Frohmann!” said the old woman, embracing the arm of -her ancient friend. - -“But they do mean it?” - -“What can we do, poor wretches? We must live.” - -“You lived well enough before,” said the Frau, raising her fist in the -unpremeditated eloquence of her indignation. “Will it be better for you -now to deal with strangers who will rob you at every turn? Will Karl -Muntz, the blackguard that he is, advance money to any of you at your -need? Well; let it be so. I too can deal with strangers. But when once I -have made arrangements in the town, I will not come back to the people -of the valley. If we are to be severed, we will be severed. It goes -sadly against the grain with me, as I have a heart in my bosom.” - -“You have, you have, my dearest Frau Frohmann.” - -“As for the cranberries, we can do without them.” Now it had been the -case that Suse Krapp with her grandchildren had supplied the Peacock -with wild fruits in plentiful abundance, which wild fruits, stewed as -the Frau knew how to stew them, had been in great request among the -guests at the Brunnenthal. Great bowls of cranberries and bilberries had -always at this period of the year turned the Frau’s modest suppers into -luxurious banquets. But there must be an end to that now; not in any way -because the price paid for the fruit was grudged, but because the -quarrel, if quarrel there must be, should be internecine at all points. -She had loved them all; but, if they turned against her, not the less -because of her love would she punish them. Poor old Suse wiped her eyes -and took her departure, without any kirsch-wasser on this occasion. - -It all went on from bad to worse. Seppel the carpenter gave her notice -that he would leave her service at the end of August. “Why at the end of -August?” she asked, remembering that she had promised to give him the -higher rate of wages up to a later date than that. Then Seppel -explained, that as he must do something for himself,--that is, find -another place,--the sooner he did that the better. Now Seppel the -carpenter was brother to that Anton who had most wickedly undertaken the -huckstering business, on the part of Karl Muntz the dealer in Innsbruck, -and it turned out that Seppel was to join him. There was an ingratitude -in this which almost drove the old woman frantic. If any one in the -valley was more bound to her by kindly ties than another, it was Seppel, -with his wife and six children. Wages! There had been no question of -wages when Babette, Seppel’s wife, had been ill; and Babette had always -been ill. And when he had chopped his own foot with his own axe, and had -gone into the hospital for six weeks, they had wanted nothing! That he -should leave her for a matter of six zwansigers a month, and not only -leave her, but become her active enemy, was dreadful to her. Nor was her -anger at all modified when he explained it all to her. As a man, and as -a carpenter who was bound to keep up his own respect among carpenters, -he could not allow himself to work for less than the ordinary wages. The -Frau had been very kind to him, and he and his wife and children were -all grateful. But she would not therefore wish him,--this was his -argument,--she would not on that account require him to work for less -than his due. Seppel put his hand on his heart, and declared that his -honour was concerned. As for his brother’s cart and his huckstery trade -and Karl Muntz, he was simply lending a hand to that till he could get a -settled place as carpenter. He was doing the Frau no harm. If he did not -look after the cart, somebody else would. He was very submissive and -most anxious to avoid her anger; but yet would not admit that he was -doing wrong. But she towered in her wrath, and would listen to no -reason. It was to her all wrong. It was innovation, a spirit of change -coming from the source of all evil, bringing with it unkindness, absence -of charity, ingratitude! It was flat mutiny, and rebellion against their -betters. For some weeks it seemed to the Frau that all the world was -going to pieces. - -Her position was the more painful because at the time she was without -counsellors. The kaplan came indeed as usual, and was as attentive and -flattering to her as of yore; but he said nothing to her about her own -affairs unless he was asked; and she did not ask him, knowing that he -would not give her palatable counsel. The kaplan himself was not well -versed in political economy or questions of money generally; but he had -a vague idea that the price of a chicken ought to be higher now than it -was thirty years ago. Then why not also the price of living to the -guests at the Peacock? On that matter he argued with himself that the -higher prices for the chickens had prevailed for some time, and that it -was at any rate impossible to go back. And perhaps the lawyer had been -right in recommending the Frau to rush at once to seven zwansigers and a -half. His mind was vacillating and his ideas misty; but he did agree -with Suse Krapp when she declared that the poor people must live. He -could not, therefore, do the Frau any good by his advice. - -As for Schlessen he had not been at the Brunnenthal for a month, and had -told Malchen in Innsbruck that unless he were specially wanted, he would -not go to the Peacock until something had been settled as to the -mitgift. “Of course she is going to lose a lot of money,” said -Schlessen. “Anybody can see that with half an eye. Everybody in the town -is talking about it. But when I tell her so, she is only angry with me.” - -Malchen of course could give no advice. Every step which her mother took -seemed to her to be unwise. Of course the old women would do the best -they could with their eggs. The idea that any one out of gratitude -should sell cheaper to a friend than to an enemy was to her monstrous. -But when she found that her mother was determined to swim against the -stream, to wound herself by kicking against the pricks, to set at -defiance all the common laws of trade, and that in this way money was -to be lost, just at that very epoch of her own life in which it was so -necessary that money should be forthcoming for her own advantage,--then -she became moody, unhappy, and silent. What a pity it was that all this -power should be vested in her mother’s hands. - -As for Peter, he had been altogether converted. When he found that a -cart had to be sent twice a week to Brixen, and that the very poultry -which had been carried from the valley to the town had to be brought -back from the town to the valley, then his spirit of conservatism -deserted him. He went so far as to advise his mother to give way. “I -don’t see that you do any good by ruining yourself,” he said. - -But she turned at him very fiercely. “I suppose I may do as I like with -my own,” she replied. - -Yes; she could do what she liked with her own. But now it was declared -by all those around her, by her neighbours in the valley, and by those -in Innsbruck who knew anything about her, that it was a sad thing and a -bad thing that an old woman should be left with the power of ruining all -those who belonged to her, and that there should be none to restrain -her! And yet for the last twenty-five years previous to this it had been -the general opinion in these parts that nobody had ever managed such a -house as well as the Frau Frohmann. As for being ruined,--Schlessen, who -was really acquainted with her affairs, knew better than that. She might -lose a large sum of money, but there was no fear of ruin. Schlessen was -inclined to think that all this trouble would end in the Frau retiring -to Schwatz, and that the settlement of the mitgift might thus be -accelerated. Perhaps he and the Frau herself were the only two persons -who really knew how well she had thriven. He was not afraid, and, being -naturally patient, was quite willing to let things take their course. - -The worst of it to the Frau herself was that she knew so well what -people were saying of her. She had enjoyed for many years all that -delight which comes from success and domination. It had not been merely, -nor even chiefly, the feeling that money was being made. It is not that -which mainly produces the comfortable condition of mind which attends -success. It is the sense of respect which it engenders. The Frau had -held her head high, and felt herself inferior to none, because she had -enjoyed to the full this conviction. Things had gone pleasantly with -her. Nothing is so enfeebling as failure; but she, hitherto, had never -failed. Now a new sensation had fallen upon her, by which at certain -periods she was almost prostrated. The woman was so brave that at her -worst moments she would betake herself to solitude and shed her tears -where no one could see her. Then she would come out and so carry herself -that none should guess how she suffered. To no ears did she utter a word -of complaint, unless her indignation to Seppel, to Suse, and the others -might be called complaining. She asked for no sympathy. Even to the -kaplan she was silent, feeling that the kaplan, too, was against her. It -was natural that he should take part with the poor. She was now for the -first time in her life, driven, alas, to feel that the poor were against -her. - -The house was still full, but there had of late been a great falling off -in the midday visitors. It had, indeed, almost come to pass that that -custom had died away. She told herself, with bitter regret, that this -was the natural consequence of her deteriorated dinners. The Brixen meat -was not good. Sometimes she was absolutely without poultry. And in those -matters of puddings, cream, and custards, we know what a falling off -there had been. I doubt, however, whether her old friends had been -stopped by that cause. It may have been so with Herr Trauss, who in -going to Brunnenthal, or elsewhere, cared for little else but what he -might get to eat and drink. But with most of those concerned the feeling -had been that things were generally going wrong in the valley, and that -in existing circumstances the Peacock could not be pleasant. She at any -rate felt herself to be deserted, and this feeling greatly aggravated -her trouble. - -“You are having beautiful weather,” Mr. Cartwright said to her one day -when in her full costume she came out among the coffee-drinkers in the -front of the house. Mr. Cartwright spoke German, and was on friendly -terms with the old lady. She was perhaps a little in awe of him as being -a rich man, an Englishman, and one with a white beard and a general -deportment of dignity. - -“The weather is well enough, sir,” she said. - -“I never saw the place all round look more lovely. I was up at -Sustermann’s saw-mills this morning, and I and my daughter agreed that -it is the most lovely spot we know.” - -“The saw-mill is a pretty spot, sir, no doubt.” - -“It seems to me that the house becomes fuller and fuller every year, -Frau Frohmann.” - -“The house is full enough, sir; perhaps too full.” Then she hesitated as -though she would say something further. But the words were wanting to -her in which to explain her difficulties with sufficient clearness for -the foreigner, and she retreated, therefore, back into her own domains. -He, of course, had heard something of the Frau’s troubles, and had been -willing enough to say a word to her about things in general if the -occasion arose. But he had felt that the subject must be introduced by -herself. She was too great a potentate to have advice thrust upon her -uninvited. - -A few days after this she asked Malchen whether Schlessen was ever -coming out to the Brunnenthal again. This was almost tantamount to an -order for his presence. “He will come directly, mother, if you want to -see him,” said Malchen. The Frau would do no more than grunt in answer -to this. It was too much to expect that she should say positively that -he must come. But Malchen understood her, and sent the necessary word to -Innsbruck. - -On the following day Schlessen was at the Peacock, and took a walk up to -the waterfall with Malchen before he saw the Frau. “She won’t ruin -herself,” said Fritz. “It would take a great deal to ruin her. What she -is losing in the house she is making up in the forests and in the land.” - -“Then it won’t matter if it does go on like this?” - -“It does matter because it makes her so fierce and unhappy, and because -the more she is knocked about the more obstinate she will get. She has -only to say the word, and all would be right to-morrow.” - -“What word?” asked Malchen. - -“Just to acknowledge that everything has got to be twenty-five per cent. -dearer than it was twenty-five years ago.” - -“But she does not like paying more, Fritz. That’s just the thing.” - -“What does it matter what she pays?” - -“I should think it mattered a great deal.” - -“Not in the least. What does matter is whether she makes a profit out of -the money she spends. Florins and zwansigers are but names. What you can -manage to eat, and drink, and wear, and what sort of a house you can -live in, and whether you can get other people to do for you what you -don’t like to do yourself,--that is what you have got to look after.” - -“But, Fritz;--money is money.” - -“Just so; but it is no more than money. If she could find out suddenly -that what she has been thinking was a zwansiger was in truth only half a -zwansiger, then she would not mind paying two where she had hitherto -paid one, and would charge two where she now charges one,--as a matter -of course. That’s about the truth.” - -“But a zwansiger is a zwansiger.” - -“No;--not in her sense. A zwansiger now is not much more than half what -it used to be. If the change had come all at once she could have -understood it better.” - -“But why is it changed?” - -Here Schlessen scratched his head. He was not quite sure that he knew, -and felt himself unable to explain clearly what he himself only -conjectured dimly. “At any rate it is so. That’s what she has got to be -made to understand, or else she must give it up and go and live quietly -in private. It’ll come to that, that she won’t have a servant about the -place if she goes on like this. Her own grandfather and grandmother were -very good sort of people, but it is useless to try and live like them. -You might just as well go back further, and give up knives and forks and -cups and saucers.” - -Such was the wisdom of Herr Schlessen; and when he had spoken it he was -ready to go back from the waterfall, near which they were seated, to the -house. But Malchen thought that there was another subject as to which he -ought to have something to say to her. “It is all very bad for -us;--isn’t it, Fritz?” - -“It will come right in time, my darling.” - -“Your darling! I don’t think you care for me a bit.” As she spoke she -moved herself a little further away from him. “If you did, you would -not take it all so easily.” - -“What can I do, Malchen?” She did not quite know what he could do, but -she was sure that when her lover, after a month’s absence, got an -opportunity of sitting with her by a waterfall, he should not confine -his conversation to a discussion on the value of zwansigers. - -“You never seem to think about anything except money now.” - -“That is very unfair, Malchen. It was you asked me, and so I endeavoured -to explain it.” - -“If you have said all that you’ve got to say, I suppose we may go back -again.” - -“Of course, Malchen, I wish she’d settle what she means to do about you. -We have been engaged long enough.” - -“Perhaps you’d like to break it off.” - -“You never knew me break off anything yet.” That was true. She did know -him to be a man of a constant, if not of an enthusiastic temperament. -And now, as he helped her up from off the rock, and contrived to snatch -a kiss in the process, she was restored to her good humour. - -“What’s the good of that?” she said, thumping him, but not with much -violence. “I did speak to mother a little while ago, and asked her what -she meant to do.” - -“Was she angry?” - -“No;--not angry; but she said that everything must remain as it is till -after the season. Oh, Fritz! I hope it won’t go on for another winter. -I suppose she has got the money.” - -“Oh, yes; she has got it; but, as I’ve told you before, people who have -got money do not like to part with it.” Then they returned to the house; -and Malchen, thinking of it all, felt reassured as to her lover’s -constancy, but was more than ever certain that, though it might be for -five years, he would never marry her till the mitgift had been arranged. - -Shortly afterwards he was summoned into the Frau’s private room, and -there had an interview with her alone. But it was very short; and, as he -afterwards explained to Malchen, she gave him no opportunity of -proffering any advice. She had asked him nothing about prices, and had -made no allusion whatever to her troubles with her neighbours. She said -not a word about the butcher, either at Innsbruck or at Brixen, although -they were both at this moment very much on her mind. Nor did she tell -him anything of the wickedness of Anton, nor of the ingratitude of -Seppel. She had simply wanted so many hundred florins,--for a purpose, -as she said,--and had asked him how she might get them with the least -inconvenience. Hitherto the money coming in, which had always gone into -her own hands, had sufficed for her expenditure, unless when some new -building was required. But now a considerable sum was necessary. She -simply communicated her desire, and said nothing of the purpose for -which it was wanted. The lawyer told her that she could have the money -very easily,--at a day’s notice, and without any peculiar damage to her -circumstances. With that the interview was over, and Schlessen was -allowed to return to his lady love,--or to the amusements of the Peacock -generally. - -“What did she want of you?” asked Peter. - -“Only a question about business.” - -“I suppose it was about business. But what is she going to do?” - -“You ought to know that, I should think. At any rate, she told me -nothing.” - -“It is getting very bad here,” said Peter, with a peculiarly gloomy -countenance. “I don’t know where we are to get anything soon. We have -not milk enough, and half the time the visitors can’t have eggs if they -want them. And as for fowls, they have to be bought for double what we -used to give. I wonder the folk here put up with it without grumbling.” - -“It’ll come right after this season.” - -“Such a name as the place is getting!” said Peter. “And then I sometimes -think it will drive her distracted. I told her yesterday we must buy -more cows,--and, oh, she did look at me!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -HOFF THE BUTCHER. - - -The lawyer returned to town, and on the next day the money was sent out -to the Brunnenthal. Frau Frohmann had not winced when she demanded the -sum needed, nor had she shown by any contorted line in her countenance -that she was suffering when she asked for it; but, in truth, the thing -had not been done without great pain. Year by year she had always added -something to her store, either by investing money, or by increasing her -property in the valley, and it would generally be at this time of the -year that some deposit was made; but now the stream, which had always -run so easily and so prosperously in one direction, had begun to flow -backwards. It was to her as though she were shedding her blood. But, as -other heroes have shed their blood in causes that have been dear to -them, so would she shed hers in this. If it were necessary that these -veins of her heart should be opened, she would give them to the knife. -She had scowled when Peter had told her that more cows must be bought; -but before the week was over the cows were there. And she had given a -large order at Innsbruck for poultry to be sent out to her, almost -irrespective of price. All idea of profit was gone. It was pride now for -which she was fighting. She would not give way, at any rate till the end -of this season. Then--then--then! There had come upon her mind an idea -that some deluge was about to flow over her; but also an idea that even -among the roar of the waters she would hold her head high, and carry -herself with dignity. - -But there had come to her now a very trouble of troubles, a crushing -blow, a misfortune which could not be got over, which could not even be -endured, without the knowledge of all those around her. It was not only -that she must suffer, but that her sufferings must be exposed to all the -valley,--to all Innsbruck. When Schlessen was closeted with her, at that -very moment, she had in her pocket a letter from that traitorous butcher -at Brixen, saying that after such and such a date he could not continue -to supply her with meat at the prices fixed. And this was the answer -which the man had sent to a remonstrance from her as to the quality of -the article! After submitting for weeks to inferior meat she had told -him that there must be some improvement, and he had replied by throwing -her over altogether! - -What was she to do? Of all the blows which had come to her this was the -worst. She must have meat. She could, when driven to it by necessity, -make her own butter; but she could not kill her own beef and mutton. She -could send into the town for ducks and chickens, and feel that in doing -so she was carrying out her own project,--that, at any rate, she was -encountering no public disgrace. But now she must own herself beaten, -and must go back to Innsbruck. - -And there came upon her dimly a conviction that she was bound, both by -prudence and justice, to go back to her old friend Hoff. She had clearly -been wrong in this matter of meat. Hoff had plainly told her that she -was wrong, explaining to her that he had to give much more for his -beasts and sheep than he did twenty years ago, to pay more wages to the -men who killed them and cut them up, and also to make a greater profit -himself, so as to satisfy the increased needs of his wife and daughters. -Hoff had been outspoken, and had never wavered for a moment. But he had -seemed to the Frau to be almost insolent; she would have said, too -independent. When she had threatened to take away her custom he had -shrugged his shoulders, and had simply remarked that he would endeavour -to live without it. The words had been spoken with, perhaps, something -of a jeer, and the Frau had left the shop in wrath. She had since -repented herself of this, because Hoff had been an old friend, and had -attended to all her wishes with friendly care. But there had been the -quarrel, and her custom had been transferred to that wretch at Brixen. -If it had been simply a matter of forgiving and forgetting she could -have made it up with Hoff, easily enough, an hour after her anger had -shown itself. But now she must own herself to have been beaten. She must -confess that she had been wrong. It was in that matter of meat, from -that fallacious undertaking made by the traitor at Brixen, that she, in -the first instance, had been led to think that she could triumph. Had -she not been convinced of the truth of her own theory by that success, -she would not have been led on to quarrel with all her neighbours, and -to attempt to reduce Seppel’s wages. But now, when this, her great -foundation, was taken away from her, she had no ground on which to -stand. She had the misery of failure all around her, and, added to that, -the growing feeling that, in some step of her argument, she must have -been wrong. One should be very sure of all the steps before one allows -oneself to be guided in important matters by one’s own theories! - -But after some ten days’ time the supply of meat from Brixen would -cease, and something therefore must be done. The Brixen traitor demanded -now exactly the price which Hoff had heretofore charged. And then there -was the carriage! That was not to be thought of. She would not conceal -her failure from the world by submission so disgraceful as that. With -the Brixen man she certainly would deal no more. She took twenty-four -hours to think of it, and then she made up her mind that she would -herself go into the town and acknowledge her mistake to Hoff. As to the -actual difference of price, she did not now care very much about it. -When a deluge is coming, one does not fret oneself as to small details -of cost; but even when a deluge is coming one’s heart and pride, and -perhaps one’s courage, may remain unchanged. - -On a certain morning it was known throughout the Peacock at an early -hour that the Frau was going into town that day. But breakfast was over -before any one was told when and how she was to go. Such journeyings, -which were not made very often, had always about them something of -ceremony. On such occasions her dress would be, not magnificent as when -she was arrayed for festive occasions at home, but yet very carefully -arranged and equally unlike her ordinary habiliments. When she was first -seen on this day,--after her early visit to the kitchen, which was not -a full-dress affair,--she was clad in what may be called the beginnings -or substratum of her travelling gear. She wore a very full, -rich-looking, dark-coloured merino gown, which came much lower to the -ground than her usual dress, and which covered her up high round the -throat. Whenever this was seen it was known as a certainty that the Frau -was going to travel. Then there was the question of the carriage and the -horses. It was generally Peter’s duty and high privilege to drive her in -to town; and as Peter seldom allowed himself a holiday, the occasion was -to him always a welcome one. It was her custom to let him know what was -to befall him at any rate the night before; but now not a word had been -said. After breakfast, however, a message went out that the carriage and -horses would be needed, and Peter prepared himself accordingly. “I don’t -think I need take you,” said the Frau. - -“Why not me? There is no one else to drive them. The men are all -employed.” Then she remembered that when last she had dispensed with -Peter’s services Anton had driven her,--that Anton who was now carrying -the butter and eggs into market. She shook her head, and was silent for -a while in her misery. Then she asked whether the boy, Jacob, could not -take her. “He would not be safe with those horses down the mountains,” -said Peter. At last it was decided that Peter should go;--but she -yielded unwillingly, being very anxious that no one in the valley should -be informed that she was about to visit Hoff. Of course it would be -known at last. Everybody about the place would learn whence the meat -came. But she could not bear to think that those around her should talk -of her as having been beaten in the matter. - -About ten they started, and on the whole road to Innsbruck hardly a word -was spoken between the mother and son. She was quite resolved that she -would not tell him whither she was going, and resolved also that she -would pay the visit alone. But, of course, his curiosity would be -excited. If he chose to follow her about and watch her, there could be -no help for that. Only he had better not speak to her on the subject, or -she would pour out upon him all the vials of her wrath! In the town -there was a little hostel called the Black Eagle, kept by a cousin of -her late husband, which on these journeys she always frequented: there -she and Peter ate their dinner. At table they sat, of course, close to -each other; but still not a word was spoken as to her business. He made -no inquiry, and when she rose from the table simply asked her whether -there was anything for him to do. “I am going--alone--to see a friend,” -she said. No doubt he was curious, probably suspecting that Hoff the -butcher might be the friend; but he asked no further question. She -declared that she would be ready to start on the return journey at four, -and then she went forth alone. - -So great was her perturbation of spirit that she did not take the -directest way to the butcher’s house, which was not, indeed, above two -hundred yards from the Black Eagle, but walked round slowly by the -river, studying as she went the words with which she would announce her -purpose to the man,--studying, also, by what wiles and subtlety she -might get the man all to herself,--so that no other ears should hear her -disgrace. When she entered the shop Hoff himself was there, conspicuous -with the huge sharpening-steel which hung from his capacious girdle, as -though it were the sword of his knighthood. But with him there was a -crowd either of loungers or customers, in the midst of whom he stood, -tall above all the others, laughing and talking. To our poor Frau it was -terrible to be seen by so many eyes in that shop;--for had not her -quarrel with Hoff and her dealings at Brixen been so public that all -would know why she had come? “Ah, my friend, Frau Frohmann,” said the -butcher, coming up to her with hand extended, “this is good for sore -eyes. I am delighted to see thee in the old town.” This was all very -well, and she gave him her hand. As long as no public reference was made -to that last visit of hers, she would still hold up her head. But she -said nothing. She did not know how to speak as long as all those eyes -were looking at her. - -The butcher understood it all, being a tender-hearted man, and -intelligent also. From the first moment of her entrance he knew that -there was something to be said intended only for his own ears. “Come in, -come in, Frau Frohmann,” he said; “we will sit down within, out of the -noise of the street and the smell of the carcases.” With that he led -the way into an inner room, and the Frau followed him. There were -congregated three or four of his children, but he sent them away, -bidding them join their mother in the kitchen. “And now, my friend,” he -said, again taking her hand, “I am glad to see thee. Thirty years of -good fellowship is not to be broken by a word.” By this time the Frau -was endeavouring to hide with her handkerchief the tears which were -running down her face. “I was thinking I would go out to the valley one -of these days, because my heart misgave me that there should be anything -like a quarrel between me and thee. I should have gone, but that, day -after day, there comes always something to be done. And now thou art -come thyself. What, shall the price of a side of beef stand betwixt thee -and me?” - -Then she told her tale,--quite otherwise than as she had intended to -tell it. She had meant to be dignified and very short. She had meant to -confess that the Brixen arrangement had broken down, and that she would -resort to the old plan and the old prices. To the saying of this she had -looked forward with an agony of apprehension, fearing that the man would -be unable to abstain from some killing expression of triumph,--fearing -that, perhaps, he might decline her offer. For the butcher was a wealthy -man, who could afford himself the luxury of nursing his enmity. But his -manner with her had been so gracious that she was altogether unable to -be either dignified or reticent. Before half an hour was over she had -poured out to him, with many tears, all her troubles;--how she had -refused to raise her rate of charges, first out of consideration for her -poorer customers, and then because she did not like to demand from one -class more than from another. And she explained how she had endeavoured -to reduce her expenditure, and how she had failed. She told him of -Seppel and Anton, of Suse Krapp and Josephine Bull,--and, above all, of -that traitor at Brixen. With respect to the valley folk Hoff expressed -himself with magnanimity and kindness; but in regard to the rival -tradesman at Brixen his scorn was so great that he could not restrain -himself from expressing wonder that a woman of such experience should -have trusted to so poor a reed for support. In all other respects he -heard her with excellent patience, putting in a little word here and -there to encourage her, running his great steel all the while through -his fingers, as he sat opposite to her on a side of the table. - -“Thou must pay them for their ducks and chickens as before,” he said. - -“And you?” - -“I will make all that straight. Do not trouble thyself about me. Thy -guests at the Peacock shall once again have a joint of meat fit for the -stomach of a Christian. But, my friend----!” - -“My friend!” echoed the Frau, waiting to hear what further the butcher -would say to her. - -“Let a man who has brought up five sons and five daughters, and who has -never owed a florin which he could not pay, tell thee something that -shall be useful. Swim with the stream.” She looked up into his face, -feeling rather than understanding the truth of what he was saying. “Swim -with the stream. It is the easiest and the most useful.” - -“You think I should raise my prices.” - -“Is not everybody doing so? The Tendel ladies are very good, but I -cannot sell them meat at a loss. That is not selling; it is giving. Swim -with the stream. When other things are dearer, let the Peacock be dearer -also.” - -“But why are other things dearer?” - -“Nay;--who shall say that? Young Schlessen is a clear-headed lad, and he -was right when he told thee of the price of sheep in the old days. But -why----? There I can say nothing. Nor is there reason why I should -trouble my head about it. There is a man who has brought me sheep from -the Achensee these thirty years,--he and his father before him. I have -to pay him now,--ay, more than a third above his first prices.” - -“Do you give always what he asks?” - -“Certainly not that, or there would be no end to his asking. But we can -generally come to terms without hard words. When I pay him more for -sheep, then I charge more for mutton; and if people will not pay it, -then they must go without. But I do sell my meat, and I live at any rate -as well now as I did when the prices were lower.” Then he repeated his -great advice, “Swim with the stream, my friend; swim with the stream. -If you turn your head the other way, the chances are you will go -backwards. At any rate you will make no progress.” - -Exactly at four o’clock she started on her return with her son, who, -with admirable discretion, asked no question as to her employment during -the day. The journey back took much longer than that coming, as the road -was up hill all the way, so that she had ample time to think over the -advice which had been given her as she leaned back in the carriage. She -certainly was happier in her mind than she had been in the morning. She -had made no step towards success in her system,--had rather been made to -feel that no such step was possible. But, nevertheless, she had been -comforted. The immediate trouble as to the meat had been got over -without offence to her feelings. Of course she must pay the old -prices,--but she had come to understand that the world around her was, -in that matter, too strong for her. She knew now that she must give up -the business, or else raise her own terms at the end of the season. She -almost thought that she would retire to Schwatz and devote the remainder -of her days to tranquillity and religion. But her immediate anxiety had -reference to the next six weeks, so that when she should have gone to -Schwatz it might be said of her that the house had not lost its -reputation for good living up to the very last. At any rate, within a -very few days, she would again have the pleasure of seeing good meat -roasting in her oven. - -Peter, as was his custom, had walked half the hill, and then, while the -horses were slowly advancing, climbed up to his seat on the box. -“Peter,” she said, calling to him from the open carriage behind. Then -Peter looked back. “Peter, the meat is to come from Hoff again after -next Thursday.” - -He turned round quick on hearing the words. “That’s a good thing, -mother.” - -“It is a good thing. We were nearly poisoned by that scoundrel at -Brixen.” - -“Hoff is a good butcher,” said Peter. - -“Hoff is a good man,” said the Frau. Then Peter pricked up, because he -knew that his mother was happy in her mind, and became eloquent about -the woods, and the quarry, and the farm. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP. - - -“But if there is more money, sir, that ought to make us all more -comfortable.” This was said by the Frau to Mr. Cartwright a few days -after her return from Innsbruck, and was a reply to a statement made by -him. She had listened to advice from Hoff the butcher, and now she was -listening to advice from her guest. He had told her that these troubles -of hers had come from the fact that gold had become more plentiful in -the world than heretofore, or rather from that other fact that she had -refused to accommodate herself to this increased plenty of gold. Then -had come her very natural suggestion, “If there is more money that ought -to make us all more comfortable.” - -“Not at all, Frau Frohmann.” - -“Well, sir!” Then she paused, not wishing to express an unrestrained -praise of wealth, and so to appear too worldly-minded, but yet feeling -that he certainly was wrong according to the clearly expressed opinion -of the world. - -“Not at all. Though you had your barn and your stores filled with gold, -you could not make your guests comfortable with that. They could not eat -it, nor drink it, nor sleep upon it, nor delight themselves with looking -at it as we do at the waterfall, or at the mill up yonder.” - -“But I could buy all those things for them.” - -“Ah, if you could buy them! That’s just the question. But if everybody -had gold so common, if all the barns were full of it, then people would -not care to take it for their meat and wine.” - -“It never can be like that, surely.” - -“There is no knowing; probably not. But it is a question of degree. When -you have your hay-crop here very plentiful, don’t you find that hay -becomes cheap?” - -“That’s of course.” - -“And gold becomes cheap. You just think it over, and you’ll find how it -is. When hay is plentiful, you can’t get so much for a load because it -becomes cheap. But you can feed more cows, and altogether you know that -such plenty is a blessing. So it is with gold. When it is plentiful, you -can’t get so much meat for it as you used to do; but, as you can get the -gold much easier, it will come to the same thing,--if you will swim with -the stream, as your friend in Innsbruck counselled you.” - -Then the Frau again considered, and again found that she could not -accept this doctrine as bearing upon her own case. “I don’t think it can -be like that here, sir,” she said. - -“Why not here as well as elsewhere?” - -“Because we never see a bit of gold from one year’s end to the other. -Barns full of it! Why, it’s so precious that you English people, and the -French, and the Americans always change it for paper before you come -here. If you mean that it is because bank-notes are so common----” - -Then Mr. Cartwright scratched his head, feeling that there would be a -difficulty in making the Frau understand the increased use of an article -which, common as it had become in the great marts of the world, had not -as yet made its way into her valley. “It is because bank-notes are less -common.” The Frau gazed at him steadfastly, trying to understand -something about it. “You still use bank-notes at Innsbruck?” - -“Nothing else,” she said. “There is a little silver among the shops, but -you never see a bit of gold.” - -“And at Munich?” - -“At Munich they tell me the French pieces have become--well, not common, -but not so very scarce.” - -“And at Dresden?” - -“I do not know. Perhaps Dresden is the same.” - -“And at Paris?” - -“Ah, Paris! Do they have gold there?” - -“When I was young it was all silver at Paris. Gold is now as plentiful -as blackberries. And at Berlin it is nearly the same. Just here in -Austria, you have not quite got through your difficulties.” - -“I think we are doing very well in Austria;--at any rate, in the Tyrol.” - -“Very well, Frau Frohmann; very well indeed. Pray do not suppose that I -mean anything to the contrary. But though you haven’t got into the way -of using gold money yourself, the world all around you has done so; and, -of course, if meat is dear at Munich because gold won’t buy so much -there as it used to do, meat will be dearer also at Innsbruck, even -though you continue to pay for it with bank-notes.” - -“It is dearer, sir, no doubt,” said the Frau, shaking her head. She had -endeavoured to contest that point gallantly, but had been beaten by the -conduct of the two butchers. The higher prices of Hoff at Innsbruck had -become at any rate better than the lower prices of that deceitful enemy -at Brixen. - -“It is dearer. For the world generally that may suffice. Your friend’s -doctrine is quite enough for the world at large. Swim with the stream. -In buying and selling,--what we call trade,--things arrange themselves -so subtly, that we are often driven to accept them without quite knowing -why they are so. Then we can only swim with the stream. But, in this -matter, if you want to find out the cause, if you cannot satisfy your -mind without knowing why it is that you must pay more for everything, -and must, therefore, charge more to other people, it is because the gold -which your notes represent has become more common in the world during -the last thirty years.” - -She did want to know. She was not satisfied to swim with the stream as -Hoff had done, not caring to inquire, but simply feeling sure that as -things were so, so they must be. That such changes should take place had -gone much against the grain of her conservative nature. She, in her own -mind, had attributed these pestilently increased expenses to elongated -petticoats, French bonnets, swallow-tailed coats, and a taste for sour -wine. She had imagined that Josephine Bull might have been contented -with the old price for her eggs if she would also be contented with the -old raiment and the old food. Grounding her resolutions on that belief, -she had endeavoured not only to resist further changes, but even to go -back to the good old times. But she now was quite aware that in doing so -she had endeavoured to swim against the stream. Whether it ought to be -so or not, she was not as yet quite sure, but she was becoming sure that -such was the fact, and that the fact was too strong for her to combat. - -She did not at all like swimming with the stream. There was something -conveyed by the idea which was repugnant to her sense of honour. Did it -not mean that she was to increase her prices because other people -increased theirs, whether it was wrong or right? She hated the doing of -anything because other people did it. Was not that base propensity to -imitation the cause of the long petticoats which all the girls were -wearing? Was it not thus that all those vile changes were effected which -she saw around her on every side? Had it not been her glory, her great -resolve, to stand as fast as possible on the old ways? And now in her -great attempt to do so, was she to be foiled thus easily? - -It was clear to her that she must be foiled, if not in one way, then in -another. She must either raise her prices, or else retire to Schwatz. -She had been thoroughly beaten in her endeavour to make others carry on -their trade in accordance with her theories. On every side she had been -beaten. There was not a poor woman in the valley, not one of those who -had wont to be so submissive and gracious to her, who had not deserted -her. A proposed reduction of two kreutzers on a dozen of eggs had -changed the most constant of humble friends into the bitterest foes. -Seppel would have gone through fire and water for her. Anything that a -man’s strength or courage could do, he would have done. But a threat of -going back to the old wages had conquered even Seppel’s gratitude. -Concurrent testimony had convinced her that she must either yield--or -go. But, when she came to think of it in her solitude, she did not wish -to go. Schwatz! oh yes; it would be very well to have a quiet place -ready chosen for retirement when retirement should be necessary. But -what did retirement mean? Would it not be to her simply a beginning of -dying? A man, or a woman, should retire when no longer able to do the -work of the world. But who in all the world could keep the Brunnenthal -Peacock as well as she? Was she fatigued with her kitchen, or worn out -with the charge of her guests, or worried inwardly by the anxieties of -her position? Not in the least, not at all, but for this later -misfortune which had come upon her, a misfortune which she knew how to -remedy at once if only she could bring herself to apply the remedy. The -kaplan had indiscreetly suggested to her that as Malchen was about to -marry and be taken away into the town, it would be a good thing that -Peter should take a wife, so that there might be a future mistress of -the establishment in readiness. The idea caused her to arm herself -instantly with renewed self-assertion. So;--they were already preparing -for her departure to Schwatz! It was thus she communed with herself. -They had already made up their minds that she must succumb to these -difficulties and go! The idea had come simply from the kaplan without -consultation with any one, but to the Frau it seemed as though the whole -valley were already preparing for her departure. No, she would not go! -With her strength and her energy, why should she shut herself up as -ready for death? She would not go to Schwatz yet awhile. - -But if not, then she must raise her prices. To waste her substance, to -expend the success of her life in entertaining folk gratis who, after -all, would believe that they were paying for their entertainment, would -be worse even than going to Schwatz. “I have been thinking over what you -were telling me,” she said to Mr. Cartwright about a week after their -last interview, on the day before his departure from the valley. - -“I hope you do not find I was wrong, Frau Frohmann.” - -“As for wrong and right, that is very difficult to get at in this wicked -world.” - -“But one can acknowledge a necessity.” - -“That is where it is, sir. One can see what is necessary; but if one -could only see that it were right also, one would be so much more -comfortable.” - -“There are things so hard to be seen, my friend, that let us do what we -will we cannot see clearly into the middle of them. Perhaps I could have -explained to you better all this about the depreciation of money, and -the nominal rise in the value of everything else, if I had understood it -better myself.” - -“I am sure you understand all about it,--which a poor woman can’t ever -do.” - -“But this at any rate ought to give you confidence, that that which you -purpose to do is being done by everybody around you. You were talking to -me about the Weisses. Herr Weiss, I hear, had his salary raised last -spring.” - -“Had he?” asked the Frau with energy and a little start. For this piece -of news had not reached her before. - -“Somebody was saying so the other day. No doubt it was found that he -must be paid more because he had to pay more for everything he wanted. -Therefore he ought to expect to have to pay you more.” - -This piece of information gave the Frau more comfort than anything she -had yet heard. That gold should be common, what people call a drug in -the market, did not come quite within the scope of her comprehension. -Gold to her was gold, and a zwansiger a zwansiger. But if Herr Weiss got -more for his services from the community, she ought to get more from him -for her services. That did seem plain to her. But then her triumph in -that direction was immediately diminished by a tender feeling as to -other customers. “But what of those poor Fraulein Tendels?” she said. - -“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Cartwright. “There you come to fixed incomes.” - -“To what?” - -“To people with fixed incomes. They must suffer, Frau Frohmann. There is -an old saying that in making laws you cannot look after all the little -things. The people who work and earn their living are the multitude, and -to them these matters adjust themselves. The few who live upon what they -have saved or others have saved for them must go to the wall.” Neither -did the Frau understand this; but she at once made up her mind that, -however necessary it might be to raise her prices against the Weisses -and the rest of the world, she would never raise them against those two -poor desolate frauleins. - -So Herr Weiss had had his salary raised, and had said nothing to her -about it, no doubt prudently wishing to conceal the matter! He had said -nothing to her about it, although he had talked to her about her own -affairs, and had applauded her courage and her old conservatism in that -she would not demand that extra zwansiger and a half! This hardened her -heart so much that she felt she would have a pleasure in sending a -circular to him as to the new tariff. He might come or let it alone, as -he pleased,--certainly he ought to have told her that his own salary had -been increased! - -But there was more to do than sending out the new circular to her -customers. How was she to send a circular round the valley to the old -women and the others concerned? How was she to make Seppel, and Anton, -and Josephine Bull understand that they should be forgiven, and have -their old prices and their increased wages if they would come back to -their allegiance, and never say a word again as to the sad affairs of -the past summer? This circular must be of a nature very different from -that which would serve for her customers. Thinking over it, she came to -the opinion that Suse Krapp would be the best circular. A day or two -after the Cartwrights were gone, she sent for Suse. - -Suse was by no means a bad diplomate. When gaining her point she had no -desire to triumph outwardly. When feeling herself a conqueror, she was -quite ready to flatter the conquered one. She had never been more -gracious, more submissive, or more ready to declare that in all matters -the Frau’s will was the law of the valley than now, when she was given -to understand that everything should be bought on the same terms as -heretofore, that the dairy should be discontinued during the next -season, and that the wild fruits of the woods and mountains should be -made welcome at the Peacock as had heretofore always been the case. - -“To-morrow will be the happiest day that ever was in the valley,” said -Suse in her enthusiasm. “And as for Seppel, he was telling me only -yesterday that he would never be a happy man again till he could find -himself once more at work in the old shed behind the chapel.” - -Then Suse was told that Seppel might come as soon as he pleased. - -“He’ll be there the morning after next if I’m a living woman,” continued -Suse energetically; and then she said another word, “Oh, meine liebe -Frau Frohmann, it broke my heart when they told me you were going away.” - -“Going away!” said the Frau, as though she had been stung. “Who said -that I was going away?” - -“I did hear it.” - -“Psha! it was that stupid priest.” She had never before been heard to -say a word against the kaplan; but now she could hardly restrain -herself. “Why should I go away?” - -“No, indeed!” - -“I am not thinking of going away. It would be a bad thing if I were to -be driven out of my house by a little trouble as to the price of eggs -and butter! No, Suse Krapp, I am not going away.” - -“It will be the best word we have all of us heard this many a day, Frau -Frohmann. When it came to that, we were all as though we would have -broken our hearts.” Then she was sent away upon her mission, not, upon -this occasion, without a full glass of kirsch-wasser. - -On the very day following Seppel was back. There was nothing said -between him and his mistress, but he waited about the front of the house -till he had an opportunity of putting his hand up to his cap and smiling -at her as she stood upon the doorstep. And then, before the week was -over, all the old women and all the young girls were crowding round the -place with little presents which, on this their first return to their -allegiance, they brought to the Frau as peace-offerings. - -The season was nearly over when she signified to Malchen her desire that -Fritz Schlessen should come out to the valley. This she did with much -good humour, explaining frankly that Fritz would have to prepare the new -circulars, and that she must discuss with him the nature of the altered -propositions which were to be made to the public. Fritz of course came, -and was closeted with her for a full hour, during which he absolutely -prepared the document for the Innsbruck printer. It was a simple -announcement that for the future the charge made at the Brunnenthal -Peacock would be seven and a half zwansigers per head per day. It then -went on to declare that, as heretofore, the Frau Frohmann would -endeavour to give satisfaction to all those who would do her the honour -of visiting her establishment. And instructions were given to Schlessen -as to sending the circulars out to the public. “But whatever you do,” -said the Frau, “don’t send one to those Tendel ladies.” - -And something else was settled at this conference. As soon as it was -over Fritz Schlessen was encountered by Malchen, who on such occasions -would never be far away. Though the spot on which they met was one which -might not have been altogether secure from intrusive eyes, he took her -fondly by the waist and whispered a word in her ear. - -“And will that do?” asked Malchen anxiously; to which question his reply -was made by a kiss. In that whisper he had conveyed to her the amount -now fixed for the mitgift. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM. - - -And so Frau Frohmann had raised her prices, and had acknowledged herself -to all the world to have been beaten in her enterprise. There are, -however, certain misfortunes which are infinitely worse in their -anticipation than in their reality; and this, which had been looked -forward to as a terrible humiliation, was soon found to be one of them. -No note of triumph was sounded; none at least reached her ear. Indeed, -it so fell out that those with whom she had quarrelled for awhile seemed -now to be more friendly with her than ever. Between her and Hoff things -were so sweet that no mention was ever made of money. The meat was sent -and the bills were paid with a reticence which almost implied that it -was not trade, but an amiable giving and taking of the good things of -the world. There had never been a word of explanation with Seppel; but -he was late and early about the carts and the furniture, and innumerable -little acts of kindnesses made their way up to the mother and her many -children. Suse and Josephine had never been so brisk, and the eggs had -never been so fresh or the vegetables so good. Except from the working -of her own mind, she received no wounds. - -But the real commencement of the matter did not take place till the -following summer,--the commencement as regarded the public. The -circulars were sent out, but to such letters no answers are returned; -and up to the following June the Frau was ignorant what effect the -charge would have upon the coming of her customers. There were times at -which she thought that her house would be left desolate, that the extra -charge would turn away from her the hearts of her visitors, and that in -this way she would be compelled to retire to Schwatz. - -“Suppose they don’t come at all,” she said to Peter one day. - -“That would be very bad,” said Peter, who also had his fears in the same -direction. - -“Fritz Schlessen thinks it won’t make any difference,” said the Frau. - -“A zwansiger and a half a day does make a difference to most men,” -replied Peter uncomfortably. - -This was uncomfortable; but when Schlessen came out he raised her -spirits. - -“Perhaps old Weiss won’t come,” he said, “but then there will be plenty -in his place. There are houses like the Peacock all over the country -now, in the Engadine, and the Bregenz, and the Salzkammergut; and it -seems to me the more they charge the fuller they are.” - -“But they are for the grand folk.” - -“For anybody that chooses. It has come to that, that the more money -people are charged the better they like it. Money has become so -plentiful with the rich, that they don’t know what to do with it.” - -This was a repetition of Mr. Cartwright’s barn full of gold. There was -something in the assertion that money could be plentiful, in the idea -that gold could be a drug, which savoured to her of innovation, and was -therefore unpleasant. She still felt that the old times were good, and -that no other times could be so good as the old times. But if the people -would come and fill her house, and pay her the zwansiger and a half -extra without grumbling, there would be some consolation in it. - -Early in June Malchen made a call at the house of the Frauleins Tendel. -Malchen at this time was known to all Innsbruck as the handsome Frau -Schlessen who had been brought home in the winter to her husband’s house -with so very comfortable a mitgift in her hand. That was now quite an -old story, and there were people in the town who said that the young -wife already knew quite as much about her husband’s business as she had -ever done about her mother’s. But at this moment she was obeying one of -her mother’s commands. - -“Mother hopes you are both coming out to the Brunnenthal this year,” -said Malchen. The elder fraulein shook her head sadly. “Because----” -Then Malchen paused, and the younger of the two ladies shook her head. -“Because you always have been there.” - -“Yes, we have.” - -“Mother means this. The change in the price won’t have anything to do -with you if you will come.” - -“We couldn’t think of that, Malchen.” - -“Then mother will be very unhappy;--that’s all. The new circular was not -sent to you.” - -“Of course we heard of it.” - -“If you don’t come mother will take it very bad.” Then of course the -ladies said they would come, and so that little difficulty was overcome. - -This took place in June. But at that time the young wife was staying out -in the valley with her mother, and had only gone into Innsbruck on a -visit. She was with her mother preparing for the guests; but perhaps, -as the Frau too often thought, preparing for guests who would never -arrive. From day to day, however, there came letters bespeaking rooms as -usual, and when the 21st of June came there was Herr Weiss with all his -family. - -She had taught herself to regard the coming of the Weisses as a kind of -touchstone by which she might judge of the success of what she had done. -If he remained away it would be because, in spite of the increase in his -salary, he could not encounter the higher cost of this recreation for -his wife and family. He was himself too fond of the good living of the -Peacock not to come if he could afford it. But if he could not pay so -much, then neither could others in his rank of life; and it would be sad -indeed to the Frau if her house were to be closed to her neighbour -Germans, even though she might succeed in filling it with foreigners -from a distance. But now the Weisses had come, not having given their -usual notice, but having sent a message for rooms only two days before -their arrival. And at once there was a little sparring match between -Herr Weiss and the Frau. - -“I didn’t suppose that there would be much trouble as to finding rooms,” -said Herr Weiss. - -“Why shouldn’t there be as much trouble as usual?” asked the Frau in -return. She had felt that there was some slight in this arrival of the -whole family without the usual preliminary inquiries,--as though there -would never again be competition for rooms at the Peacock. - -“Well, my friend, I suppose that that little letter which was sent about -the country will make a difference.” - -“That’s as people like to take it. It hasn’t made any difference with -you, it seems.” - -“I had to think a good deal about it, Frau Frohmann; and I suppose we -shall have to make our stay shorter. I own I am a little surprised to -see the Tendel women here. A zwansiger and a half a day comes to a deal -of money at the end of a month, when there are two or three.” - -“I am happy to think it won’t hurt you, Herr Weiss, as you have had your -salary raised.” - -“That is neither here nor there, Frau Frohmann,” said the magistrate, -almost with a touch of anger. All the world knew, or ought to know, how -very insufficient was his stipend when compared with the invaluable -public services which he rendered. Such at least was the light in which -he looked at the question. - -“At any rate,” said the Frau as he stalked away, “the house is like to -be as full as ever.” - -“I am glad to hear it. I am glad to hear it.” These were his last words -on the occasion. But before the day was over he told his wife that he -thought the place was not as comfortable as usual, and that the Frau -with her high prices was more upsetting than ever. - -His wife, who took delight in being called Madame Weiss at Brixen, and -who considered herself to be in some degree a lady of fashion, had -nevertheless been very much disturbed in her mind by the increased -prices, and had suggested that the place should be abandoned. A raising -of prices was in her eyes extortion;--though a small raising of salary -was simply justice, and, as she thought, inadequate justice. But the -living at the Peacock was good. Nobody could deny that. And when a -middle-aged man is taken away from the comforts of his home, how is he -to console himself in the midst of his idleness unless he has a good -dinner? Herr Weiss had therefore determined to endure the injury, and as -usual to pass his holiday in the Brunnenthal. But when Madame Weiss saw -those two frauleins from Innsbruck in the house, whose means she knew -down to the last kreutzer, and who certainly could not afford the -increased demand, she thought that there must be something not apparent -to view. Could it be possible that the Frau should be so unjust, so -dishonest, so extortious as to have different prices for different -neighbours! That an Englishman, or even a German from Berlin, should be -charged something extra, might not perhaps be unjust or extortious. But -among friends of the same district, to put a zwansiger and a half on to -one and not to another seemed to Madame Weiss to be a sin for which -there should be no pardon. “I am so glad to see you here,” she said to -the younger fraulein. - -“That is so kind of you. But we always are here, you know.” - -“Yes;--yes. But I feared that perhaps----. I know that with us we had to -think more than once about it before we could make up our minds to pay -the increased charges. The ‘Magistrat’ felt a little hurt about it.” To -this the fraulein at first answered nothing, thinking that perhaps she -ought not to make public the special benevolence shown by the Frau to -herself and her sister. “A zwansiger and a half each is a great deal of -money to add on,” said Madame Weiss. - -“It is, indeed.” - -“We might have got it cheaper elsewhere. And then I thought that perhaps -you might have done so too.” - -“She has made no increase to us,” said the poor lady, who at last was -forced to tell the truth, as by not doing so she would have been guilty -of a direct falsehood in allowing it to be supposed that she and her -sister paid the increased price. - -“Soh--oh--oh!” exclaimed Madame Weiss, clasping her hands together and -bobbing her head up and down. “Soh--oh--oh!” She had found it all out. - -Then, shortly after that,--the next day,--there was an uncomfortable -perturbation of affairs at the Peacock, which was not indeed known to -all the guests, but which to those who heard it, or heard of it, seemed -for the time to be very terrible. Madame Weiss and the Frau had,--what -is commonly called,--a few words together. - -“Frau Frohmann,” said Madame Weiss, “I was quite astonished to hear from -Agatha Tendel that you were only charging them the old prices.” - -“Why shouldn’t I charge them just what I please,--or nothing at all, if -I pleased?” asked the Frau sharply. - -“Of course you can. But I do think, among neighbours, there shouldn’t be -one price to one and one to another.” - -“Would it do you any good, Frau Weiss, if I were to charge those ladies -more than they can pay? Does it do you any harm if they live here at a -cheap rate?” - -“Surely there should be one price--among neighbours!” - -“Herr Weiss got my circular, no doubt. He knew. I don’t suppose he wants -to live here at a rate less than it costs me to keep him. You and he can -do what you like about coming. And you and he can do what you like about -staying away. You knew my prices. I have not made any secret about the -change. But as for interference between me and my other customers, it is -what I won’t put up with. So now you know all about it.” - -By the end of her speech the Frau had worked herself up into a grand -passion, and spoke aloud, so that all near her heard her. Then there was -a great commotion in the Peacock, and it was thought that the Weisses -would go away. But they remained for their allotted time. - -This was the only disturbance which took place, and it passed off -altogether to the credit of the Frau. Something in a vague way came to -be understood about fixed incomes;--so that Peter and Malchen, with the -kaplan, even down to Seppel and Suse Krapp, were aware that the two -frauleins ought not to be made to pay as much as the prosperous -magistrate who had had his salary raised. And then it was quite -understood that the difference made in favour of those two poor ladies -was a kindness shown to them, and could not therefore be an injury to -any one else. - -Later in the year, when the establishment was full and everything was -going on briskly, when the two puddings were at the very height of their -glory, and the wild fruits were brought up on the supper-table in huge -bowls, when the Brunnenthal was at its loveliest, and the Frau was -appearing on holidays in her gayest costume, the Cartwrights returned to -the valley. Of course they had ordered their rooms much beforehand; and -the Frau, trusting altogether to the wisdom of those counsels which she -did not even yet quite understand, had kept her very best apartments for -them. The greeting between them was most friendly,--the Frau -condescending to put on something of her holiday costume to add honour -to their arrival;--a thing which she had never been known to do before -on behalf of any guests. Of course there was not then time for -conversation; but a day or two had not passed before she made known to -Mr. Cartwright her later experience. “The people have come, sir, just -the same,” she said. - -“So I perceive.” - -“It don’t seem to make any difference to any of them.” - -“I didn’t think it would. And I don’t suppose anybody has complained.” - -“Well;--there was a little said by one lady, Mr. Cartwright. But that -was not because I charged her more, but because another old friend was -allowed to pay less.” - -“She didn’t do you any harm, I dare say.” - -“Harm;--oh dear no! She couldn’t do me any harm if she tried. But I -thought I’d tell you, sir, because you said it would be so. The people -don’t seem to think any more of seven zwansigers and a half than they do -of six! It’s very odd,--very odd, indeed. I suppose it’s all right, -sir?” This she asked, still thinking that there must be something wrong -in the world when so monstrous a condition of things seemed to prevail. - -“They’d think a great deal of it if you charged them more than they -believed sufficient to give you a fair profit for your outlay and -trouble.” - -“How can they know anything about it, Mr. Cartwright?” - -“Ah,--indeed. How do they? But they do. You and I, Frau Frohmann, must -study these matters very closely before we can find out how they adjust -themselves. But we may be sure of this, that the world will never -complain of fair prices, will never long endure unfair prices, and will -give no thanks at all to those who sell their goods at a loss.” - -The Frau curtseyed and retired,--quite satisfied that she had done the -right thing in raising her prices; but still feeling that she had many a -struggle to make before she could understand the matter. - - - - - -THE LADY OF LAUNAY. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE. - - -How great is the difference between doing our duty and desiring to do -it; between doing our duty and a conscientious struggle to do it; -between duty really done and that satisfactory state of mind which comes -from a conviction that it has been performed. Mrs. Miles was a lady who -through her whole life had thought of little else than duty. Though she -was possessed of wealth and social position, though she had been a -beautiful woman, though all phases of self-indulgent life had been open -to her, she had always adhered to her own idea of duty. Many delights -had tempted her. She would fain have travelled, so as to see the -loveliness of the world; but she had always remained at home. She could -have enjoyed the society of intelligent sojourners in capitals; but she -had confined herself to that of her country neighbours. In early youth -she had felt herself to be influenced by a taste for dress; she had -consequently compelled herself to use raiment of extreme simplicity. -She would buy no pictures, no gems, no china, because when young she -found that she liked such things too well. She would not leave the -parish church to hear a good sermon elsewhere, because even a sermon -might be a snare. In the early days of her widowed life it became, she -thought, her duty to adopt one of two little motherless, fatherless -girls, who had been left altogether unprovided for in the world; and -having the choice between the two, she took the plain one, who had weak -eyes and a downcast, unhappy look, because it was her duty to deny -herself. It was not her fault that the child, who was so unattractive at -six, had become beautiful at sixteen, with sweet soft eyes, still -downcast occasionally, as though ashamed of their own loveliness; nor -was it her fault that Bessy Pryor had so ministered to her in her -advancing years as almost to force upon her the delights of -self-indulgence. Mrs. Miles had struggled manfully against these wiles, -and, in the performance of her duty, had fought with them, even to an -attempt to make herself generally disagreeable to the young child. The -child, however, had conquered, having wound herself into the old woman’s -heart of hearts. When Bessy at fifteen was like to die, Mrs. Miles for -awhile broke down altogether. She lingered by the bedside, caressed the -thin hands, stroked the soft locks, and prayed to the Lord to stay his -hand, and to alter his purpose. But when Bessy was strong again she -strove to return to her wonted duties. But Bessy, through it all, was -quite aware that she was loved. - -Looking back at her own past life, and looking also at her days as they -were passing, Mrs. Miles thought that she did her duty as well as it is -given to frail man or frail woman to perform it. There had been lapses, -but still she was conscious of great strength. She did believe of -herself that should a great temptation come in her way she would stand -strong against it. A great temptation did come in her way, and it is the -purport of this little story to tell how far she stood and how far she -fell. - -Something must be communicated to the reader of her condition in life, -and of Bessy’s; something, but not much. Mrs. Miles had been a Miss -Launay, and, by the death of four brothers almost in their infancy, had -become heiress to a large property in Somersetshire. At twenty-five she -was married to Mr. Miles, who had a property of his own in the next -county, and who at the time of their marriage represented that county in -Parliament. When she had been married a dozen years she was left a -widow, with two sons, the younger of whom was then about three years -old. Her own property, which was much the larger of the two, was -absolutely her own; but was intended for Philip, who was her younger -boy. Frank Miles, who was eight years older, inherited the other. -Circumstances took him much away from his mother’s wings. There were -troubles among trustees and executors; and the father’s heir, after he -came of age, saw but little of his mother. She did her duty, but what -she suffered in doing it may be imagined. - -Philip was brought up by his mother, who, perhaps, had some consolation -in remembering that the younger boy, who was always good to her, would -become a man of higher standing in the world than his brother. He was -called Philip Launay, the family name having passed on through the -mother to the intended heir of the Launay property. He was thirteen when -Bessy Pryor was brought home to Launay Park, and, as a school-boy, had -been good to the poor little creature, who for the first year or two had -hardly dared to think her life her own amidst the strange huge spaces of -the great house. He had despised her, of course; but had not been -boyishly cruel to her, and had given her his old playthings. Everybody -at Launay had at first despised Bessy Pryor; though the mistress of the -house had been thoroughly good to her. There was no real link between -her and Launay. Mrs. Pryor had, as a humble friend, been under great -obligations to Mrs. Launay, and these obligations, as is their wont, had -produced deep love in the heart of the person conferring them. Then both -Mr. and Mrs. Pryor had died, and Mrs. Miles had declared that she would -take one of the children. She fully intended to bring the girl up -sternly and well, with hard belongings, such as might suit her -condition. But there had been lapses, occasioned by those unfortunate -female prettinesses, and by that equally unfortunate sickness. Bessy -never rebelled, and gave, therefore, no scope to an exhibition of -extreme duty; and she had a way of kissing her adopted mamma which Mrs. -Miles knew to be dangerous. She struggled not to be kissed, but -ineffectually. She preached to herself, in the solitude of her own room, -sharp sermons against the sweet softness of the girl’s caresses; but she -could not put a stop to them. “Yes; I will,” the girl would say, so -softly, but so persistently! Then there would be a great embrace, which -Mrs. Miles felt to be as dangerous as a diamond, as bad as a box at the -opera. - -Bessy had been despised at first all around Launay. Unattractive -children are despised, especially when, as in this case, they are -nobodies. Bessy Pryor was quite nobody. And certainly there had never -been a child more powerless to assert herself. She was for a year or two -inferior to the parson’s children, and was not thought much of by the -farmers’ wives. The servants called her Miss Bessy, of course; but it -was not till after that illness that there existed among them any of -that reverence which is generally felt in the servants’ hall for the -young ladies of the house. It was then, too, that the parson’s daughters -found that Bessy was nice to walk with, and that the tenants began to -make much of her when she called. The old lady’s secret manifestations -in the sick bedroom had, perhaps, been seen. The respect paid to Mrs. -Miles in that and the next parish was of the most reverential kind. Had -she chosen that a dog should be treated as one of the Launays, the dog -would have received all the family honours. It must be acknowledged of -her that in the performance of her duty she had become a rural tyrant. -She gave away many petticoats; but they all had to be stitched according -to her idea of stitching a petticoat. She administered physic gratis to -the entire estate; but the estate had to take the doses as she chose to -have them mixed. It was because she had fallen something short of her -acknowledged duty in regard to Bessy Pryor that the parson’s daughters -were soon even proud of an intimacy with the girl, and that the old -butler, when she once went away for a week in the winter, was so careful -to wrap her feet up warm in the carriage. - -In this way, during the two years subsequent to Bessy’s illness, there -had gradually come up an altered condition of life at Launay. It could -not have been said before that Bessy, though she had been Miss Bessy, -was as a daughter in the house. But now a daughter’s privileges were -accorded to her. When the old squiress was driven out about the county, -Bessy was expected, but was asked rather than ordered to accompany her. -She always went; but went because she decided on going, not because she -was told. And she had a horse to ride; and she was allowed to arrange -flowers for the drawing-room; and the gardener did what she told him. -What daughter could have more extensive privileges? But poor Mrs. Miles -had her misgivings, often asking herself what would come of it all. - -When Bessy had been recovering from her illness, Philip, who was seven -years her senior, was making a grand tour about the world. He had -determined to see, not Paris, Vienna, and Rome, which used to make a -grand tour, but Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea Islands. He had gone -in such a way as to ensure the consent of his mother. Two other -well-minded young men of fortune had accompanied him, and they had been -intent on botany, the social condition of natives, and the progress of -the world generally. There had been no harum-scarum rushing about -without an object. Philip had been away for more than two years, and had -seen all there was to be seen in Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea -Islands. Between them, the young men had written a book, and the critics -had been unanimous in observing how improved in those days were the -aspirations of young men. On his return he came to Launay for a week or -two, and then went up to London. When, after four months, he returned to -his mother’s house, he was twenty-seven years of age; and Bessy was just -twenty. Mrs. Miles knew that there was cause for fear; but she had -already taken steps to prevent the danger which she had foreseen. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR WOULDN’T MARRY THE PARSON. - - -Of course there would be danger. Mrs. Miles had been aware of that from -the commencement of things. There had been to her a sort of pleasure in -feeling that she had undertaken a duty which might possibly lead to -circumstances which would be altogether heart-breaking. The duty of -mothering Bessy was so much more a duty because, even when the little -girl was blear-eyed and thin, there was present to her mind all the -horror of a love affair between her son and the little girl. The Mileses -had always been much, and the Launays very much in the west of England. -Bessy had not a single belonging that was anything. Then she had become -beautiful and attractive, and worse than that, so much of a person about -the house that Philip himself might be tempted to think that she was fit -to be his wife! - -Among the duties prescribed to herself by Mrs. Miles was none stronger -than that of maintaining the family position of the Launays. She was one -of those who not only think that blue blood should remain blue, but that -blood not blue should be allowed no azure mixture. The proper severance -of classes was a religion to her. Bessy was a gentlewoman, so much had -been admitted, and therefore she had been brought into the drawing-room -instead of being relegated among the servants, and had thus grown up to -be, oh, so dangerous! She was a gentlewoman, and fit to be a gentleman’s -wife, but not fit to be the wife of the heir of the Launays. The reader -will understand, perhaps, that I, the writer of this little history, -think her to have been fit to become the wife of any man who might have -been happy enough to win her young heart, however blue his blood. But -Mrs. Miles had felt that precautions and remedies and arrangements were -necessary. - -Mrs. Miles had altogether approved of the journey to Japan. That had -been a preventive, and might probably afford time for an arrangement. -She had even used her influence to prolong the travelling till the -arrangements should be complete; but in this she had failed. She had -written to her son, saying that, as his sojourn in strange lands would -so certainly tend to the amelioration of the human races generally--for -she had heard of the philanthropic inquiries, of the book, and the -botany--she would by no means press upon him her own natural longings. -If another year was required, the necessary remittances should be made -with a liberal hand. But Philip, who had chosen to go because he liked -it, came back when he liked it, and there he was at Launay before a -certain portion of the arrangements had been completed, as to which Mrs. -Miles had been urgent during the last six months of his absence. - -A good-looking young clergyman in the neighbourhood, with a living of -£400 a year, and a fortune of £6,000 of his own, had during the time -been proposed to Bessy by Mrs. Miles. Mr. Morrison, the Rev. Alexander -Morrison, was an excellent young man; but it may be doubted whether the -patronage by which he was put into the living of Budcombe at an early -age, over the head of many senior curates, had been exercised with sound -clerical motives. Mrs. Miles was herself the patroness, and, having for -the last six years felt the necessity of providing a husband for Bessy, -had looked about for a young man who should have good gifts and might -probably make her happy. A couple of thousand pounds added had at first -suggested itself to Mrs. Miles. Then love had ensnared her, and Bessy -had become dear to every one, and money was plenty. The thing should be -made so beautiful to all concerned that there should be no doubt of its -acceptance. The young parson didn’t doubt. Why should he? The living had -been a wonderful stroke of luck for him! The portion proposed would put -him at once among the easy-living gentlemen of the county; and then the -girl herself! Bessy had loomed upon him as feminine perfection from the -first moment he had seen her. It was to him as though the heavens were -raining their choicest blessings on his head. - -Nor had Mrs. Miles any reason to find fault with Bessy. Had Bessy jumped -into the man’s arms directly he had been offered to her as a lover, Mrs. -Miles would herself have been shocked. She knew enough of Bessy to be -sure that there would be no such jumping. Bessy had at first been -startled, and, throwing herself into her old friend’s arms, had pleaded -her youth. Mrs. Miles had accepted the embrace, had acknowledged the -plea, and had expressed herself quite satisfied, simply saying that Mr. -Morrison would be allowed to come about the house, and use his own -efforts to make himself agreeable. The young parson had come about the -house, and had shown himself to be good-humoured and pleasant. Bessy -never said a word against him; did in truth try to persuade herself -that it would be nice to have him as a lover; but she failed. “I think -he is very good,” she said one day, when she was pressed by Mrs. Miles. - -“And he is a gentleman.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Bessy. - -“And good-looking.” - -“I don’t know that that matters.” - -“No, my dear, no; only he is handsome. And then he is very fond of you.” -But Bessy would not commit herself, and certainly had never given any -encouragement to the gentleman himself. - -This had taken place just before Philip’s return. At that time his stay -at Launay was to be short; and during his sojourn his hands were to be -very full. There would not be much danger during that fortnight, as -Bessy was not prone to put herself forward in any man’s way. She met him -as his little pet of former days, and treated him quite as though he -were a superior being. She ran about for him as he arranged his -botanical treasures, and took in all that he said about the races. Mrs. -Miles, as she watched them, still trusted that there might be no danger. -But she went on with her safeguards. “I hope you like Mr. Morrison,” she -said to her son. - -“Very much indeed, mother; but why do you ask?” - -“It is a secret; but I’ll tell you. I think he will become the husband -of our dear Bessy.” - -“Marry Bessy!” - -“Why not?” Then there was a pause. “You know how dearly I love Bessy. I -hope you will not think me wrong when I tell you that I propose to give -what will be for her a large fortune, considering all things.” - -“You should treat her just as though she were a daughter and a sister,” -said Philip. - -“Not quite that! But you will not begrudge her six thousand pounds?” - -“It is not half enough.” - -“Well, well. Six thousand pounds is a large sum of money to give away. -However, I am sure we shall not differ about Bessy. Don’t you think Mr. -Morrison would make her a good husband?” Philip looked very serious, -knitted his brows, and left the room, saying that he would think about -it. - -To make him think that the marriage was all but arranged would be a -great protection. There was a protection to his mother also in hearing -him speak of Bessy as being almost a sister. But there was still a -further protection. Down away in Cornwall there was another Launay -heiress coming up, some third or fourth cousin, and it had long since -been settled among certain elders that the Launay properties should be -combined. To this Philip had given no absolute assent; had even run away -to Japan just when it had been intended that he should go to Cornwall. -The Launay heiress had then only been seventeen, and it had been felt to -be almost as well that there should be delay, so that the time was not -passed by the young man in dangerous neighbourhoods. The South Sea -Islands and Patagonia had been safe. And now when the idea of combining -the properties was again mooted, he at first said nothing against it. -Surely such precautions as these would suffice, especially as Bessy’s -retiring nature would not allow her to fall in love with any man within -the short compass of a fortnight. - -Not a word more was said between Mrs. Miles and her son as to the -prospects of Mr. Morrison; not a word more then. She was intelligent -enough to perceive that the match was not agreeable to him; but she -attributed this feeling on his part to an idea that Bessy ought to be -treated in all respects as though she were a daughter of the house of -Launay. The idea was absurd, but safe. The match, if it could be -managed, would of course go on, but should not be mentioned to him again -till it could be named as a thing absolutely arranged. But there was no -present danger. Mrs. Miles felt sure that there was no present danger. -Mrs. Miles had seen Bessy grow out of meagre thinness and early want of -ruddy health, into gradual proportions of perfect feminine loveliness; -but, having seen the gradual growth, she did not know how lovely the -girl was. A woman hardly ever does know how omnipotent may be the -attraction which some feminine natures, and some feminine forms, diffuse -unconsciously on the young men around them. - -But Philip knew, or rather felt. As he walked about the park he declared -to himself that Alexander Morrison was an insufferably impudent clerical -prig; for which assertion there was, in truth, no ground whatsoever. -Then he accused his mother of a sordid love of money and property, and -swore to himself that he would never stir a step towards Cornwall. If -they chose to have that red-haired Launay girl up from the far west, he -would go away to London, or perhaps back to Japan. But what shocked him -most was that such a girl as Bessy, a girl whom he treated always just -like his own sister, should give herself to such a man as that young -parson at the very first asking! He struck the trees among which he was -walking with his stick as he thought of the meanness of feminine nature. -And then such a greasy, ugly brute! But Mr. Morrison was not at all -greasy, and would have been acknowledged by the world at large to be -much better looking than Philip Launay. - -Then came the day of his departure. He was going up to London in March -to see his book through the press, make himself intimate at his club, -and introduce himself generally to the ways of that life which was to be -his hereafter. It had been understood that he was to pass the season in -London, and that then the combined-property question should come on in -earnest. Such was his mother’s understanding; but by this time, by the -day of his departure, he was quite determined that the combined-property -question should never receive any consideration at his hands. - -Early on that day he met Bessy somewhere about the house. She was very -sweet to him on this occasion, partly because she loved him dearly,--as -her adopted brother; partly because he was going; partly because it was -her nature to be sweet! “There is one question. I want to ask you,” he -said suddenly, turning round upon her with a frown. He had not meant to -frown, but it was his nature to do so when his heart frowned within him. - -“What is it, Philip?” She turned pale as she spoke, but looked him full -in the face. - -“Are you engaged to that parson?” She went on looking at him, but did -not answer a word. “Are you going to marry him? I have a right to ask.” -Then she shook her head. “You certainly are not?” Now as he spoke his -voice was changed, and the frown had vanished. Again she shook her head. -Then he got hold of her hand, and she left her hand with him, not -thinking of him as other than a brother. “I am so glad. I detest that -man.” - -“Oh, Philip; he is very good!” - -“I do not care two-pence for his goodness. You are quite sure?” Now she -nodded her head. “It would have been most awful, and would have made me -miserable; miserable. Of course, my mother is the best woman in the -world; but why can’t she let people alone to find husbands and wives for -themselves?” There was a slight frown, and then with a visible effort he -completed his speech. “Bessy, you have grown to be the loveliest woman -that ever I looked upon.” - -She withdrew her hand very suddenly. “Philip, you should not say such a -thing as that.” - -“Why not, if I think it?” - -“People should never say anything to anybody about themselves.” - -“Shouldn’t they?” - -“You know what I mean. It is not nice. It’s the sort of stuff which -people who ain’t ladies and gentlemen put into books.” - -“I should have thought I might say anything.” - -“So you may; and of course you are different. But there are things that -are so disagreeable!” - -“And I am one of them?” - -“No, Philip, you are the truest and best of brothers.” - -“At any rate you won’t----” Then he paused. - -“No, I won’t.” - -“That’s a promise to your best and dearest brother?” She nodded her head -again, and he was satisfied. - -He went away, and when he returned to Launay at the end of four months -he found that things were not going on pleasantly at the Park. Mr. -Morrison had been refused, with a positive assurance from the young lady -that she would never change her mind, and Mrs. Miles had become more -stern than ever in the performance of her duty to her family. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY. - - -Matters became very unpleasant at the Park soon after Philip went away. -There had been something in his manner as he left, and a silence in -regard to him on Bessy’s part, which created, not at first surprise, but -uneasiness in the mind of Mrs. Miles. Bessy hardly mentioned his name, -and Mrs. Miles knew enough of the world to feel that such restraint must -have a cause. It would have been natural for a girl so circumstanced to -have been full of Philip and his botany. Feeling this she instigated the -parson to renewed attempts; but the parson had to tell her that there -was no chance for him. “What has she said?” asked Mrs. Miles. - -“That it can never be.” - -“But it shall be,” said Mrs. Miles, stirred on this occasion to an -assertion of the obstinacy which was in her nature. Then there was a -most unpleasant scene between the old lady and her dependent. “What is -it that you expect?” she asked. - -“Expect, aunt!” Bessy had been instructed to call Mrs. Miles her aunt. - -“What do you think is to be done for you?” - -“Done for me! You have done everything. May I not stay with you?” Then -Mrs. Miles gave utterance to a very long lecture, in which many things -were explained to Bessy. Bessy’s position was said to be one very -peculiar in its nature. Were Mrs. Miles to die there would be no home -for her. She could not hope to find a home in Philip’s house as a real -sister might have done. Everybody loved her because she had been good -and gracious, but it was her duty to marry--especially her duty--so that -there might be no future difficulty. Mr. Morrison was exactly the man -that such, a girl as Bessy ought to want as a husband. Bessy through her -tears declared that she didn’t want any husband, and that she certainly -did not want Mr. Morrison. - -“Has Philip said anything?” asked the imprudent old woman. Then Bessy -was silent. “What has Philip said to you?” - -“I told him, when he asked, that I should never marry Mr. Morrison.” -Then it was--in that very moment--that Mrs. Miles in truth suspected the -blow that was to fall upon her; and in that same moment she resolved -that, let the pain be what it might to any or all of them, she would do -her duty by her family. - -“Yes,” she said to herself, as she sat alone in the unadorned, -unattractive sanctity of her own bedroom, “I will do my duty at any rate -now.” With deep remorse she acknowledged to herself that she had been -remiss. For a moment her anger was very bitter. She had warmed a reptile -in her bosom. The very words came to her thoughts, though they were not -pronounced. But the words were at once rejected. The girl had been no -reptile. The girl had been true. The girl had been as sweet a girl as -had ever brightened the hearth of an old woman. She acknowledged so much -to herself even in this moment of her agony. But not the less would she -do her duty by the family of the Launays. Let the girl do what she -might, she must be sent away--got rid of--sacrificed in any way rather -than that Philip should be allowed to make himself a fool. - -When for a couple of days she had turned it all in her mind she did not -believe that there was as yet any understanding between the girl and -Philip. But still she was sure that the danger existed. Not only had the -girl refused her destined husband--just such a man as such a girl as -Bessy ought to have loved--but she had communicated her purpose in that -respect to Philip. There had been more of confidence between them than -between her and the girl. How could they two have talked on such a -subject unless there had been between them something of stricter, closer -friendship even than that of brother and sister? There had been -something of a conspiracy between them against her--her who at Launay -was held to be omnipotent, against her who had in her hands all the -income, all the power, all the ownership--the mother of one of them, and -the protectress and only friend of the other! She would do her duty, let -Bessy be ever so sweet. The girl must be made to marry Mr. Morrison--or -must be made to go. - -But whither should she go, and if that “whither” should be found, how -should Philip be prevented from following her? Mrs. Miles, in her agony, -conceived an idea that it would be easier to deal with the girl herself -than with Philip. A woman, if she thinks it to be a duty, will more -readily sacrifice herself in the performance of it than will a man. So -at least thought Mrs. Miles, judging from her own feelings; and Bessy -was very good, very affectionate, very grateful, had always been -obedient. If possible she should be driven into the arms of Mr. -Morrison. Should she stand firm against such efforts as could be made -in that direction, then an appeal should be made to herself. After all -that had been done for her, would she ruin the family of the Launays for -the mere whim of her own heart? - -During the process of driving her into Mr. Morrison’s arms--a process -which from first to last was altogether hopeless--not a word had been -said about Philip. But Bessy understood the reticence. She had been -asked as to her promise to Philip, and never forgot that she had been -asked. Nor did she ever forget those words which at the moment so -displeased her--“You have grown to be the loveliest woman that I have -ever looked upon.” She remembered now that he had held her hand tightly -while he had spoken them, and that an effort had been necessary as she -withdrew it. She had been perfectly serious in decrying the personal -compliment; but still, still, there had been a flavour of love in the -words which now remained among her heartstrings. Of course he was not -her brother--not even her cousin. There was not a touch of blood between -them to warrant such a compliment as a joke. He, as a young man, had -told her that he thought her, as a young woman, to be lovely above all -others. She was quite sure of this--that no possible amount of driving -should drive her into the arms of Mr. Morrison. - -The old woman became more and more stern. “Dear aunt,” Bessy said to her -one day, with an air of firmness which had evidently been assumed -purposely for the occasion, “indeed, indeed, I cannot love Mr. -Morrison.” Then Mrs. Miles had resolved that she must resort to the -other alternative. Bessy must go. She did believe that when everything -should be explained Bessy herself would raise no difficulty as to her -own going. Bessy had no more right to live at Launay than had any other -fatherless, motherless, penniless living creature. But how to explain -it? What reason should be given? And whither should the girl be sent? - -Then there came delay, caused by another great trouble. On a sudden Mrs. -Miles was very ill. This began about the end of May, when Philip was -still up in London inhaling the incense which came up from the success -of his book. At first she was very eager that her son should not be -recalled to Launay. “Why should a young man be brought into the house -with a sick old woman?” Of course she was eager. What evils might not -happen if they two were brought together during her illness? At the end -of three weeks, however, she was worse--so much worse that the people -around her were afraid; and it became manifest to all of them that the -truth must be told to Philip in spite of her injunctions. Bessy’s -position became one of great difficulty, because words fell from Mrs. -Miles which explained to her almost with accuracy the condition of her -aunt’s mind. “You should not be here,” she said over and over again. -Now, it had been the case, as a matter of course, that Bessy, during the -old lady’s illness, had never left her bedside day or night. Of course -she had been the nurse, of course she had tended the invalid in -everything. It had been so much a matter of course that the poor lady -had been impotent to prevent it, in her ineffectual efforts to put an -end to Bessy’s influence. The servants, even the doctors, obeyed Bessy -in regard to the household matters. Mrs. Miles found herself quite -unable to repel Bessy from her bedside. And then, with her mind always -intent on the necessity of keeping the young people apart, and when it -was all but settled that Philip should be summoned, she said again and -again, “You should not be here, Bessy. You must not be here, Bessy.” - -But whither should she go? No place was even suggested to her. And were -she herself to consult some other friend as to a place--the clergyman of -their own parish for instance, who out of that house was her most -intimate friend--she would have to tell the whole story, a story which -could not be told by her lips. Philip had never said a word to her, -except that one word: “You have grown to be the loveliest woman that -ever I looked upon.” The word was very frequent in her thoughts, but she -could tell no one of that! - -If he did think her lovely, if he did love her, why should not things -run smoothly? She had found it to be quite out of the question that she -should be driven into the arms of Mr. Morrison, but she soon came to own -to herself that she might easily be enticed into those other arms. But -then perhaps he had meant nothing--so probably had meant nothing! But if -not, why should she be driven away from Launay? As her aunt became -worse and worse, and when Philip came down from London, and with Philip -a London physician, nothing was settled about poor Bessy, and nothing -was done. When Philip and Bessy stood together at the sick woman’s -bedside she was nearly insensible, wandering in her mind, but still with -that care heavy at her heart. “No, Philip; no, no, no,” she said. “What -is it, mother?” asked Philip. Then Bessy escaped from the room and -resolved that she would always be absent when Philip was by his mother’s -bedside. - -There was a week in which the case was almost hopeless; and then a week -during which the mistress of Launay crept slowly back to life. It could -not but be that they two should see much of each other during such -weeks. At every meal they sat together. Bessy was still constant at the -bedside of her aunt, but now and again she was alone with Philip. At -first she struggled to avoid him, but she struggled altogether in vain. -He would not be avoided. And then of course he spoke. “Bessy, I am sure -you know that I love you.” - -“I am sure I hope you do,” she replied, purposely misinterpreting him. - -Then he frowned at her. “I am sure, Bessy, you are above all -subterfuges.” - -“What subterfuges? Why do you say that?” - -“You are no sister of mine; no cousin even. You know what I mean when I -say that I love you. Will you be my wife?” - -Oh! if she might only have knelt at his feet and hidden her face among -her hands, and have gladly answered him with a little “Yes,” extracted -from amidst her happy blushes! But, in every way, there was no time for -such joys. “Philip, think how ill your mother is,” she said. - -“That cannot change it. I have to ask you whether you can love me. I am -bound to ask you whether you will love me.” She would not answer him -then; but during that second week in which Mrs. Miles was creeping back -to life she swore that she did love him, and would love him, and would -be true to him for ever and ever. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED. - - -When these pretty oaths had been sworn, and while Mrs. Miles was too ill -to keep her eyes upon them or to separate them, of course the two lovers -were much together. For whispering words of love, for swearing oaths, -for sweet kisses and looking into each other’s eyes, a few minutes now -and again will give ample opportunities. The long hours of the day and -night were passed by Bessy with her aunt; but there were short moments, -heavenly moments, which sufficed to lift her off the earth into an -Elysium of joy. His love for her was so perfect, so assured! “In a -matter such as this,” he said in his fondly serious air, “my mother can -have no right to interfere with me.” - -“But with me she may,” said Bessy, foreseeing in the midst of her -Paradise the storm which would surely come. - -“Why should she wish to do so? Why should she not allow me to make -myself happy in the only way in which it is possible?” There was such an -ecstacy of bliss coming from such words as these, such a perfection of -the feeling of mutual love, that she could not but be exalted to the -heavens, although she knew that the storm would surely come. If her love -would make him happy, then, then, surely he should be happy. “Of course -she has given up her idea about that parson,” he said. - -“I fear she has not, Philip.” - -“It seems to me too monstrous that any human being should go to work and -settle whom two other human beings are to marry.” - -“There was never a possibility of that.” - -“She told me it was to be so.” - -“It never could have been,” said Bessy with great emphasis. “Not even -for her, much as I love her--not even for her to whom I owe -everything--could I consent to marry a man I did not love. But----” - -“But what?” - -“I do not know how I shall answer her when she bids me give you up. Oh, -my love, how shall I answer her?” - -Then he told her at considerable length what was the answer which he -thought should in such circumstances be made to his mother. Bessy was to -declare that nothing could alter her intentions, that her own happiness -and that of her lover depended on her firmness, and that they two did, -in fact, intend to have their own way in this matter sooner or later. -Bessy, as she heard the lesson, made no direct reply, but she knew too -well that it could be of no service to her. All that it would be -possible for her to say, when the resolute old woman should declare her -purpose, would be that come what might she must always love Philip -Launay; that she never, never, never could become the wife of any other -man. So much she thought she would say. But as to asserting her right to -her lover, that she was sure would be beyond her. - -Everyone in the house except Mrs. Miles was aware that Philip and Bessy -were lovers, and from the dependents of the house the tidings spread -through the parish. There had been no special secrecy. A lover does not -usually pronounce his vows in public. Little half-lighted corners and -twilight hours are chosen, or banks beneath the trees supposed to be -safe from vulgar eyes, or lonely wanderings. Philip had followed the -usual way of the world in his love-making, but had sought his secret -moments with no special secrecy. Before the servants he would whisper to -Bessy with that look of thorough confidence in his eyes which servants -completely understand; and thus while the poor old woman was still in -her bed, while she was unaware both of the danger and of her own -immediate impotence, the secret--as far as it was a secret--became -known to all Launay. Mr. Morrison heard it over at Budcombe, and, with -his heart down in his boots, told himself that now certainly there could -be no chance for him. At Launay Mr. Gregory was the rector, and it was -with his daughters that Bessy had become intimate. Knowing much of the -mind of the first lady of the parish, he took upon himself to say a word -or two to Philip. “I am so glad to hear that your mother is much better -this morning.” - -“Very much better.” - -“It has been a most serious illness.” - -“Terribly serious, Mr. Gregory.” - -Then there was a pause, and sundry other faltering allusions were made -to the condition of things up at the house, from which Philip was aware -that words of counsel or perhaps reproach were coming. “I hope you will -excuse me, Philip, if I tell you something.” - -“I think I shall excuse anything from you.” - -“People are saying about the place that during your mother’s illness you -have engaged yourself to Bessy Pryor.” - -“That’s very odd,” said Philip. - -“Odd!” repeated the parson. - -“Very odd indeed, because what the people about the place say is always -supposed to be untrue. But this report is true.” - -“It is true?” - -“Quite true, and I am proud to be in a position to assure you that I -have been accepted. I am really sorry for Mr. Morrison, you know.” - -“But what will your mother say?” - -“I do not think that she or anyone can say that Bessy is not fit to be -the wife of the finest gentleman in the land.” This he said with an air -of pride which showed plainly enough that he did not intend to be talked -out of his purpose. - -“I should not have spoken, but that your dear mother is so ill,” -rejoined the parson. - -“I understand that. I must fight my own battle and Bessy’s as best I -may. But you may be quite sure, Mr. Gregory, that I mean to fight it.” - -Nor did Bessy deny the fact when her friend Mary Gregory interrogated -her. The question of Bessy’s marriage with Mr. Morrison had, somewhat -cruelly in regard to her and more cruelly still in regard to the -gentleman, become public property in the neighbourhood. Everybody had -known that Mrs. Miles intended to marry Bessy to the parson of Budcombe, -and everybody had thought that Bessy would, as a matter of course, -accept her destiny. Everybody now knew that Bessy had rebelled; and, as -Mrs. Miles’s autocratic disposition was well understood, everybody was -waiting to see what would come of it. The neighbourhood generally -thought that Bessy was unreasonable and ungrateful. Mr. Morrison was a -very nice man, and nothing could have been more appropriate. Now, when -the truth came out, everybody was very much interested indeed. That Mrs. -Miles should assent to a marriage between the heir and Bessy Pryor was -quite out of the question. She was too well known to leave a doubt on -the mind of anyone either in Launay or Budcombe on that matter. Men and -women drew their breath and looked at each other. It was just when the -parishes thought that she was going to die that the parishioners first -heard that Bessy would not marry Mr. Morrison because of the young -squire. And now, when it was known that Mrs. Miles was not going to die, -it was known that the young squire was absolutely engaged to Bessy -Pryor. “There’ll be a deal o’ vat in the voir,” said the old head -ploughman of Launay, talking over the matter with the wife of Mr. -Gregory’s gardener. There was going to be “a deal of fat in the fire.” - -Mrs. Miles was not like other mothers. Everything in respect to present -income was in her hands. And Bessy was not like other girls. She had -absolutely no “locus standi” in the world, except what came to her from -the bounty of the old lady. By favour of the Lady of Launay she held her -head among the girls of that part of the country as high as any girl -there. She was only Bessy Pryor; but, from love and kindness, she was -the recognised daughter of the house of Launay. Everybody knew it all. -Everybody was aware that she had done much towards reaching her present -position by her own special sweetness. But should Mrs. Miles once frown, -Bessy would be nobody. “Oh, Bessy, how is this all to be?” asked Mary -Gregory. - -“As God pleases,” said Bessy, very solemnly. - -“What does Mrs. Miles say?” - -“I don’t want anybody to ask me about it,” said Bessy. “Of course I love -him. What is the good of denying it? But I cannot talk about it.” Then -Mary Gregory looked as though some terrible secret had been revealed to -her--some secret of which the burden might probably be too much for her -to bear. - -The first storm arose from an interview which took place between the -mother and son as soon as the mother found herself able to speak on a -subject which was near her heart. She sent for him and once again -besought him to take steps towards that combining of the properties -which was so essential to the Launay interests generally. Then he -declared his purpose very plainly. He did not intend to combine the -properties. He did not care for the red-haired Launay cousin. It was his -intention to marry--Bessy Pryor; yes--he had proposed to her and she had -accepted him. The poor sick mother was at first almost overwhelmed with -despair. “What can I do but tell you the truth when you ask me?” he -said. - -“Do!” she screamed. “What could you do? You could have remembered your -honour! You could have remembered your blood! You could have remembered -your duty!” Then she bade him leave her, and after an hour passed in -thought she sent for Bessy. “I have had my son with me,” she said, -sitting bolt upright in her bed, looking awful in her wanness, speaking -with low, studied, harsh voice, with her two hands before her on the -counterpane. “I have had my son with me and he has told me.” Bessy felt -that she was trembling. She was hardly able to support herself. She had -not a word to say. The sick old woman was terrible in her severity. “Is -it true?” - -“Yes, it is true,” whispered Bessy. - -“And this is to be my return?” - -“Oh, my dearest, my darling, oh, my aunt, dear, dearest, dearest aunt! -Do not speak like that! Do not look at me like that! You know I love -you. Don’t you know I love you?” Then Bessy prostrated herself on the -bed, and getting hold of the old woman’s hand covered it with kisses. -Yes, her aunt did know that the girl loved her, and she knew that she -loved the girl perhaps better than any other human being in the world. -The eldest son had become estranged from her. Even Philip had not been -half so much to her as this girl. Bessy had wound herself round her very -heartstrings. It made her happy even to sit and look at Bessy. She had -denied herself all pretty things; but this prettiest of all things had -grown up beneath her eyes. She did not draw away her hand; but, while -her hand was being kissed, she made up her mind that she would do her -duty. - -“Of what service will be your love,” she said, “if this is to be my -return?” Bessy could only lie and sob and hide her face. “Say that you -will give it up.” Not to say that, not to give him up, was the only -resolution at which Bessy had arrived. “If you will not say so, you must -leave me, and I shall send you word what you are to do. If you are my -enemy you shall not remain here.” - -“Pray--pray do not call me an enemy.” - -“You had better go.” The woman’s voice as she said this was dreadful in -its harshness. Then Bessy, slowly creeping down from the bed, slowly -slunk out of the room. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR CEASED TO BE A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE. - - -When the old woman was alone she at once went to work in her own mind -resolving what should be her course of proceeding. To yield in the -matter, and to confirm the happiness of the young people, never occurred -to her. Again and again she repeated to herself that she would do her -duty; and again and again she repeated to herself that in allowing -Philip and Bessy to come together she had neglected her duty. That her -duty required her to separate them, in spite of their love, in spite of -their engagement, though all the happiness of their lives might depend -upon it, she did not in the least doubt. Duty is duty. And it was her -duty to aggrandise the house of Launay, so that the old autocracy of the -land might, so far as in her lay, be preserved. That it would be a good -and pious thing to do,--to keep them apart, to force Philip to marry -the girl in Cornwall, to drive Bessy into Mr. Morrison’s arms, was to -her so certain that it required no further thought. She had never -indulged herself. Her life had been so led as to maintain the power of -her own order, and relieve the wants of those below her. She had done -nothing for her own pleasure. How should it occur to her that it would -be well for her to change the whole course of her life in order that she -might administer to the joys of a young man and a young woman? - -It did not occur to her to do so. Lying thus all alone, white, sick, and -feeble, but very strong of heart, she made her resolutions. As Bessy -could not well be sent out of the house till a home should be provided -for her elsewhere, Philip should be made to go. As that was to be the -first step, she again sent for Philip that day. “No, mother; not while -you are so ill.” This he said in answer to her first command that he -should leave Launay at once. It had not occurred to him that the house -in which he had been born and bred, the house of his ancestors, the -house which he had always supposed was at some future day to be his own, -was not free to him. But, feeble as she was, she soon made him -understand her purpose. He must go,--because she ordered him, because -the house was hers and not his, because he was no longer welcome there -as a guest unless he would promise to abandon Bessy. “This is tyranny, -mother,” he said. - -“I do not mean to argue the question,” said Mrs. Miles, leaning back -among the pillows, gaunt, with hollow cheeks, yellow with her long -sickness, seeming to be all eyes as she looked at him. “I tell you that -you must go.” - -“Mother!” - -Then, at considerable length, she explained her intended arrangements. -He must go, and live upon the very modest income which she proposed. At -any rate he must go, and go at once. The house was hers, and she would -not have him there. She would have no one in the house who disputed her -will. She had been an over-indulgent mother to him, and this had been -the return made to her! She had condescended to explain to him her -intention in regard to Bessy, and he had immediately resolved to thwart -her. When she was dead and gone it might perhaps be in his power to ruin -the family if he chose. As to that she would take further thought. But -she, as long as she lived, would do her duty. “I suppose I may -understand,” she said, “that you will leave Launay early after breakfast -to-morrow.” - -“Do you mean to turn me out of the house?” - -“I do,” she said, looking full at him, all eyes, with her grey hair -coming dishevelled from under the large frill of her nightcap, with -cheeks gaunt and yellow. Her extended hands were very thin. She had been -very near death, and seemed, as he gazed at her, to be very near it now. -If he went it might be her fate never to see him again. - -“I cannot leave you like this,” he said. - -“Then obey me.” - -“Why should we not be married, mother?” - -“I will not argue. You know as well as I do. Will you obey me?” - -“Not in this, mother. I could not do so without perjuring myself.” - -“Then go you out of this house at once.” She was sitting now bolt -upright on her bed, supporting herself on her hands behind her. The -whole thing was so dreadful that he could not endure to prolong the -interview, and he left the room. - -Then there came a message from the old housekeeper to Bessy, forbidding -her to leave her own room. It was thus that Bessy first understood that -her great sin was to be made public to all the household. Mrs. Knowl, -who was the head of the domestics, had been told, and now felt that a -sort of authority over Bessy had been confided to her. “No, Miss Bessy; -you are not to go into her room at all. She says that she will not see -you till you promise to be said by her.” - -“But why, Mrs. Knowl?” - -“Well, miss; I suppose it’s along of Mr. Philip. But you know that -better than me. Mr. Philip is to go to-morrow morning and never come -back any more.” - -“Never come back to Launay?” - -“Not while things is as they is, miss. But you are to stay here and not -go out at all. That’s what Madam says.” The servants about the place all -called Mrs. Miles Madam. - -There was a potency about Mrs. Miles which enabled her to have her will -carried out, although she was lying ill in bed,--to have her will -carried out as far as the immediate severance of the lovers was -concerned. When the command had been brought by the mouth of a servant, -Bessy determined that she would not see Philip again before he went. She -understood that she was bound by her position, bound by gratitude, bound -by a sense of propriety, to so much obedience as that. No earthly -authority could be sufficient to make her abandon her troth. In that she -could not allow even her aunt to sway her,--her aunt though she were -sick and suffering, even though she were dying! Both her love and her -vow were sacred to her. But obedience at the moment she did owe, and she -kept her room. Philip came to the door, but she sat mute and would not -speak to him. Mrs. Knowl, when she brought her some food, asked her -whether she intended to obey the order. “Your aunt wants a promise from -you, Miss Bessy?” - -“I am sure my aunt knows that I shall obey her,” said Bessy. - -On the following morning Philip left the house. He sent a message to his -mother, asking whether she would see him; but she refused. “I think you -had better not disturb her, Mr. Philip,” said Mrs. Knowl. Then he went, -and as the waggonette took him away from the door, Bessy sat and -listened to the sound of the wheels on the gravel. - -All that day and all the next passed on and she was not allowed to see -her aunt. Mrs. Knowl repeated that she could not take upon herself to -say that Madam was better. No doubt the worry of the last day or two -had been a great trouble to her. Mrs. Knowl grew much in self-importance -at the time, and felt that she was overtopping Miss Bessy in the affairs -of Launay. - -It was no less true than singular that all the sympathies of the place -should be on the side of the old woman. Her illness probably had -something to do with it. And then she had been so autocratic, all Launay -and Budcombe had been so accustomed to bow down to her, that rebellion -on the part of anyone seemed to be shocking. And who was Bessy Pryor -that she should dare to think of marrying the heir? Who, even, was the -supposed heir that he should dare to think of marrying anyone in -opposition to the actual owner of the acres? Heir though he was called, -he was not necessarily the heir. She might do as she pleased with all -Launay and all Budcombe, and there were those who thought that if Philip -was still obstinate she would leave everything to her elder son. She did -not love her elder son. In these days she never saw him. He was a gay -man of the world, who had never been dutiful to her. But he might take -the name of Launay, and the family would be perpetuated as well that way -as the other. Philip was very foolish. And as for Bessy; Bessy was worse -than foolish. That was the verdict of the place generally. - -I think Launay liked it. The troubles of our neighbours are generally -endurable, and any subject for conversation is a blessing. Launay liked -the excitement; but, nevertheless, felt itself to be compressed into -whispers and a solemn demeanour. The Gregory girls were solemn, -conscious of the iniquity of their friend, and deeply sensitive of the -danger to which poor Philip was exposed. When a rumour came to the -vicarage that a fly had been up at the great house, it was immediately -conceived that Mr. Jones, the lawyer from Taunton, had been sent for, -with a view to an alteration of the will. This suddenness, this anger, -this disruption of all things was dreadful! But when it was discovered -that the fly contained no one but the doctor there was disappointment. - -On the third day there came a message from Mrs. Miles to the rector. -Would Mr. Gregory step up and see Mrs. Miles? Then it was thought at the -rectory that the dear old lady was again worse, and that she had sent -for her clergyman that she might receive the last comforts of religion. -But this again was wrong. “Mr. Gregory,” she said very suddenly, “I want -to consult you as to a future home for Bessy Pryor.” - -“Must she go from this?” - -“Yes; she must go from this. You have heard, perhaps, about her and my -son.” Mr. Gregory acknowledged that he had heard. “Of course she must -go. I cannot have Philip banished from the house which is to be his own. -In this matter he probably has been the most to blame.” - -“They have both, perhaps, been foolish.” - -“It is wickedness rather than folly. But he has been the wickeder. It -should have been a duty to him, a great duty, and he should have been -the stronger. But he is my son, and I cannot banish him.” - -“Oh, no!” - -“But they must not be brought together. I love Bessy Pryor dearly, Mr. -Gregory; oh, so dearly! Since she came to me, now so many years ago, she -has been like a gleam of sunlight in the house. She has always been -gentle with me. The very touch of her hand is sweet to me. But I must -not on that account sacrifice the honour of the family. I have a duty to -do; and I must do it, though I tear my heart in pieces. Where can I send -her?” - -“Permanently?” - -“Well, yes; permanently. If Philip were married, of course she might -come back. But I will still trust that she herself may be married first. -I do not mean to cast her off;--only she must go. Anything that may be -wanting in money shall be paid for her. She shall be provided for -comfortably. You know what I had hoped about Mr. Morrison. Perhaps he -may even yet be able to persuade her; but it must be away from here. -Where can I send her?” - -This was a question not very easy to answer, and Mr. Gregory said that -he must take time to think of it. Mrs. Miles, when she asked the -question, was aware that Mr. Gregory had a maiden sister, living at -Avranches in Normandy, who was not in opulent circumstances. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS TO BE BANISHED. - - -When a man is asked by his friend if he knows of a horse to be sold he -does not like immediately to suggest a transfer of the animal which he -has in his own stable, though he may at the moment be in want of money -and anxious to sell his steed. So it was with Mr. Gregory. His sister -would be delighted to take as a boarder a young lady for whom liberal -payment would be made; but at the first moment he had hesitated to make -an offer by which his own sister would be benefited. On the next -morning, however, he wrote as follows:-- - - “DEAR MRS. MILES,--My sister Amelia is living at Avranches, where - she has a pleasant little house on the outskirts of the town, with - a garden. An old friend was living with her, but she died last - year, and my sister is now alone. If you think that Bessy would - like to sojourn for awhile in Normandy, I will write to Amelia and - make the proposition. Bessy will find my sister good-tempered and - kind-hearted.--Faithfully yours, JOSHUA GREGORY.” - -Mrs. Miles did not care much for the good temper and the kind heart. Had -she asked herself whether she wished Bessy to be happy she would no -doubt have answered herself in the affirmative. She would probably have -done so in regard to any human being or animal in the world. Of course, -she wanted them all to be happy. But happiness was to her thinking of -much less importance than duty; and at the present moment her duty and -Bessy’s duty and Philip’s duty were so momentous that no idea of -happiness ought to be considered in the matter at all. Had Mr. Gregory -written to say that his sister was a woman of severe morals, of stern -aspect, prone to repress all youthful ebullitions, and supposed to be -disagreeable because of her temper, all that would have been no -obstacle. In the present condition of things suffering would be better -than happiness; more in accord with the feelings and position of the -person concerned. It was quite intelligible to Mrs. Miles that Bessy -should really love Philip almost to the breaking of her heart, quite -intelligible that Philip should have set his mind upon the untoward -marriage with all the obstinacy of a proud man. When young men and young -women neglect their duty, hearts have to be broken. But it is not a soft -and silken operation, which can be made pleasant by good temper and -social kindness. It was necessary, for certain quite adequate reasons, -that Bessy should be put on the wheel, and be racked and tormented. To -talk to her of the good temper of the old woman who would have to turn -the wheel would be to lie to her. Mrs. Miles did not want her to think -that things could be made pleasant for her. - -Soon after the receipt of Mr. Gregory’s letter she sent for Bessy, who -was then brought into the room under the guard, as it were, of Mrs. -Knowl. Mrs. Knowl accompanied her along the corridor, which was surely -unnecessary, as Bessy’s door had not been locked upon her. Her -imprisonment had only come from obedience. But Mrs. Knowl felt that a -great trust had been confided to her, and was anxious to omit none of -her duties. She opened the door so that the invalid on the bed could see -that this duty had been done, and then Bessy crept into the room. She -crept in, but very quickly, and in a moment had her arms round the old -woman’s back and her lips pressed to the old woman’s forehead. “Why may -not I come and be with you?” she said. - -“Because you are disobedient.” - -“No, no; I do all that you tell me. I have not stirred from my room, -though it was hard to think you were ill so near me, and that I could do -nothing. I did not try to say a word to him, or even to look at him; and -now that he has gone, why should I not be with you?” - -“It cannot be.” - -“But why not, aunt? Even though you would not speak to me I could be -with you. Who is there to read to you?” - -“There is no one. Of course it is dreary. But there are worse things -than dreariness.” - -“Why should not I come back, now that he has gone?” She still had her -arm round the old woman’s back, and had now succeeded in dragging -herself on to the bed and in crouching down by her aunt’s side. It was -her perseverance in this fashion that had so often forced Mrs. Miles out -of her own ordained method of life, and compelled her to leave for a -moment the strictness which was congenial to her. It was this that had -made her declare to Mr. Gregory, in the midst of her severity, that -Bessy had been like a gleam of sunshine in the house. Even now she knew -not how to escape from the softness of an embrace which was in truth so -grateful to her. It was a consciousness of this,--of the potency of -Bessy’s charm even over herself,--which had made her hasten to send her -away from her. Bessy would read to her all the day, would hold her hand -when she was half dozing, would assist in every movement with all the -patience and much more than the tenderness of a waiting-maid. There was -no voice so sweet, no hand so cool, no memory so mindful, no step so -soft as Bessy’s. And now Bessy was there, lying on her bed, caressing -her, more closely bound to her than had ever been any other being in the -world, and yet Bessy was an enemy from whom it was imperatively -necessary that she should be divided. - -“Get down, Bessy,” she said; “go off from me.” - -“No, no, no,” said Bessy, still clinging to her and kissing her. - -“I have that to say to you which must be said calmly.” - -“I am calm,--quite calm. I will do whatever you tell me; only pray, -pray, do not send me away from you.” - -“You say that you will obey me.” - -“I will; I have. I always have obeyed you.” - -“Will you give up your love for Philip?” - -“Could I give up my love for you, if anybody told me? How can I do it? -Love comes of itself. I did not try to love him. Oh, if you could know -how I tried not to love him! If somebody came and said I was not to love -you, would it be possible?” - -“I am speaking of another love.” - -“Yes; I know. One is a kind of love that is always welcome. The other -comes first as a shock, and one struggles to avoid it. But when it has -come, how can it be helped? I do love him, better than all the world.” -As she said this she raised herself upon the bed, so as to look round -upon her aunt’s face; but still she kept her arm upon the old woman’s -shoulder. “Is it not natural? How could I have helped it?” - -“You must have known that it was wrong.” - -“No!” - -“You did not know that it would displease me?” - -“I knew that it was unfortunate,--not wrong. What did I do that was -wrong? When he asked me, could I tell him anything but the truth?” - -“You should have told him nothing.” At this reply Bessy shook her head. -“It cannot be that you should think that in such a matter there should -be no restraint. Did you expect that I should give my consent to such a -marriage? I want to hear from yourself what you thought of my feelings.” - -“I knew you would be angry.” - -“Well?” - -“I knew you must think me unfit to be Philip’s wife.” - -“Well?” - -“I knew that you wanted something else for him, and something else also -for me.” - -“And did such knowledge go for nothing?” - -“It made me feel that my love was unfortunate,--but not that it was -wrong. I could not help it. He had come to me, and I loved him. The -other man came, and I could not love him. Why should I be shut up for -this in my own room? Why should I be sent away from you, to be miserable -because I know that you want things done? He is not here. If he were -here and you bade me not to go near him, I would not go. Though he were -in the next room I would not see him. I would obey you altogether, but I -must love him. And as I love him I cannot love another. You would not -wish me to marry a man when my heart has been given to another.” - -The old woman had not at all intended that there should be such -arguments as these. It had been her purpose simply to communicate her -plan, to tell Bessy that she would have to live probably for a few years -at Avranches, and then to send her back to her prison. But Bessy had -again got the best of her, and then had come caressing, talking, and -excuses. Bessy had been nearly an hour in her room before Mrs. Miles had -disclosed her purpose, and had hovered round her aunt, doing as had been -her wont when she was recognised as having all the powers of head nurse -in her hands. Then at last, in a manner very different from that which -had been planned, Mrs. Miles proposed the Normandy scheme. She had been, -involuntarily, so much softened that she condescended even to repeat -what Mr. Gregory had said as to the good temper and general kindness of -his maiden sister. “But why should I go?” asked Bessy, almost sobbing. - -“I wonder that you should ask.” - -“He is not here.” - -“But he may come.” - -“If he came ever so I would not see him if you bade me not. I think you -hardly understand me, aunt. I will obey you in everything. I am sure you -will not now ask me to marry Mr. Morrison.” - -She could not say that Philip would be more likely to become amenable -and marry the Cornish heiress if Bessy were away at Avranches than if -she still remained shut up at Launay. But that was her feeling. Philip, -she knew, would be less obedient than Bessy. But then, too, Philip might -be less obstinate of purpose. “You cannot live here, Bessy, unless you -will say that you will never become the wife of my son.” - -“Never?” - -“Never!” - -“I cannot say that.” There was a long pause before she found the courage -to pronounce these words, but she did pronounce them at last. - -“Then you must go.” - -“I may stay and nurse you till you are well. Let me do that. I will go -whenever you may bid me.” - -“No. There shall be no terms between us. We must be friends, Bessy, or -we must be enemies. We cannot be friends as long as you hold yourself to -be engaged to Philip Launay. While that is so I will not take a cup of -water from your hands. No, no,” for the girl was again trying to embrace -her. “I will not have your love, nor shall you have mine.” - -“My heart would break were I to say it.” - -“Then let it break! Is my heart not broken? What is it though our hearts -do break,--what is it though we die,--if we do our duty? You owe this -for what I have done for you.” - -“I owe you everything.” - -“Then say that you will give him up.” - -“I owe you everything, except this. I will not speak to him, I will not -write to him, I will not even look at him, but I will not give him up. -When one loves, one cannot give it up.” Then she was ordered to go back -to her room, and back to her room she went. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BANISHED TO NORMANDY. - - -There was nothing for it but to go, after the interview described in the -last chapter. Mrs. Miles sent a message to the obstinate girl, informing -her that she need not any longer consider herself as a prisoner, but -that she had better prepare her clothes so as to be ready to start -within a week. The necessary correspondence had taken place between -Launay and Avranches, and within ten days from the time at which Mr. -Gregory had made the proposition,--in less than a fortnight from the -departure of her lover,--Bessy came down from her room all equipped, and -took her place in the same waggonette which so short a time before had -taken her lover away from her. During the week she had had liberty to go -where she pleased, except into her aunt’s room. But she had, in truth, -been almost as much a prisoner as before. She did for a few minutes each -day go out into the garden, but she would not go beyond the garden into -the park, nor did she accept an invitation from the Gregory girls to -spend an evening at the rectory. It would be so necessary, one of them -wrote, that everything should be told to her as to the disposition and -ways of life of Aunt Amelia! But Bessy would not see the Gregory girls. -She was being sent away from home because of the wickedness of her love, -and all Launay knew it. In such a condition of things she could not go -out to eat sally-lunn and pound-cake, and to be told of the delights of -a small Norman town. She would not even see the Gregory girls when they -came up to the house, but wrote an affectionate note to the elder of -them explaining that her misery was too great to allow her to see any -friend. - -She was in truth very miserable. It was not only because of her love, -from which she had from the first been aware that misery must -come,--undoubted misery, if not misery that would last through her whole -life. But now there was added to this the sorrow of absolute banishment -from her aunt. Mrs. Miles would not see her again before she started. -Bessy was well aware of all that she owed to the mistress of Launay; -and, being intelligent in the reading of character, was aware also that -through many years she had succeeded in obtaining from the old woman -more than the intended performance of an undertaken duty. She had forced -the old woman to love her, and was aware that by means of that love the -old woman’s life had been brightened. She had not only received, but had -conferred kindness,--and it is by conferring kindness that love is -created. It was an agony to her that she should be compelled to leave -this dearest friend, who was still sick and infirm, without seeing her. -But Mrs. Miles was inexorable. These four words written on a scrap of -paper were brought to her on that morning:--“Pray, pray, see me!” She -was still inexorable. There had been long pencil-written notes between -them on the previous day. If Bessy would pledge herself to give up her -lover all might yet be changed. The old woman at Avranches should be -compensated for her disappointment. Bessy should be restored to all her -privileges at Launay. “You shall be my own, own child,” said Mrs. Miles. -She condescended even to promise that not a word more should be said -about Mr. Morrison. But Bessy also could be inexorable. “I cannot say -that I will give him up,” she wrote. Thus it came to pass that she had -to get into the waggonette without seeing her old friend. Mrs. Knowl -went with her, having received instructions to wait upon Miss Bessy all -the way to Avranches. Mrs. Knowl felt that she was sent as a guard -against the lover. Mrs. Miles had known Bessy too well to have fear of -that kind, and had sent Mrs. Knowl as general guardian against the wild -beasts which are supposed to be roaming about the world in quest of -unprotected young females. - -In the distribution of her anger Mrs. Miles had for the moment been very -severe towards Philip as to pecuniary matters. He had chosen to be -rebellious, and therefore he was not only turned out of the house, but -told that he must live on an uncomfortably small income. But to Bessy -Mrs. Miles was liberal. She had astounded Miss Gregory by the nobility -of the terms she had proposed, and on the evening before the journey had -sent ten five-pound notes in a blank envelope to Bessy. Then in a -subsequent note she had said that a similar sum would be paid to her -every half-year. In none of these notes was there any expression of -endearment. To none of them was there even a signature. But they all -conveyed evidence of the amount of thought which Mrs. Miles was giving -to Bessy and her affairs. - -Bessy’s journey was very comfortless. She had learned to hate Mrs. -Knowl, who assumed all the airs of a duenna. She would not leave Bessy -out of sight for a moment, as though Philip might have been hidden -behind every curtain or under every table. Once or twice the duenna -made a little attempt at persuasion herself: “It ain’t no good, miss, -and it had better be give up.” Then Bessy looked at her, and desired -that she might be left alone. This had been at the hotel at Dover. Then -again Mrs. Knowl spoke as the carriage was approaching Avranches: “If -you wish to come back, Miss Bessy, the way is open.” “Never mind my -wishes, Mrs. Knowl,” said Bessy. When, on her return to Launay, Mrs. -Knowl once attempted to intimate to her mistress that Miss Bessy was -very obstinate, she was silenced so sternly, so shortly, that the -housekeeper began to doubt whether she might not have made a mistake and -whether Bessy would not at last prevail. It was evident that Mrs. Miles -would not hear a word against Bessy. - -On her arrival at Avranches Miss Gregory was very kind to her. She found -that she was received not at all as a naughty girl who had been sent -away from home in order that she might be subjected to severe treatment. -Miss Gregory fulfilled all the promises which her brother had made on -her behalf, and was thoroughly kind and good-tempered. For nearly a -month not a word was said about Philip or the love affairs. It seemed to -be understood that Bessy had come to Avranches quite at her own desire. -She was introduced to the genteel society with which that place abounds, -and was conscious that a much freer life was vouchsafed to her than she -had ever known before. At Launay she had of course been subject to Mrs. -Miles. Now she was subject to no one. Miss Gregory exercised no -authority over her,--was indeed rather subject to Bessy, as being -recipient of the money paid for Bessy’s board and lodging. - -But by the end of the month there had grown up so much of friendship -between the elder and the younger lady, that something came to be said -about Philip. It was impossible that Bessy should be silent as to her -past life. By degrees she told all that Mrs. Miles had done for her; how -she herself had been a penniless orphan; how Mrs. Miles had taken her in -from simple charity; how love had grown up between them two,--the -warmest, truest love; and then how that other love had grown! The -telling of secrets begets the telling of secrets. Miss Gregory, though -she was now old, with the marks of little feeble crow’s-feet round her -gentle eyes, though she wore a false front and was much withered, had -also had her love affair. She took delight in pouring forth her little -tale; how she had loved an officer and had been beloved; how there had -been no money; how the officer’s parents had besought her to set the -officer free, so that he might marry money; how she had set the officer -free, and how, in consequence, the officer had married money and was now -a major-general, with a large family, a comfortable house, and the gout. -“And I have always thought it was right,” said the excellent spinster. -“What could I have done for him?” - -“It couldn’t be right if he loved you best,” said Bessy. - -“Why not, my dear? He has made an excellent husband. Perhaps he didn’t -love me best when he stood at the altar.” - -“I think love should be more holy.” - -“Mine has been very holy,--to me, myself. For a time I wept; but now I -think I am happier than if I had never seen him. It adds something to -one’s life to have been loved once.” - -Bessy, who was of a stronger temperament, told herself that happiness -such as that would not suffice for her. She wanted not only to be happy -herself, but also to make him so. In the simplicity of her heart she -wondered whether Philip would be different from that easy-changing -major-general; but in the strength of her heart she was sure he would be -very different. She would certainly not release him at the request of -any parent;--but he should be free as air at the slightest hint of a -request from himself. She did not believe for a moment that such a -request would come; but, if it did,--if it did,--then there should be no -difficulty. Then would she submit to banishment,--at Avranches or -elsewhere as it might be decided for her,--till it might please the Lord -to release her from her troubles. - -At the end of six weeks Miss Gregory knew the whole secret of Philip and -Bessy’s love, and knew also that Bessy was quite resolved to persevere. -There were many discussions about love, in which Bessy always clung to -the opinion that when it was once offered and taken, given and received, -it ought to be held as more sacred than any other bond. She owed much to -Mrs. Miles;--she acknowledged that;--but she thought that she owed more -to Philip. Miss Gregory would never quite agree with her;--was strong in -her own opinion that women are born to yield and suffer and live -mutilated lives, like herself; but not the less did they become fast -friends. At the end of six weeks it was determined between them that -Bessy should write to Mrs. Miles. Mrs. Miles had signified her wish not -to be written to, and had not herself written. Messages as to the -improving state of her health had come from the Gregory girls, but no -letter had as yet passed. Then Bessy wrote as follows, in direct -disobedience to her aunt’s orders: - - “Dearest Aunt,--I cannot help writing a line because I am so - anxious about you. Mary Gregory says you have been up and out on - the lawn in the sunshine, but it would make me so happy if I could - see the words in your own dear handwriting. Do send me one little - word. And though I know what you told me, still I think you will be - glad to hear that your poor affectionate loving Bessy is well. I - will not say that I am quite happy. I cannot be quite happy away - from Launay and you. But Miss Gregory has been very, very kind to - me, and there are nice people here. We live almost as quietly as at - Launay, but sometimes we see the people. I am reading German and - making lace, and I try not to be idle. - - “Good-bye, dear, dearest aunt. Try to think kindly of me. I pray - for you every morning and night. If you will send me a little note - from yourself it will fill me with joy.”--Your most affectionate - and devoted niece, - - BESSY PRYOR.” - - - -This was brought up to Mrs. Miles when she was still in bed, for as yet -she had not returned to the early hours of her healthy life. When she -had read it she at first held it apart from her. Then she put it close -to her bosom, and wept bitterly as she thought how void of sunshine the -house had been since that gleam had been turned away from it. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY. - - -The same post brought Bessy two letters from England about the middle of -August, both of which the reader shall see;--but first shall be given -that which Bessy read the last. It was from Mrs. Miles, and had been -sent when she was beginning to think that her aunt was still resolved -not to write to her. The letter was as follows, and was written on -square paper, which in these days is only used even by the old-fashioned -when the letter to be sent is supposed to be one of great importance. - - “My dear Bessy,--Though I had told you not to write to me, still I - am glad to hear that you are well, and that your new home has been - made as comfortable for you as circumstances will permit. Launay - has not been comfortable since you went. I miss you very much. You - have become so dear to me that my life is sad without you. My days - have never been bright, but now they are less so than ever. I - should scruple to admit so much as this to you, were it not that I - intend it as a prelude to that which will follow. - - “We have been sent into this world, my child, that we may do our - duties, independent of that fleeting feeling which we call - happiness. In the smaller affairs of life I am sure you would never - seek a pleasure at the cost of your conscience. If not in the - smaller things, then certainly should you not do so in the greater. - To deny yourself, to remember the welfare of others, when - temptation is urging you to do wrong, then do that which you know - to be right,--that is your duty as a Christian, and especially your - duty as a woman. To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which - a woman can achieve. Men who are called upon to work may gratify - their passions and still be heroes. A woman can soar only by - suffering. - - “You will understand why I tell you this. I and my son have been - born into a special degree of life which I think it to be my duty - and his to maintain. It is not that I or that he may enjoy any - special delights that I hold fast to this opinion, but that I may - do my part towards maintaining that order of things which has made - my country more blessed than others. It would take me long to - explain all this, but I know you will believe me when I say that - an imperative sense of duty is my guide. You have not been born - into that degree. That this does not affect my own personal feeling - to you, you must know. You have had many signs how dear you are to - me. At this moment my days are heavy to bear because I have not my - Bessy with me,--my Bessy who has been so good to me, so loving, - such an infinite blessing that to see the hem of her garments, to - hear the sound of her foot, has made things bright around me. Now, - there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, that is not unsightly and - harsh of sound. Oh, Bessy, if you could come back to me! - - “But I have to do that duty of which I have spoken, and I shall do - it. Though I were never to see you again I shall do it. I am used - to suffering, and sometimes think it wrong even to wish that you - were back with me. But I write to you thus that you may understand - everything. If you will say that you will give him up, you shall - return to me and be my own, own beloved child. I tell you that you - are not of the same degree. I am bound to tell you so. But you - shall be so near my heart that nothing shall separate us. - - “You two cannot marry while I am living. I do not think it possible - that you should be longing to be made happy by my death. And you - should remember that he cannot be the first to break away from this - foolish engagement without dishonour. As he is the wealthy one, and - the higher born, and as he is the man, he ought not to be the first - to say the word. You may say it without falsehood and without - disgrace. You may say it, and all the world will know that you have - been actuated only by a sense of duty. It will be acknowledged that - you have sacrificed yourself,--as it becomes a woman to do. - - “One word from you will be enough to assure me. Since you came to - me you have never been false. One word, and you shall come back to - me and to Launay, my friend and my treasure! If it be that there - must be suffering, we will suffer together. If tears are necessary - there shall be joint tears. Though I am old still I can understand. - I will acknowledge the sacrifice. But, Bessy, my Bessy, dearest - Bessy, the sacrifice must be made. - - “Of course he must live away from Launay for awhile. The fault will - have been his, and what of inconvenience there may be he must - undergo. He shall not come here till you yourself shall say that - you can bear his presence without an added sorrow. - - “I know you will not let this letter be in vain. I know you will - think it over deeply, and that you will not keep me too long - waiting for an answer. I need hardly tell you that I am - - “Your most loving friend, - - M. MILES.” - - - -When Bessy was reading this, when the strong words with which her aunt -had pleaded her cause were harrowing her heart, she had clasped in her -hand this other letter from her lover. This too was written from -Launay. - - “My own dearest Bessy,--It is absolutely only now that I have found - out where you are, and have done so simply because the people at - the rectory could not keep the secret. Can anything be more absurd - than supposing that my mother can have her way by whisking you - away, and shutting you up in Normandy? It is too foolish! She has - sent for me, and I have come like a dutiful son. I have, indeed, - been rejoiced to see her looking again so much like herself. But I - have not extended my duty to obeying her in a matter in which my - own future happiness is altogether bound up; and in which, perhaps, - the happiness of another person may be slightly concerned. I have - told her that I would venture to say nothing of the happiness of - the other person. The other person might be indifferent, though I - did not believe it was so; but I was quite sure of my own. I have - assured her that I know what I want myself, and that I do not mean - to abandon my hope of achieving it. I know that she is writing to - you. She can of course say what she pleases. - - “The idea of separating two people who are as old as you and I, and - who completely know our own minds,--you see that I do not really - doubt as to yours,--is about as foolish as anything well can be. It - is as though we were going back half a dozen centuries into the - tyrannies of the middle ages. My object shall be to induce her to - let you come home and be married properly from Launay. If she will - not consent by the end of this month I shall go over to you, and we - must contrive to be married at Avranches. When the thing has been - once done all this rubbish will be swept away. I do not believe for - a moment that my mother will punish us by any injustice as to - money. - - “Write and tell me that you agree with me, and be sure that I shall - remain, as I am, always altogether your own, - - “Truly and affectionately, - - PHILIP MILES.” - - - -When Bessy Pryor began to consider these two letters together, she felt -that the task was almost too much for her. Her lover’s letter had been -the first read. She had known his handwriting, and of course had read -his the first. And as she had read it everything seemed to be of rose -colour. Of course she had been filled with joy. Something had been done -by the warnings of Miss Gregory, something, but not much, to weaken her -strong faith in her lover. The major-general had been worldly and -untrue, and it had been possible that her Philip should be as had been -the major-general. There had been moments of doubt in which her heart -had fainted a little; but as she read her lover’s words she acknowledged -to herself how wrong she had been to faint at all. He declared it to be -“a matter in which his own future happiness was altogether bound up.” -And then there had been his playful allusion to her happiness, which was -not the less pleasant to her because he had pretended to think that the -“other person might be indifferent.” She pouted her lips at him, as -though he were present while she was reading, with a joyous affectation -of disdain. No, no; she could not consent to an immediate marriage at -Avranches. There must be some delay. But she would write to him and -explain all that. Then she read her aunt’s letter. - -It moved her very much. She had read it all twice before there came upon -her a feeling of doubt, an acknowledgment to herself that she must -reconsider the matter. But even when she was only reading it, before she -had begun to consider, her former joy was repressed and almost quenched. -So much of it was too true, terribly true. Of course her duty should be -paramount. If she could persuade herself that duty required her to -abandon Philip, she must abandon him, let the suffering to herself or to -others be what it might. But then, what was it that duty required of -her? “To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which a woman can -achieve.” Yes, she believed that. But then, how about sacrificing -Philip, who, no doubt, was telling the truth when he said that his own -happiness was altogether bound up in his love? - -She was moved too by all that which Mrs. Miles said as to the grandeur -of the Launay family. She had learned enough of the manners of Launay to -be quite alive to the aristocratic idiosyncrasies of the old woman. She, -Bessy Pryor, was nobody. It would have been well that Philip Launay -should have founded his happiness on some girl of higher birth. But he -had not done so. King Cophetua’s marriage had been recognised by the -world at large. Philip was no more than King Cophetua, nor was she less -than the beggar-girl. Like to like in marriages was no doubt -expedient,--but not indispensable. And though she was not Philip’s -equal, yet she was a lady. She would not disgrace him at his table, or -among his friends. She was sure that she could be a comfort to him in -his work. - -But the parts of the old woman’s letter which moved her most were those -in which she gave full play to her own heart, and spoke, without -reserve, of her own love for her dearest Bessy. “My days are heavy to -bear because I have not my Bessy with me.” It was impossible to read -this and not to have some desire to yield. How good this lady had been -to her! Was it not through her that she had known Philip? But for Mrs. -Miles, what would her own life have been? She thought that had she been -sure of Philip’s happiness, could she have satisfied herself that he -would bear the blow, she would have done as she was asked. She would -have achieved her heroism, and shown the strength of her gratitude, and -would have taken her delight in administering to the comforts of her old -friend,--only that Philip had her promise. All that she could possibly -owe to all the world beside must be less, so infinitely less, than what -she owed to him. - -She would have consulted Miss Gregory, but she knew so well what Miss -Gregory would have advised. Miss Gregory would only have mentioned the -major-general and her own experiences. Bessy determined, therefore, to -lie awake and think of it, and to take no other counsellor beyond her -own heart. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR ANSWERED THE TWO LETTERS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. - - -The letters were read very often, and that from Mrs. Miles I think the -oftener. Philip’s love was plainly expressed, and what more is expected -from a lover’s letter than a strong, manly expression of love? It was -quite satisfactory, declaring the one important fact that his happiness -was bound up in hers. But Mrs. Miles’ was the stronger letter, and by -far the more suggestive. She had so mingled hardness and softness, had -enveloped her stern lesson of feminine duty in so sweet a frame of -personal love, that it was hardly possible that such a girl as Bessy -Pryor should not be shaken by her arguments. There were moments during -the night in which she had almost resolved to yield. “A woman can soar -only by suffering.” She was not sure that she wanted to soar, but she -certainly did want to do her duty, even though suffering should come of -it. But there was one word in her aunt’s letter which militated against -the writer’s purpose rather than assisted it. “Since you first came to -me, you have never been false.” False! no; she hoped she had not been -false. Whatever might be the duty of a man or a woman, that duty should -be founded on truth. Was it not her special duty at this moment to be -true to Philip? I do not know that she was altogether logical. I do not -know but that in so supporting herself in her love there may have been a -bias of personal inclination. Bessy perhaps was a little prone to think -that her delight and her duty went together. But that flattering -assurance, that she had never yet been false, strengthened her -resolution to be true, now, to Philip. - -She took the whole of the next day to think, abstaining during the whole -day from a word of confidential conversation with Miss Gregory. Then on -the following morning she wrote her letters. That to Philip would be -easily written. Words come readily when one has to give a hearty assent -to an eager and welcome proposition. But to deny, to make denial to one -loved and respected, to make denial of that which the loved one has a -right to ask, must be difficult. Bessy, like a brave girl, went to the -hard task first, and she rushed instantly at her subject, as a brave -horseman rides at his fence without craning. - - “Dearest Aunt,--I cannot do as you bid me. My word to him is so - sacred to me that I do not dare to break it. I cannot say that I - won’t be his when I feel that I have already given myself to him. - - “Dear, dearest aunt, my heart is very sad as I write this, because - I feel that I am separating myself from you almost for ever. You - know that I love you. You know that I am miserable because you have - banished me from your side. All the sweet kind words of your love - to me are like daggers to me, because I cannot show my gratitude by - doing as you would have me. It seems so hard! I know it is probable - that I may never see him again, and yet I am to be separated from - you, and you will be my enemy. In all the world there are but two - that I really love. Though I cannot and will not give him up, I - desire to be back at Launay now only that I might be with you. My - love for him would be contented with a simple permission that it - should exist. My love for you cannot be satisfied unless I am - allowed to be close to you once again. You say that a woman’s duty - consists in suffering. I am striving to do my duty, but I know how - great is my suffering in doing it. However angry you may be with - your Bessy, you will not think that she can appear even to be - ungrateful without a pang. - - “Though I will not give him up, you need not fear that I shall do - anything. Should he come here I could not, I suppose, avoid seeing - him, but I should ask him to go at once; and I should beg Miss - Gregory to tell him that she could not make him welcome to her - house. In all things I will do as though I were your - daughter--though I know so well how far I am from any right to make - use of so dear a name! - - “But dear, dear aunt, no daughter could love you better, nor strive - more faithfully to be obedient. - - “I shall always be, even when you are most angry with me, your own, - poor, loving, most affectionate - - “BESSY.” - - - -The other letter need perhaps be not given in its entirety. Even in such -a chronicle as this there seems to be something of treachery, something -of a want of that forbearance to which young ladies are entitled, in -making public the words of love which such a one may write to her lover. -Bessy’s letter was no doubt full of love, but it was full of prudence -also. She begged him not to come to Avranches. As to such a marriage as -that of which he had spoken, it was, she assured him, quite impossible. -She would never give him up, and so she had told Mrs. Miles. In that -respect her duty to him was above her duty to her aunt. But she was so -subject to her aunt that she would not in any other matter disobey her. -For his sake--for Philip’s sake--only for Philip’s sake, she grieved -that there should be more delay. Of course she was aware that it might -possibly be a trouble in life too many for him to bear. In that case he -might make himself free from it without a word of reproach from her. Of -that he alone must be the judge. But, for the present, she could be no -partner to any plans for the future. Her aunt had desired her to stay at -Avranches, and at Avranches she must remain. There were words of love, -no doubt; but the letter, taken altogether, was much sterner and less -demonstrative of affection than that written to her aunt. - -There very soon came a rejoinder from Mrs. Miles, but it was so curt and -harsh as almost to crush Bessy by its laconic severity. “You are -separated from me, and I am your enemy.” That was all. Beneath that one -line the old woman had signed her name, M. Miles, in large, plain angry -letters. Bessy, who knew every turn of the woman’s mind, understood -exactly how it had been with her when she wrote those few words, and -when, with care, she had traced that indignant signature. “Then -everything shall be broken, and though there was but one gleam of -sunshine left to me, that gleam shall be extinguished. No one shall say -that I, as Lady of Launay, did not do my duty.” It was thus the Lady of -Launay had communed with herself when she penned that dreadful line. -Bessy understood it all, and could almost see the woman as she wrote it. - -Then in her desolation she told everything to Miss Gregory--showed the -two former letters, showed that dreadful denunciation of lasting wrath, -and described exactly what had been her own letter, both to Mrs. Miles -and to her lover. Miss Gregory had but one recipe to offer in such a -malady; that, namely, which she had taken herself in a somewhat similar -sickness. The gentleman should be allowed to go forth into the world and -seek a fitter wife, whereas Bessy should content herself, for the -remainder of her life, with the pleasures of memory. Miss Gregory -thought that it was much even to have been once loved by the -major-general. When Bessy almost angrily declared that this would not -be enough for her, Miss Gregory very meekly suggested that possibly -affection might change in the lapse of years, and that some other -suitor--perhaps Mr. Morrison--might in course of time suffice. But at -the idea Bessy became indignant, and Miss Gregory was glad to confine -herself to the remedy pure and simple which she acknowledged to have -been good for herself. - -Then there passed a month--a month without a line from Launay or from -Philip. That Mrs. Miles should not write again was to be expected. She -had declared her enmity, and there was an end of everything. During the -month there had come a cheque to Miss Gregory from some man of business, -and with the cheque there had been no intimation that the present -arrangement was to be brought to a close. It appeared therefore that -Mrs. Miles, in spite of her enmity, intended to provide for the mutinous -girl a continuation of the comforts which she now enjoyed. Certainly -nothing more than this could have been expected from her. But, in regard -to Philip, though Bessy had assured herself, and had assured Miss -Gregory also, that she did not at all desire a correspondence in the -present condition of affairs, still she felt so total a cessation of all -tidings to be hard to bear. Mary Gregory, when writing to her aunt, said -nothing of Philip--merely remarked that Bessy Pryor would be glad to -know that her aunt had nearly recovered her health, and was again able -to go out among the poor. Then Bessy began to think--not that Philip was -like the major-general, for to that idea she would not give way at -all--but that higher and nobler motives had induced him to yield to his -mother. If so she would never reproach him. If so she would forgive him -in her heart of hearts. If so she would accept her destiny and entreat -her old friend to allow her to return once more to Launay, and -thenceforth to endure the evil thing which fate would have done to her -in patient submission. If once the word should have come to her from -Philip, then would she freely declare that everything should be over, -then and for always, between her and her lover. After such suffering as -that, while she was undergoing agony so severe, surely her friend would -forgive her. That terrible word, “I am your enemy,” would surely then be -withdrawn. - -But if it were to be so, if this was to be the end of her love, Philip, -at least, would write. He would not leave her in doubt, after such a -decision on his own part. That thought ought to have sustained her; but -it was explained to her by Miss Gregory that the major-general had taken -three months before he had been inspirited to send the fatal letter, and -to declare his purpose of marrying money. There could be but little -doubt, according to Miss Gregory, that Philip was undergoing the same -process. It was, she thought, the natural end to such an affair. This -was the kind of thing which young ladies without dowry, but with hearts -to love, are doomed to suffer. There could be no doubt that Miss Gregory -regarded the termination of the affair with a certain amount of -sympathetic satisfaction. Could she have given Bessy all Launay, and -her lover, she would have done so. But sadness and disappointment were -congenial to her, and a heart broken, but still constant, was, to her -thinking, a pretty feminine acquisition. She was to herself the heroine -of her own romance, and she thought it good to be a heroine. But Bessy -was indignant; not that Philip should be false, but that he should not -dare to write and say so. “I think he ought to write,” was on her lips, -when the door was opened, and, lo, all of a sudden, Philip Miles was in -the room. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR’S LOVER ARGUED HIS CASE. - - -We must now go back to Launay. It will be remembered that Bessy received -both her letters on the same day--those namely from Mrs. Miles and from -Philip--and that they both came from Launay. Philip had been sent away -from the place when the fact of his declared love was first made known -to the old lady, as though into a banishment which was to be perpetual -till he should have repented of his sin. Such certainly had been his -mother’s intention. He was to be sent one way, and the girl another, and -everyone concerned was to be made to feel the terrible weight of her -displeasure, till repentance and retractation should come. He was to be -starved into obedience by a minimised allowance, and she by the -weariness of her life at Avranches. But the person most grievously -punished by these arrangements was herself. She had declared to herself -that she would endure anything, everything, in the performance of her -duty. But the desolation of her life was so extreme that it was very -hard to bear. She did not shrink and tell herself that it was -unendurable, but after awhile she persuaded herself that now that Bessy -was gone there could be no reason why Philip also should be exiled. -Would not her influence be more potent over Philip if he were at Launay? -She therefore sent for him, and he came. Thus it was that the two -letters were written from the same house. - -Philip obeyed his mother’s behest in coming as he had obeyed it in -going; but he did not hesitate to show her that he felt himself to be -aggrieved. Launay of course belonged to her. She could leave it and all -the property to some hospital if she chose. He was well aware of that. -But he had been brought up as the heir, and he could not believe that -there should come such a ruin of heaven and earth as would be produced -by any change in his mother’s intentions as to the Launay property. -Touching his marriage, he felt that he had a right to marry whom he -pleased, as long as she was a lady, and that any dictation from his -mother in such a matter was a tyranny not to be endured. He had talked -it all over with the rector before he went. Of course it was possible -that his mother should commit such an injustice as that at which the -rector hinted. “There are,” said Philip, “no bounds to possibilities.” -It was, however, he thought, all but impossible; and whether probable or -improbable, no fear of such tyranny should drive him from his purpose. -He was a little magniloquent, perhaps, in what he said, but he was very -resolved. - -It was, therefore, with some feeling of an injury inflicted upon him -that he first greeted his mother on his return to the house. For a day -or two not a word passed about Bessy. “Of course, I am delighted to be -with you, and glad enough to have the shooting,” he said, in answer to -some word of hers. “I shouldn’t have gone, as you know, unless you had -driven me away.” This was hard on the old woman; but she bore it, and, -for some days, was simply affectionate and gentle to her son--more -gentle than was her wont. Then she wrote to Bessy, and told her son that -she was writing. “It is so impossible,” she said, “that I cannot -conceive that Bessy should not obey me when she comes to regard it at a -distance.” - -“I see no impossibility; but Bessy can, of course, do as she pleases,” -replied Philip, almost jauntily. Then he determined that he also would -write. - -There were no further disputes on the matter till Bessy’s answer came, -and then Mrs. Miles was very angry indeed. She had done her best so to -write her letter that Bessy should be conquered both by the weight of -her arguments and by the warmth of her love. If reason would not -prevail, surely gratitude would compel her to do as she was bidden. But -the very first words of Bessy’s letter contained a flat refusal. “I -cannot do as you bid me.” Who was this girl, that had been picked out of -a gutter, that she should persist in the right of becoming the mistress -of Launay? In a moment the old woman’s love was turned into a feeling of -condemnation, nearly akin to hatred. Then she sent off her short -rejoinder, declaring herself to be Bessy’s enemy. - -On the following morning regret had come, and perhaps remorse. She was a -woman of strong passion, subject to impulses which were, at the time, -uncontrollable; but she was one who was always compelled by her -conscience to quick repentance, and sometimes to an agonising feeling of -wrong done by herself. To declare that Bessy was her enemy--Bessy, who -for so many years had prevented all her wishes, who had never been weary -of well-doing to her, who had been patient in all things, who had been -her gleam of sunshine, of whom she had sometimes said to herself in her -closet that the child was certainly nearer to perfection than any other -human being that she had known! True, it was not fit that the girl -should become mistress of Launay! A misfortune had happened which must -be cured--if even by the severance of persons so dear to each other as -she and her Bessy. But she knew that she had signed in declaring one so -good, and one so dear, to be her enemy. - -But what should she do next? Days went on and she did nothing. She -simply suffered. There was no pretext on which she could frame an -affectionate letter to her child. She could not write and ask to be -forgiven for the harshness of her letter. She could not simply revoke -the sentence she had pronounced without any reference to Philip and his -love. In great misery, with a strong feeling of self-degradation because -she had allowed herself to be violent in her wrath, she went on, -repentant but still obstinate, till Philip himself forced the subject -upon her. - -“Mother,” he said one day, “is it not time that things should be -settled?” - -“What things, Philip?” - -“You know my intention.” - -“What intention?” - -“As to making Bessy my wife.” - -“That can never be.” - -“But it will be. It has to be. If as regards my own feelings I could -bring myself to yield to you, how could I do so with honour in regard to -her? But, for myself, nothing on earth would induce me to change my -mind. It is a matter on which a man has to judge for himself, and I have -not heard a word from you or from anyone to make me think that I have -judged wrongly.” - -“Do birth and rank go for nothing?” - -He paused a moment, and then he answered her very seriously, standing up -and looking down upon her as he did so. “For very much--with me. I do -not think that I could have brought myself to choose a wife, whatever -might have been a woman’s charms, except among ladies. I found this one -to be the chosen companion and dearest friend of the finest lady I -know.” At this the old woman, old as she was, first blushed, and then, -finding herself to be sobbing, turned her face away from him. “I came -across a girl of whose antecedents I could be quite sure, of whose -bringing up I knew all the particulars, as to whom I could be certain -that every hour of her life had been passed among the best possible -associations. I heard testimony as to her worth and her temper which I -could not but believe. As to her outward belongings, I had eyes of my -own to judge. Could I be wrong in asking such a one to be my wife? Can I -be regarded as unhappy in having succeeded with her? Could I be -acquitted of dishonour if I were to desert her? Shall I be held to be -contemptible if I am true to her?” - -At every word he spoke he grew in her esteem. At this present crisis of -her life she did not wish to think specially well of him, though he was -her son, but she could not help herself. He became bigger before her -than he had ever been before, and more of a man. It was, she felt, -almost vain for a woman to lay her commands, either this way or that, -upon a man who could speak to her as Philip had spoken. - -But not the less was the power in her hands. She could bid him go and -marry--and be a beggar. She could tell him that all Launay should go to -his brother, and she could instantly make a will to that effect. So -strong was the desire for masterdom upon her that she longed to do it. -In the very teeth of her honest wish to do what was right, there was -another wish--a longing to do what she knew to be wrong. There was a -struggle within, during which she strove to strengthen herself for evil. -But it was vain. She knew of herself that were she to swear to-day to -him that he was disinherited, were she to make a will before nightfall -carrying out her threat, the pangs of conscience would be so heavy -during the night that she would certainly change it all on the next -morning. Of what use is a sword in your hand if you have not the heart -to use it? Why seek to be turbulent with a pistol if your bosom be of -such a nature that your finger cannot be forced to pull the trigger? -Power was in her possession--but she could not use it. The power rather -was in her hands. She could not punish her boy, even though he had -deserved it. She had punished her girl, and from that moment she had -been crushed by torments, because of the thing that she had done. Others -besides Mrs. Miles have felt, with something of regret, that they have -lacked the hardness necessary for cruelty and the courage necessary for -its doing. - -“How shall it be, mother?” asked Philip. As she knew not what to answer -she rose slowly from her chair, and leaving the room went to the -seclusion of her own chamber. - -Days again passed before Philip renewed his question, and repeated it in -the same words: “How shall it be, mother?” Wistfully she looked up at -him, as though even yet something might be accorded by him to pity; as -though the son might even yet be induced to accede to his mother’s -prayers. It was not that she thought so. No. She had thought much, and -was aware that it could not be so. But as a dog will ask with its eyes -when it knows that asking is in vain, so did she ask. “One word from -you, mother, will make us all happy.” - -“No; not all of us.” - -“Will not my happiness make you happy?” Then he stooped over her and -kissed her forehead. “Could you be happy if you knew that I were -wretched?” - -“I do not want to be happy. It should be enough that one does one’s -duty.” - -“And what is my duty? Can it be my duty to betray the girl I love in -order that I may increase an estate which is already large enough?” - -“It is for the family.” - -“What is a family but you, or I, or whoever for the moment may be its -representative? Say that it shall be as I would have it, and then I will -go to her and let her know that she may come back to your arms.” - -Not then, or on the next day, or on the next, did she yield; though she -knew well during all these hours that it was her fate to yield. She had -indeed yielded. She had confessed to herself that it must be so, and as -she did so she felt once more the soft pressure of Bessy’s arms as they -would cling round her neck, and she could see once more the brightness -of Bessy’s eyes as the girl would hang over her bed early in the -morning. “I do not want to be happy,” she had said; but she did want, -sorely want, to see her girl. “You may go and tell her,” she said one -night as she was preparing to go to her chamber. Then she turned quickly -away, and was out of the room before he could answer her with a word. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER. - - -Miss Gregory was certainly surprised when, on the entrance of the young -man, Bessy jumped from her chair and rushed into his arms. She knew that -Bessy had no brother, and her instinct rather than her experience told -her that the greeting which she saw was more than fraternal,--more than -cousinly. She did not doubt but that the young man was Philip Launay, -and knowing what she knew she was not disposed to make spoken -complaints. But when Bessy lifted her face to be kissed, Miss Gregory -became red and very uneasy. It is probable that she herself had never -progressed as far as this with the young man who afterwards became the -major-general. - -Bessy herself, had a minute been allowed to her for reflection, would -have been less affectionate. She knew nothing of the cause which had -brought Philip to Avranches. She only knew that her dear friend at -Launay had declared her to be an enemy, and that she had determined that -she could not, for years, become the wife of Philip Launay, without the -consent of her who had used that cruel word. And at the moment of -Philip’s entering the room her heart had been sore with reproaches -against him. “He ought at any rate to write.” The words had been on her -lips as the door had been opened, and the words had been spoken in the -soreness of heart coming from a fear that she was to be abandoned. - -Then he was there. In the moment that sufficed for the glance of his eye -to meet hers she knew that she was not abandoned. With whatever tidings -he had come that was not to be the burden of his news. No man desirous -of being released from his vows ever looked like that. So up she jumped -and flew to him, not quite knowing what she intended, but filled with -delight when she found herself pressed to his bosom. Then she had to -remember herself, and to escape from his arms. “Philip,” she said, “this -is Miss Gregory. Miss Gregory, I do not think you ever met Mr. Launay.” - -Then Miss Gregory had to endeavour to look as though nothing particular -had taken place,--which was a trial. But Bessy bore her part, if not -without a struggle, at least without showing it. “And now, Philip,” she -said, “how is my aunt?” - -“A great deal stronger than when you left her.” - -“Quite well?” - -“Yes; for her, I think I may say quite well.” - -“She goes out every day?” - -“Every day,--after the old plan. The carriage toddles round to the door -at three, and then toddles about the parish at the rate of four miles an -hour, and toddles home exactly at five. The people at Launay, Miss -Gregory, don’t want clocks to tell them the hour in the afternoon.” - -“I do love punctuality,” said Miss Gregory. - -“I wish I were with her,” said Bessy. - -“I have come to take you,” said Philip. - -“Have you?” Then Bessy blushed,--for the first time. She blushed as a -hundred various thoughts rushed across her mind. If he had been sent to -take her back, sent by her aunt, instead of Mrs. Knowl, what a revulsion -of circumstances must there not have been at Launay! How could it all -have come to pass? Even to have been sent for at all, to be allowed to -go back even in disgrace, would have been an inexpressible joy. Had -Knowl come for her, with a grim look and an assurance that she was to be -brought back because a prison at Launay was thought to be more secure -than a prison at Avranches, the prospect of a return would have been -hailed with joy. But now,--to be taken back by Philip to Launay! There -was a whole heaven of delight in the thought of the very journey. - -Miss Gregory endeavoured to look pleased, but in truth the prospect to -her was not so pleasant as to Bessy. She was to be left alone again. She -was to lose her pensioner. After so short a fruition of the double bliss -of society and pay, she was to be deserted without a thought. But to be -deserted without many thoughts had been her lot in life, and now she -bore her misfortune like a heroine. “You will be glad to go back to -your aunt, Bessy; will you not?” - -“Glad!” The ecstacy was almost unkind, but poor Miss Gregory bore it, -and maintained that pretty smile of gratified serenity as though -everything were well with all of them. - -But Bessy felt that she had as yet heard nothing of the real news, and -that the real news could not be told in the presence of Miss Gregory. It -had not even yet occurred to her that Mrs. Miles had actually given her -sanction to the marriage. “This is a very pretty place,” said Philip. - -“What, Avranches?” said Miss Gregory, mindful of future possible -pensioners. “Oh, delightful. It is the prettiest place in Normandy, and -I think the most healthy town in all France.” - -“It seemed nice as I came up from the hotel. Suppose we go out for a -walk, Bessy. We have to start back to-morrow.” - -“To-morrow!” ejaculated Bessy. She would have been ready to go in half -an hour had he demanded it. - -“If you can manage it. I promised my mother to be as quick as I could; -and, when I arranged to come, I had ever so many engagements.” - -“If she must go to-morrow, she won’t have much time for walking,” said -Miss Gregory, with almost a touch of anger in her voice. But Bessy was -determined to have her walk. All her fate in life was to be disclosed to -her within the next few minutes. She was already exultant, but she was -beginning to think that there was a heaven, indeed, opening for her. So -she ran away for her hat and gloves, leaving her lover and Miss Gregory -together. - -“It is very sudden,” said the poor old lady with a gasp. - -“My mother felt that, and bade me tell you that, of course, the full -twelvemonth----” - -“I was not thinking about that,” said Miss Gregory. “I did not mean to -allude to such a thing. Mrs. Miles has always been so kind to my -brother, and anything I could have done I should have been so happy, -without thinking of money. But----” Philip sat with the air of an -attentive listener, so that Miss Gregory could get no answer to her -question without absolutely asking it. “But there seems to be a change.” - -“Yes, there is a change, Miss Gregory.” - -“We were afraid that Mrs. Miles had been offended.” - -“It is the old story, Miss Gregory. Young people and old people very -often will not think alike: but it is the young people who generally -have their way.” - -She had not had her way. She remembered that at the moment. But then, -perhaps, the major-general had had his. When a period of life has come -too late for success, when all has been failure, the expanding triumphs -of the glorious young, grate upon the feelings even of those who are -generous and self-denying. Miss Gregory was generous by nature and -self-denying by practice, but Philip’s pæan and Bessy’s wondrous -prosperity were for a moment a little hard upon her. There had been a -comfort to her in the conviction that Philip was no better than the -major-general. “I suppose it is so,” she said. “That is, if one of them -has means.” - -“Exactly.” - -“But if they are both poor, I don’t see how their being young can enable -them to live upon nothing.” She intended to imply that Philip probably -would have been another major-general, but that he was heir to Launay. - -Philip, who had never heard of the major-general, was a little puzzled; -nevertheless, he acceded to the proposition, not caring, however, to say -anything as to his own circumstances on so very short an acquaintance. - -Then Bessy came down with her hat, and they started for their walk. “Now -tell me all about it,” she said, in a fever of expectation, as soon as -the front door was closed behind them. - -“There is nothing more to tell,” said he. - -“Nothing more?” - -“Unless you want me to say that I love you.” - -“Of course I do.” - -“Well, then,--I love you. There!” - -“Philip, you are not half nice to me.” - -“Not after coming all the way from Launay to say that?” - -“There must be so much to tell me? Why has my aunt sent for me?” - -“Because she wants you.” - -“And why has she sent you?” - -“Because I want you too.” - -“But does she want me?” - -“Certainly she does.” - -“For you?” If he could say this, then everything would have been said. -If he could say this truly, then everything would have been done -necessary for the perfection of her happiness. “Oh, Philip, do tell me. -It is so strange that she should send for me! Do you know what she said -to me in her last letter? It was not a letter. It was only a word. She -said that I was her enemy.” - -“All that is changed.” - -“She will be glad to have me again?” - -“Very glad. I fancy that she has been miserable without you.” - -“I shall be as glad to be with her again, Philip. You do not know how I -love her. Think of all she has done for me!” - -“She has done something now that I hope will beat everything else.” - -“What has she done?” - -“She has consented that you and I shall be man and wife. Isn’t that more -than all the rest?” - -“But has she? Oh, Philip, has she really done that?” - -Then at last he told his whole story. Yes; his mother had yielded. From -the moment in which she had walked out of the room, having said that he -might “go and tell her,” she had never endeavoured to renew the fight. -When he had spoken to her, endeavouring to draw from her some warmth of -assent, she had generally been very silent. She had never brought -herself absolutely to wish him joy. She had not as yet so crucified her -own spirit in the matter as to be able to tell him that he had chosen -his wife well; but she had shown him in a hundred ways that her anger -was at an end, and that if any feeling was left opposed to his own -happiness, it was simply one of sorrow. And there were signs which made -him think that even that was not deep-seated. She would pat him, -stroking his hair, and leaning on his shoulder, administering to his -comforts with a nervous accuracy as to little things which was peculiar -to her. And then she gave him an infinity of directions as to the way in -which it would be proper that Bessy should travel, being anxious at -first to send over a maid for her behoof,--not Mrs. Knowl, but a younger -woman, who would have been at Bessy’s command. Philip, however, objected -to the maid. And when Mrs. Miles remarked that if it was Bessy’s fate to -become mistress of Launay, Bessy ought to have a maid to attend her, -Philip said that that would be very well a month or two hence, when -Bessy would have become,--not mistress of Launay, which was a place -which he trusted might not be vacant for many a long day,--but first -lieutenant to the mistress, by right of marriage. He refused altogether -to take the maid with him, as he explained to Bessy with much laughter. -And so they came to understand each other thoroughly, and Bessy knew -that the great trouble of her life, which had been as a mountain in her -way, had disappeared suddenly, as might some visionary mountain. And -then, when they thoroughly understood each other, they started back to -England and to Launay together. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BROUGHT BACK, AND WHAT THEN, BECAME OF HER. - - -Bessy understood the condition of the old woman much better than did her -son. “I am sad a little,” she said, on her way home, “because of her -disappointment.” - -“Sad, because she is to have you,--you yourself,--for her -daughter-in-law?” - -“Yes, indeed, Philip; because I know that she has not wanted me. She -will be kind because I shall belong to you, and perhaps partly because -she loves me; but she will always regret that that young lady down in -Cornwall has not been allowed to add to the honour and greatness of the -family. The Launays are everything to her, and what can I do for the -Launays?” Of course he said many pretty things to her in answer to this, -but he could not eradicate from her mind the feeling that, in regard to -the old friend who had been so kind to her, she was returning evil for -good. - -But even Bessy did not quite understand the old woman. When she found -that she had yielded, there was disappointment in the old woman’s -heart. Who can have indulged in a certain longing for a lifetime, in a -special ambition, and seen that ambition and that longing crushed and -trampled on, without such a feeling? And she had brought this failure on -herself,--by her own weakness, as she told herself. Why had she given -way to Bessy and to Bessy’s blandishments? It was because she had not -been strong to do her duty that this ruin had fallen upon her hopes. The -power in her own hands had been sufficient. But for her Philip need -never have seen Bessy Pryor. Might not Bessy Pryor have been sent -somewhere out of the way when it became evident that she had charms of -her own with which to be dangerous? And even after the first evil had -been done her power had been sufficient. She need not have sent for -Philip back. She need have written no letter to Bessy. She might have -been calm and steady in her purpose, so that there should have been no -violent ebullition of anger,--so violent as to induce repentance, and -with repentance renewed softness and all the pangs of renewed -repentance. - -When Philip had left her on his mission to Normandy her heart was heavy -with regret, and heavy also with anger. But it was with herself that she -was angry. She had known her duty and she had not done it. She had known -her duty, and had neglected it,--because Bessy had been soft to her, and -dear, and pleasant. It was here that Bessy did not quite understand her -friend. Bessy reproached herself because she had made to her friend a -bad return to all the kindness she had received. The old woman would -not allow herself to entertain any such a thought. Once she had spoken -to herself of having warmed a serpent in her bosom; but instantly, with -infinite self-scorn, she had declared to herself that Bessy was no -serpent. For all that she had done for Bessy, Bessy had made ample -return, the only possible return that could be full enough. Bessy had -loved her. She too had loved Bessy, but that should have had no weight. -Though they two had been linked together by their very heartstrings, it -had been her duty to make a severance because their joint affection had -been dangerous. She had allowed her own heart to over-ride her own sense -of duty, and therefore she was angry,--not with Bessy, but with herself. - -But the thing was done. To quarrel with Philip had been impossible to -her. One feeling coming upon another, her own repentance, her own -weakness, her acknowledgment of a certain man’s strength on the part of -her son, had brought her to such a condition that she had yielded. Then -it was natural that she should endeavour to make the best of it. But -even the doing of that was a trial to her. When she told herself that as -far as the woman went, the mere woman, Philip could not have found a -better wife had he searched the world all round, she found that she was -being tempted from her proper path even in that. What right could she -have to look for consolation there? For other reasons, which she still -felt to be adequate, she had resolved that something else should be -done. That something else had not been done, because she had failed in -her duty. And now she was trying to salve the sore by the very poison -which had created the wound. Bessy’s sweet temper, and Bessy’s soft -voice, and Bessy’s bright eye, and Bessy’s devotion to the delight of -others, were all so many temptations. Grovelling as she was in sackcloth -and ashes because she had yielded to them, how could she console herself -by a prospect of these future enjoyments either for herself or her son? - -But there were various duties to which she could attend, grievously -afflicted as she was by her want of attention to that great duty. As -Fate had determined that Bessy Pryor was to become mistress of Launay, -it was proper that all Launay should know and recognise its future -mistress. Bessy certainly should not be punished by any want of -earnestness in this respect. No one should be punished but herself. The -new mistress should be made as welcome as though she had been the -red-haired girl from Cornwall. Knowl was a good deal put about because -Mrs. Miles, remembering a few hard words which Knowl had allowed herself -to use in the days of the imprisonment, became very stern. “It is -settled that Miss Pryor is to become Mrs. Philip Launay, and you will -obey her just as myself.” Mrs. Knowl, who had saved a little money, -began to consider whether it would not be as well to retire into private -life. - -When the day came on which the two travellers were to reach Launay Mrs. -Miles was very much disturbed in her mind. In what way should she -receive the girl? In her last communication,--her very last,--she had -called Bessy her enemy; and now Bessy was being brought home to be made -her daughter-in-law under her own roof. How sweet it would be to stand -at the door and welcome her in the hall, among all the smiling servants, -to make a tender fuss and hovering over her, as would be so natural with -a mother-in-law who loved an adopted daughter as tenderly as Mrs. Miles -loved Bessy! How pleasant to take her by the hand and lead her away into -some inner sanctum where warm kisses as between mother and child would -be given and taken; to hear her praises of Philip, and then to answer -again with other praises; to tell her with words half serious and half -drollery that she must now buckle on her armour and do her work, and -take upon herself the task of managing the household! There was quite -enough of softness in the old woman to make all this delightful. Her -imagination revelled in thinking of it even at the moment in which she -was telling herself that it was impossible. But it was impossible. Were -she to force such a change upon herself Bessy would not believe in the -sincerity of the change. She had told Bessy that she was her enemy! - -At last the carriage which had gone to the station was here; not the -waggonette on this occasion, but the real carriage itself, the carriage -which was wont to toddle four miles an hour about the parish. “This is -an honour meant for the prodigal daughter,” said Philip, as he took his -seat. “If you had never been naughty, we should only have had the -waggonette, and we then should have been there in half the time.” Mrs. -Miles, when she heard the wheels on the gravel, was even yet uncertain -where she would place herself. She was fluttered, moving about from the -room into the hall and back, when the old butler spoke a careful word: -“Go into the library, madam, and Mr. Philip will bring her to you -there.” Then she obeyed the butler,--as she had probably never done in -her life before. - -Bessy, as soon as her step was off the carriage, ran very quickly into -the house. “Where is my aunt?” she said. The butler was there showing -the way, and in a moment she had thrown her arms round the old woman. -Bessy had a way of making her kisses obligatory, from which Mrs. Miles -had never been able to escape. Then, when the old woman was seated, -Bessy was at once upon her knees before her. “Say that you love me, -aunt. Say that at once! Say that first of all!” - -“You know I love you.” - -“I know I love you. Oh, I am so glad to have you again. It was so hard -not to be with you when I thought that you were ill. I did not know how -sick it would make me to be away from you.” Neither then nor at any time -afterwards was there a word spoken on the one side or the other as to -that declaration of enmity. - -There was nothing then said in way of explanation. There was nothing -perhaps necessary. It was clear to Bessy that she was received at Launay -as Philip’s future wife,--not only by Mrs. Miles herself, but by the -whole household,--and that all the honours of the place were to be -awarded to her without stint. For herself that would have sufficed. To -her any explanation of the circumstances which had led to a change so -violent was quite unnecessary. But it was not so with Mrs. Miles -herself. She could not but say some word in justification of -herself,--in excuse rather than justification. She had Bessy into her -bedroom that night, and said the word, holding between her two thin -hands the hand of the girl she addressed. “You have known, Bessy, that I -did not wish this.” Bessy muttered that she did know it. “And I think -you knew why.” - -“How could I help it, aunt?” - -Upon this the old woman patted the hand. “I suppose he could not help -it. And, if I had been a young man, I could not have helped it. I could -not help it as I was, though I am an old woman. I think I am as foolish -as he is.” - -“Perhaps he is foolish, but you are not.” - -“Well; I do not know. I have my misgivings about that, my dear. I had -objects which I thought were sacred and holy, to which I had been wedded -through many years. They have had to be thrust aside.” - -“Then you will hate me!” - -“No, my child; I will love you with all my heart. You will be my son’s -wife now, and, as such, you will be dear to me, almost as he is dear. -And you will still be my own Bessy, my gleam of sunlight, without whom -the house is so gloomy that it is like a prison to me. For myself, do -you think I could want any other young woman about the house than my own -dear Bessy;--that any other wife for Philip could come as near my heart -as you do?” - -“But if I have stood in the way?” - -“We will not think of it any more. You, at any rate, need not think of -it,” added the old woman, as she remembered all the circumstances. “You -shall be made welcome with all the honours and all the privileges due to -Philip’s wife; and if there be a regret, it shall never trouble your -path. It may be a comfort to you to hear me say that you, at least, in -all things have done your duty.” Then, at last, there were more tears, -more embracings, and, before either of them went to their rest, a -perfect ecstacy of love. - -Little or nothing more is necessary for the telling of the story of the -Lady of Launay. Before the autumn had quite gone, and the last tint had -left the trees, Bessy Pryor became Bessy Launay, under the hand of Mr. -Gregory, in the Launay parish church. Everyone in the neighbourhood -around was there, except Mr. Morrison, who had taken this opportunity of -having a holiday and visiting Switzerland. But even he, when he -returned, soon became reconciled to the arrangement, and again became a -guest in the dining-room of the mansion. I hope I shall have no reader -who will not think that Philip Launay did well in not following the -example of the major-general. - - - - -CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS. - - -Everyone remembers the severity of the Christmas of 187--. I will not -designate the year more closely, lest I should enable those who are too -curious to investigate the circumstances of this story, and inquire into -details which I do not intend to make known. That winter, however, was -especially severe, and the cold of the last ten days of December was -more felt, I think, in Paris than in any part of England. It may, -indeed, be doubted whether there is any town in any country in which -thoroughly bad weather is more afflicting than in the French capital. -Snow and hail seem to be colder there, and fires certainly are less -warm, than in London. And then there is a feeling among visitors to -Paris that Paris ought to be gay; that gaiety, prettiness, and -liveliness are its aims, as money, commerce, and general business are -the aims of London,--which with its outside sombre darkness does often -seem to want an excuse for its ugliness. But on this occasion, at this -Christmas of 187--, Paris was neither gay nor pretty nor lively. You -could not walk the streets without being ankle deep, not in snow, but in -snow that had just become slush; and there was falling throughout the -day and night of the 23rd of December a succession of damp half-frozen -abominations from the sky which made it almost impossible for men and -women to go about their business. - -It was at ten o’clock on that evening that an English lady and gentleman -arrived at the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Italiens. As I have -reasons for concealing the names of this married couple I will call them -Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Now I wish it to be understood that in all the -general affairs of life this gentleman and this lady lived happily -together, with all the amenities which should bind a husband and a wife. -Mrs. Brown was one of a wealthy family, and Mr. Brown, when he married -her, had been relieved from the necessity of earning his bread. -Nevertheless she had at once yielded to him when he expressed a desire -to spend the winters of their life in the south of France; and he, -though he was by disposition somewhat idle, and but little prone to the -energetic occupations of life, would generally allow himself, at other -periods of the year, to be carried hither and thither by her, whose more -robust nature delighted in the excitement of travelling. But on this -occasion there had been a little difference between them. - -Early in December an intimation had reached Mrs. Brown at Pau that on -the coming Christmas there was to be a great gathering of all the -Thompsons in the Thompson family hall at Stratford-le-Bow, and that she -who had been a Thompson was desired to join the party with her husband. -On this occasion her only sister was desirous of introducing to the -family generally a most excellent young man to whom she had recently -become engaged. The Thompsons,--the real name, however, is in fact -concealed,--were a numerous and a thriving people. There were uncles and -cousins and brothers who had all done well in the world, and who were -all likely to do better still. One had lately been returned to -Parliament for the Essex Flats, and was at the time of which I am -writing a conspicuous member of the gallant Conservative majority. It -was partly in triumph at this success that the great Christmas gathering -of the Thompsons was to be held, and an opinion had been expressed by -the legislator himself that should Mrs. Brown, with her husband, fail to -join the family on this happy occasion she and he would be regarded as -being but _fainéant_ Thompsons. - -Since her marriage, which was an affair now nearly eight years old, Mrs. -Brown had never passed a Christmas in England. The desirability of doing -so had often been mooted by her. Her very soul craved the festivities of -holly and mince-pies. There had ever been meetings of the Thompsons at -Thompson Hall, though meetings not so significant, not so important to -the family, as this one which was now to be collected. More than once -had she expressed a wish to see old Christmas again in the old house -among the old faces. But her husband had always pleaded a certain -weakness about his throat and chest as a reason for remaining among the -delights of Pau. Year after year she had yielded, and now this loud -summons had come. - -It was not without considerable trouble that she had induced Mr. Brown -to come as far as Paris. Most unwillingly had he left Pau; and then, -twice on his journey,--both at Bordeaux and Tours,--he had made an -attempt to return. From the first moment he had pleaded his throat, and -when at last he had consented to make the journey he had stipulated for -sleeping at those two towns and at Paris. Mrs. Brown, who, without the -slightest feeling of fatigue, could have made the journey from Pau to -Stratford without stopping, had assented to everything,--so that they -might be at Thompson Hall on Christmas Eve. When Mr. Brown uttered his -unavailing complaints at the two first towns at which they stayed, she -did not perhaps quite believe all that he said of his own condition. We -know how prone the strong are to suspect the weakness of the weak,--as -the weak are to be disgusted by the strength of the strong. There were -perhaps a few words between them on the journey, but the result had -hitherto been in favour of the lady. She had succeeded in bringing Mr. -Brown as far as Paris. - -Had the occasion been less important, no doubt she would have yielded. -The weather had been bad even when they left Pau, but as they had made -their way northwards it had become worse and still worse. As they left -Tours Mr. Brown, in a hoarse whisper, had declared his conviction that -the journey would kill him. Mrs. Brown, however, had unfortunately -noticed half an hour before that he had scolded the waiter on the score -of an overcharged franc or two with a loud and clear voice. Had she -really believed that there was danger, or even suffering, she would have -yielded;--but no woman is satisfied in such a matter to be taken in by -false pretences. She observed that he ate a good dinner on his way to -Paris, and that he took a small glass of cognac with complete -relish,--which a man really suffering from bronchitis surely would not -do. So she persevered, and brought him into Paris, late in the evening, -in the midst of all that slush and snow. Then, as they sat down to -supper, she thought that he did speak hoarsely, and her loving feminine -heart began to misgive her. - -But this now was at any rate clear to her,--that he could not be worse -off by going on to London than he would be should he remain in Paris. If -a man is to be ill he had better be ill in the bosom of his family than -at an hotel. What comfort could he have, what relief, in that huge -barrack? As for the cruelty of the weather, London could not be worse -than Paris, and then she thought she had heard that sea air is good for -a sore throat. In that bedroom which had been allotted to them au -quatrième, they could not even get a decent fire. It would in every way -be wrong now to forego the great Christmas gathering when nothing could -be gained by staying in Paris. - -She had perceived that as her husband became really ill he became also -more tractable and less disputatious. Immediately after that little -glass of cognac he had declared that he would be---- if he would go -beyond Paris, and she began to fear that, after all, everything would -have been done in vain. But as they went down to supper between ten and -eleven he was more subdued, and merely remarked that this journey would, -he was sure, be the death of him. It was half-past eleven when they got -back to their bedroom, and then he seemed to speak with good sense,--and -also with much real apprehension. “If I can’t get something to relieve -me I know I shall never make my way on,” he said. It was intended that -they should leave the hotel at half-past five the next morning, so as to -arrive at Stratford, travelling by the tidal train, at half-past seven -on Christmas Eve. The early hour, the long journey, the infamous -weather, the prospect of that horrid gulf between Boulogne and -Folkestone, would have been as nothing to Mrs. Brown, had it not been -for that settled look of anguish which had now pervaded her husband’s -face. “If you don’t find something to relieve me I shall never live -through it,” he said again, sinking back into the questionable comfort -of a Parisian hotel arm-chair. - -“But, my dear, what can I do?” she asked, almost in tears, standing -over him and caressing him. He was a thin, genteel-looking man, with a -fine long, soft brown beard, a little bald at the top of the head, but -certainly a genteel-looking man. She loved him dearly, and in her softer -moods was apt to spoil him with her caresses. “What can I do, my dearie? -You know I would do anything if I could. Get into bed, my pet, and be -warm, and then to-morrow morning you will be all right.” At this moment -he was preparing himself for his bed, and she was assisting him. Then -she tied a piece of flannel round his throat, and kissed him, and put -him in beneath the bed-clothes. - -“I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said very hoarsely. His voice was so -bad now that she could hardly hear him. So she crept close to him, and -bent over him. She would do anything if he would only say what. Then he -told her what was his plan. Down in the salon he had seen a large jar of -mustard standing on a sideboard. As he left the room he had observed -that this had not been withdrawn with the other appurtenances of the -meal. If she could manage to find her way down there, taking with her a -handkerchief folded for the purpose, and if she could then appropriate a -part of the contents of that jar, and, returning with her prize, apply -it to his throat, he thought that he could get some relief, so that he -might be able to leave his bed the next morning at five. “But I am -afraid it will be very disagreeable for you to go down all alone at this -time of night,” he croaked out in a piteous whisper. - -“Of course I’ll go,” said she. “I don’t mind going in the least. Nobody -will bite me,” and she at once began to fold a clean handkerchief. “I -won’t be two minutes, my darling, and if there is a grain of mustard in -the house I’ll have it on your chest immediately.” She was a woman not -easily cowed, and the journey down into the salon was nothing to her. -Before she went she tucked the clothes carefully up to his ears, and -then she started. - -To run along the first corridor till she came to a flight of stairs was -easy enough, and easy enough to descend them. Then there was another -corridor, and another flight, and a third corridor, and a third flight, -and she began to think that she was wrong. She found herself in a part -of the hotel which she had not hitherto visited, and soon discovered by -looking through an open door or two that she had found her way among a -set of private sitting-rooms which she had not seen before. Then she -tried to make her way back, up the same stairs and through the same -passages, so that she might start again. She was beginning to think that -she had lost herself altogether, and that she would be able to find -neither the salon nor her bedroom, when she happily met the -night-porter. She was dressed in a loose white dressing-gown, with a -white net over her loose hair, and with white worsted slippers. I ought -perhaps to have described her personal appearance sooner. She was a -large woman, with a commanding bust, thought by some to be handsome, -after the manner of Juno. But with strangers there was a certain -severity of manner about her,--a fortification, as it were, of her -virtue against all possible attacks,--a declared determination to -maintain, at all points, the beautiful character of a British matron, -which, much as it had been appreciated at Thompson Hall, had met with -some ill-natured criticism among French men and women. At Pau she had -been called La Fière Anglaise. The name had reached her own ears and -those of her husband. He had been much annoyed, but she had taken it in -good part,--had, indeed, been somewhat proud of the title,--and had -endeavoured to live up to it. With her husband she could, on occasion, -be soft, but she was of opinion that with other men a British matron -should be stern. She was now greatly in want of assistance; but, -nevertheless, when she met the porter she remembered her character. “I -have lost my way wandering through these horrid passages,” she said, in -her severest tone. This was in answer to some question from him,--some -question to which her reply was given very slowly. Then when he asked -where Madame wished to go, she paused, again thinking what destination -she would announce. No doubt the man could take her back to her bedroom, -but if so, the mustard must be renounced, and with the mustard, as she -now feared, all hope of reaching Thompson Hall on Christmas Eve. But -she, though she was in many respects a brave woman, did not dare to tell -the man that she was prowling about the hotel in order that she might -make a midnight raid upon the mustard pot. She paused, therefore, for a -moment, that she might collect her thoughts, erecting her head as she -did so in her best Juno fashion, till the porter was lost in admiration. -Thus she gained time to fabricate a tale. She had, she said, dropped her -handkerchief under the supper-table; would he show her the way to the -salon, in order that she might pick it up? But the porter did more than -that, and accompanied her to the room in which she had supped. - -Here, of course, there was a prolonged, and, it need hardly be said, a -vain search. The good-natured man insisted on emptying an enormous -receptacle of soiled table-napkins, and on turning them over one by one, -in order that the lady’s property might be found. The lady stood by -unhappy, but still patient, and, as the man was stooping to his work, -her eye was on the mustard pot. There it was, capable of containing -enough to blister the throats of a score of sufferers. She edged off a -little towards it while the man was busy, trying to persuade herself -that he would surely forgive her if she took the mustard, and told him -her whole story. But the descent from her Juno bearing would have been -so great! She must have owned, not only to the quest for mustard, but -also to a fib,--and she could not do it. The porter was at last of -opinion that Madame must have made a mistake, and Madame acknowledged -that she was afraid it was so. - -With a longing, lingering eye, with an eye turned back, oh! so sadly, to -the great jar, she left the room, the porter leading the way. She -assured him that she could find it by herself, but he would not leave -her till he had put her on to the proper passage. The journey seemed to -be longer now even than before, but as she ascended the many stairs she -swore to herself that she would not even yet be baulked of her object. -Should her husband want comfort for his poor throat, and the comfort be -there within her reach, and he not have it? She counted every stair as -she went up, and marked every turn well. She was sure now that she would -know the way, and that she could return to the room without fault. She -would go back to the salon. Even though the man should encounter her -again, she would go boldly forward and seize the remedy which her poor -husband so grievously required. - -“Ah, yes,” she said, when the porter told her that her room, No. 333, -was in the corridor which they had then reached, “I know it all now. I -am so much obliged. Do not come a step further.” He was anxious to -accompany her up to the very door, but she stood in the passage and -prevailed. He lingered awhile--naturally. Unluckily she had brought no -money with her, and could not give him the two-franc piece which he had -earned. Nor could she fetch it from her room, feeling that were she to -return to her husband without the mustard no second attempt would be -possible. The disappointed man turned on his heel at last, and made his -way down the stairs and along the passage. It seemed to her to be almost -an eternity while she listened to his still audible footsteps. She had -gone on, creeping noiselessly up to the very door of her room, and there -she stood, shading the candle in her hand, till she thought that the -man must have wandered away into some furthest corner of that endless -building. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps. - -There was no difficulty now as to the way. She knew it, every stair. At -the head of each flight she stood and listened, but not a sound was to -be heard, and then she went on again. Her heart beat high with anxious -desire to achieve her object, and at the same time with fear. What might -have been explained so easily at first would now be as difficult of -explanation. At last she was in the great public vestibule, which she -was now visiting for the third time, and of which, at her last visit, -she had taken the bearings accurately. The door was there--closed, -indeed, but it opened easily to the hand. In the hall, and on the -stairs, and along the passages, there had been gas, but here there was -no light beyond that given by the little taper which she carried. When -accompanied by the porter she had not feared the darkness, but now there -was something in the obscurity which made her dread to walk the length -of the room up to the mustard jar. She paused, and listened, and -trembled. Then she thought of the glories of Thompson Hall, of the -genial warmth of a British Christmas, of that proud legislator who was -her first cousin, and with a rush she made good the distance, and laid -her hand upon the copious delf. She looked round, but there was no one -there; no sound was heard; not the distant creak of a shoe, not a rattle -from one of those thousand doors. As she paused with her fair hand upon -the top of the jar, while the other held the white cloth on which the -medicinal compound was to be placed, she looked like Lady Macbeth as she -listened at Duncan’s chamber door. - -There was no doubt as to the sufficiency of the contents. The jar was -full nearly up to the lips. The mixture was, no doubt, very different -from that good wholesome English mustard which your cook makes fresh for -you, with a little water, in two minutes. It was impregnated with a sour -odour, and was, to English eyes, unwholesome of colour. But still it was -mustard. She seized the horn spoon, and without further delay spread an -ample sufficiency on the folded square of the handkerchief. Then she -commenced to hurry her return. - -But still there was a difficulty, no thought of which had occurred to -her before. The candle occupied one hand, so that she had but the other -for the sustenance of her treasure. Had she brought a plate or saucer -from the salon, it would have been all well. As it was she was obliged -to keep her eye intent on her right hand, and to proceed very slowly on -her return journey. She was surprised to find what an aptitude the thing -had to slip from her grasp. But still she progressed slowly, and was -careful not to miss a turning. At last she was safe at her chamber door. -There it was, No. 333. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE. - - -With her eye still fixed upon her burden, she glanced up at the number -of the door--333. She had been determined all through not to forget -that. Then she turned the latch and crept in. The chamber also was dark -after the gaslight on the stairs, but that was so much the better. She -herself had put out the two candles on the dressing-table before she had -left her husband. As she was closing the door behind her she paused, and -could hear that he was sleeping. She was well aware that she had been -long absent,--quite long enough for a man to fall into slumber who was -given that way. She must have been gone, she thought, fully an hour. -There had been no end to that turning over of napkins which she had so -well known to be altogether vain. She paused at the centre table of the -room, still looking at the mustard, which she now delicately dried from -off her hand. She had had no idea that it would have been so difficult -to carry so light and so small an affair. But there it was, and nothing -had been lost. She took some small instrument from the washing-stand, -and with the handle collected the flowing fragments into the centre. -Then the question occurred to her whether, as her husband was sleeping -so sweetly, it would be well to disturb him. She listened again, and -felt that the slight murmur of a snore with which her ears were regaled -was altogether free from any real malady in the throat. Then it occurred -to her, that after all, fatigue perhaps had only made him cross. She -bethought herself how, during the whole journey, she had failed to -believe in his illness. What meals he had eaten! How thoroughly he had -been able to enjoy his full complement of cigars! And then that glass of -brandy, against which she had raised her voice slightly in feminine -opposition. And now he was sleeping there like an infant, with full, -round, perfected, almost sonorous workings of the throat. Who does not -know that sound, almost of two rusty bits of iron scratching against -each other, which comes from a suffering windpipe? There was no -semblance of that here. Why disturb him when he was so thoroughly -enjoying that rest which, more certainly than anything else, would fit -him for the fatigue of the morrow’s journey? - -I think that, after all her labour, she would have left the pungent -cataplasm on the table, and have crept gently into bed beside him, had -not a thought suddenly struck her of the great injury he had been doing -her if he were not really ill. To send her down there, in a strange -hotel, wandering among the passages, in the middle of the night, subject -to the contumely of anyone who might meet her, on a commission which, if -it were not sanctified by absolute necessity, would be so thoroughly -objectionable! At this moment she hardly did believe that he had ever -really been ill. Let him have the cataplasm; if not as a remedy, then -as a punishment. It could, at any rate, do him no harm. It was with an -idea of avenging rather than of justifying the past labours of the night -that she proceeded at once to quick action. - -Leaving the candle on the table so that she might steady her right hand -with the left, she hurried stealthily to the bedside. Even though he was -behaving badly to her, she would not cause him discomfort by waking him -roughly. She would do a wife’s duty to him as a British matron should. -She would not only put the warm mixture on his neck, but would sit -carefully by him for twenty minutes, so that she might relieve him from -it when the proper period should have come for removing the counter -irritation from his throat. There would doubtless be some little -difficulty in this,--in collecting the mustard after it had served her -purpose. Had she been at home, surrounded by her own comforts, the -application would have been made with some delicate linen bag, through -which the pungency of the spice would have penetrated with strength -sufficient for the purpose. But the circumstance of the occasion had not -admitted this. She had, she felt, done wonders in achieving so much -success as this which she had obtained. If there should be anything -disagreeable in the operation he must submit to it. He had asked for -mustard for his throat, and mustard he should have. - -As these thoughts passed quickly through her mind, leaning over him in -the dark, with her eye fixed on the mixture lest it should slip, she -gently raised his flowing beard with her left hand, and with her other -inverted rapidly, steadily but very softly fixed the handkerchief on his -throat. From the bottom of his chin to the spot at which the collar -bones meeting together form the orifice of the chest it covered the -whole noble expanse. There was barely time for a glance, but never had -she been more conscious of the grand proportions of that manly throat. A -sweet feeling of pity came upon her, causing her to determine to relieve -his sufferings in the shorter space of fifteen minutes. He had been -lying on his back, with his lips apart, and, as she held back his beard, -that and her hand nearly covered the features of his face. But he made -no violent effort to free himself from the encounter. He did not even -move an arm or a leg. He simply emitted a snore louder than any that had -come before. She was aware that it was not his wont to be so loud--that -there was generally something more delicate and perhaps more querulous -in his nocturnal voice, but then the present circumstances were -exceptional. She dropped the beard very softly--and there on the pillow -before her lay the face of a stranger. She had put the mustard plaster -on the wrong man. - -Not Priam wakened in the dead of night, not Dido when first she learned -that Æneas had fled, not Othello when he learned that Desdemona had been -chaste, not Medea when she became conscious of her slaughtered children, -could have been more struck with horror than was this British matron as -she stood for a moment gazing with awe on that stranger’s bed. One -vain, half-completed, snatching grasp she made at the handkerchief, and -then drew back her hand. If she were to touch him would he not wake at -once, and find her standing there in his bedroom? And then how could she -explain it? By what words could she so quickly make him know the -circumstances of that strange occurrence that he should accept it all -before he had said a word that might offend her? For a moment she stood -all but paralyzed after that faint ineffectual movement of her arm. Then -he stirred his head uneasily on the pillow, opened wider his lips, and -twice in rapid succession snored louder than before. She started back a -couple of paces, and with her body placed between him and the candle, -with her face averted, but with her hand still resting on the foot of -the bed, she endeavoured to think what duty required of her. - -She had injured the man. Though she had done it most unwittingly, there -could be no doubt but that she had injured him. If for a moment she -could be brave, the injury might in truth be little; but how disastrous -might be the consequences if she were now in her cowardice to leave him, -who could tell? Applied for fifteen to twenty minutes a mustard plaster -may be the salvation of a throat ill at ease, but if left there -throughout the night upon the neck of a strong man, ailing nothing, only -too prone in his strength to slumber soundly, how sad, how painful, for -aught she knew how dangerous might be the effects! And surely it was an -error which any man with a heart in his bosom would pardon! Judging from -what little she had seen of him she thought that he must have a heart -in his bosom. Was it not her duty to wake him, and then quietly to -extricate him from the embarrassment which she had brought upon him? - -But in doing this what words should she use? How should she wake him? -How should she make him understand her goodness, her beneficence, her -sense of duty, before he should have jumped from the bed and rushed to -the bell, and have summoned all above and all below to the rescue? “Sir, -sir, do not move, do not stir, do not scream. I have put a mustard -plaster on your throat, thinking that you were my husband. As yet no -harm has been done. Let me take it off, and then hold your peace for -ever.” Where is the man of such native constancy and grace of spirit -that, at the first moment of waking with a shock, he could hear these -words from the mouth of an unknown woman by his bedside, and at once -obey them to the letter? Would he not surely jump from his bed, with -that horrid compound falling about him,--from which there could be no -complete relief unless he would keep his present attitude without a -motion? The picture which presented itself to her mind as to his -probable conduct was so terrible that she found herself unable to incur -the risk. - -Then an idea presented itself to her mind. We all know how in a moment -quick thoughts will course through the subtle brain. She would find that -porter and send him to explain it all. There should be no concealment -now. She would tell the story and would bid him to find the necessary -aid. Alas! as she told herself that she would do so, she knew well that -she was only running from the danger which it was her duty to encounter. -Once again she put out her hand as though to return along the bed. Then -thrice he snorted louder than before, and moved up his knee uneasily -beneath the clothes as though the sharpness of the mustard were already -working upon his skin. She watched him for a moment longer, and then, -with the candle in her hand, she fled. - -Poor human nature! Had he been an old man, even a middle-aged man, she -would not have left him to his unmerited sufferings. As it was, though -she completely recognised her duty, and knew what justice and goodness -demanded of her, she could not do it. But there was still left to her -that plan of sending the night-porter to him. It was not till she was -out of the room and had gently closed the door behind her, that she -began to bethink herself how she had made the mistake. With a glance of -her eye she looked up, and then saw the number on the door: 353. -Remarking to herself, with a Briton’s natural criticism on things -French, that those horrid foreigners do not know how to make their -figures, she scudded rather than ran along the corridor, and then down -some stairs and along another passage,--so that she might not be found -in the neighbourhood should the poor man in his agony rush rapidly from -his bed. - -In the confusion of her first escape she hardly ventured to look for her -own passage,--nor did she in the least know how she had lost her way -when she came upstairs with the mustard in her hand. But at the present -moment her chief object was the night-porter. She went on descending -till she came again to that vestibule, and looking up at the clock saw -that it was now past one. It was not yet midnight when she left her -husband, but she was not at all astonished at the lapse of time. It -seemed to her as though she had passed a night among these miseries. -And, oh, what a night! But there was yet much to be done. She must find -that porter, and then return to her own suffering husband. Ah,--what now -should she say to him? If he should really be ill, how should she -assuage him? And yet how more than ever necessary was it that they -should leave that hotel early in the morning,--that they should leave -Paris by the very earliest and quickest train that would take them as -fugitives from their present dangers! The door of the salon was open, -but she had no courage to go in search of a second supply. She would -have lacked strength to carry it up the stairs. Where now, oh, where, -was that man? From the vestibule she made her way into the hall, but -everything seemed to be deserted. Through the glass she could see a -light in the court beyond, but she could not bring herself to endeavour -even to open the hall doors. - -And now she was very cold,--chilled to her very bones. All this had been -done at Christmas, and during such severity of weather as had never -before been experienced by living Parisians. A feeling of great pity for -herself gradually came upon her. What wrong had she done that she -should be so grievously punished? Why should she be driven to wander -about in this way till her limbs were failing her? And then, so -absolutely important as it was that her strength should support her in -the morning! The man would not die even though he were left there -without aid, to rid himself of the cataplasm as best he might. Was it -absolutely necessary that she should disgrace herself? - -But she could not even procure the means of disgracing herself, if that -telling her story to the night-porter would have been a disgrace. She -did not find him, and at last resolved to make her way back to her own -room without further quest. She began to think that she had done all -that she could do. No man was ever killed by a mustard plaster on his -throat. His discomfort at the worst would not be worse than hers had -been--or too probably than that of her poor husband. So she went back up -the stairs and along the passages, and made her way on this occasion to -the door of her room without any difficulty. The way was so well known -to her that she could not but wonder that she had failed before. But now -her hands had been empty, and her eyes had been at her full command. She -looked up, and there was the number, very manifest on this -occasion,--333. She opened the door most gently, thinking that her -husband might be sleeping as soundly as that other man had slept, and -she crept into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -MRS. BROWN ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE. - - -But her husband was not sleeping. He was not even in bed, as she had -left him. She found him sitting there before the fire-place, on which -one half-burned log still retained a spark of what had once pretended to -be a fire. Nothing more wretched than his appearance could be imagined. -There was a single lighted candle on the table, on which he was leaning -with his two elbows, while his head rested between his hands. He had on -a dressing-gown over his night-shirt, but otherwise was not clothed. He -shivered audibly, or rather shook himself with the cold, and made the -table to chatter as she entered the room. Then he groaned, and let his -head fall from his hands on to the table. It occurred to her at the -moment as she recognised the tone of his querulous voice, and as she saw -the form of his neck, that she must have been deaf and blind when she -had mistaken that stalwart stranger for her husband. “Oh, my dear,” she -said, “why are you not in bed?” He answered nothing in words, but only -groaned again. “Why did you get up? I left you warm and comfortable.” - -“Where have you been all night?” he half whispered, half croaked, with -an agonising effort. - -“I have been looking for the mustard.” - -“Have been looking all night and haven’t found it? Where have you -been?” - -She refused to speak a word to him till she had got him into bed, and -then she told her story! But, alas, that which she told was not the true -story! As she was persuading him to go back to his rest, and while she -arranged the clothes again around him, she with difficulty made up her -mind as to what she would do and what she would say. Living or dying he -must be made to start for Thompson Hall at half-past five on the next -morning. It was no longer a question of the amenities of Christmas, no -longer a mere desire to satisfy the family ambition of her own people, -no longer an anxiety to see her new brother-in-law. She was conscious -that there was in that house one whom she had deeply injured, and from -whose vengeance, even from whose aspect, she must fly. How could she -endure to see that face which she was so well sure that she would -recognise, or to hear the slightest sound of that voice which would be -quite familiar to her ears, though it had never spoken a word in her -hearing? She must certainly fly on the wings of the earliest train which -would carry her towards the old house; but in order that she might do so -she must propitiate her husband. - -So she told her story. She had gone forth, as he had bade her, in search -of the mustard, and then had suddenly lost her way. Up and down the -house she had wandered, perhaps nearly a dozen times. “Had she met no -one?” he asked in that raspy, husky whisper. “Surely there must have -been some one about the hotel! Nor was it possible that she could have -been roaming about all those hours.” “Only one hour, my dear,” she -said. Then there was a question about the duration of time, in which -both of them waxed angry, and as she became angry her husband waxed -stronger, and as he became violent beneath the clothes the comfortable -idea returned to her that he was not perhaps so ill as he would seem to -be. She found herself driven to tell him something about the porter, -having to account for that lapse of time by explaining how she had -driven the poor man to search for the handkerchief which she had never -lost. - -“Why did you not tell him you wanted the mustard?” - -“My dear!” - -“Why not? There is nothing to be ashamed of in wanting mustard.” - -“At one o’clock in the morning! I couldn’t do it. To tell you the truth, -he wasn’t very civil, and I thought that he was,--perhaps a little -tipsy. Now, my dear, do go to sleep.” - -“Why didn’t you get the mustard?” - -“There was none there,--nowhere at all about the room. I went down again -and searched everywhere. That’s what took me so long. They always lock -up those kind of things at these French hotels. They are too -close-fisted to leave anything out. When you first spoke of it I knew -that it would be gone when I got there. Now, my dear, do go to sleep, -because we positively must start in the morning.” - -“That is impossible,” said he, jumping up in bed. - -“We must go, my dear. I say that we must go. After all that has passed -I wouldn’t not be with Uncle John and my cousin Robert to-morrow evening -for more,--more,--more than I would venture to say.” - -“Bother!” he exclaimed. - -“It’s all very well for you to say that, Charles, but you don’t know. I -say that we must go to-morrow, and we will.” - -“I do believe you want to kill me, Mary.” - -“That is very cruel, Charles, and most false, and most unjust. As for -making you ill, nothing could be so bad for you as this wretched place, -where nobody can get warm either day or night. If anything will cure -your throat for you at once it will be the sea air. And only think how -much more comfortable they can make you at Thompson Hall than anywhere -in this country. I have so set my heart upon it, Charles, that I will do -it. If we are not there to-morrow night Uncle John won’t consider us as -belonging to the family.” - -“I don’t believe a word of it.” - -“Jane told me so in her letter. I wouldn’t let you know before because I -thought it so unjust. But that has been the reason why I’ve been so -earnest about it all through.” - -It was a thousand pities that so good a woman should have been driven by -the sad stress of circumstances to tell so many fibs. One after another -she was compelled to invent them, that there might be a way open to her -of escaping the horrors of a prolonged sojourn in that hotel. At length, -after much grumbling, he became silent, and she trusted that he was -sleeping. He had not as yet said that he would start at the required -hour in the morning, but she was perfectly determined in her own mind -that he should be made to do so. As he lay there motionless, and as she -wandered about the room pretending to pack her things, she more than -once almost resolved that she would tell him everything. Surely then he -would be ready to make any effort. But there came upon her an idea that -he might perhaps fail to see all the circumstances, and that, so -failing, he would insist on remaining that he might tender some apology -to the injured gentleman. An apology might have been very well had she -not left him there in his misery--but what apology would be possible -now? She would have to see him and speak to him, and everyone in the -hotel would know every detail of the story. Everyone in France would -know that it was she who had gone to the strange man’s bedside, and put -the mustard plaster on the strange man’s throat in the dead of night! -She could not tell the story even to her husband, lest even her husband -should betray her. - -Her own sufferings at the present moment were not light. In her -perturbation of mind she had foolishly resolved that she would not -herself go to bed. The tragedy of the night had seemed to her too deep -for personal comfort. And then how would it be were she to sleep, and -have no one to call her? It was imperative that she should have all her -powers ready for thoroughly arousing him. It occurred to her that the -servant of the hotel would certainly run her too short of time. She had -to work for herself and for him too, and therefore she would not sleep. -But she was very cold, and she put on first a shawl over her -dressing-gown and then a cloak. She could not consume all the remaining -hours of the night in packing one bag and one portmanteau, so that at -last she sat down on the narrow red cotton velvet sofa, and, looking at -her watch, perceived that as yet it was not much past two o’clock. How -was she to get through those other three long, tedious, chilly hours? - -Then there came a voice from the bed--“Ain’t you coming?” - -“I hoped you were asleep, my dear.” - -“I haven’t been asleep at all. You’d better come, if you don’t mean to -make yourself as ill as I am.” - -“You are not so very bad, are you, darling?” - -“I don’t know what you call bad. I never felt my throat so choked in my -life before!” Still as she listened she thought that she remembered his -throat to have been more choked. If the husband of her bosom could play -with her feelings and deceive her on such an occasion as this,--then, -then,--then she thought that she would rather not have any husband of -her bosom at all. But she did creep into bed, and lay down beside him -without saying another word. - -Of course she slept, but her sleep was not the sleep of the blest. At -every striking of the clock in the quadrangle she would start up in -alarm, fearing that she had let the time go by. Though the night was so -short it was very long to her. But he slept like an infant. She could -hear from his breathing that he was not quite so well as she could wish -him to be, but still he was resting in beautiful tranquillity. Not once -did he move when she started up, as she did so frequently. Orders had -been given and repeated over and over again that they should be called -at five. The man in the office had almost been angry as he assured Mrs. -Brown for the fourth time that Monsieur and Madame would most assuredly -be wakened at the appointed time. But still she would trust to no one, -and was up and about the room before the clock had struck half-past -four. - -In her heart of hearts she was very tender towards her husband. Now, in -order that he might feel a gleam of warmth while he was dressing -himself, she collected together the fragments of half-burned wood, and -endeavoured to make a little fire. Then she took out from her bag a -small pot, and a patent lamp, and some chocolate, and prepared for him a -warm drink, so that he might have it instantly as he was awakened. She -would do anything for him in the way of ministering to his -comfort,--only he must go! Yes, he certainly must go! - -And then she wondered how that strange man was bearing himself at the -present moment. She would fain have ministered to him too had it been -possible; but ah!--it was so impossible! Probably before this he would -have been aroused from his troubled slumbers. But then--how aroused? At -what time in the night would the burning heat upon his chest have -awakened him to a sense of torture which must have been so altogether -incomprehensible to him? Her strong imagination showed to her a clear -picture of the scene,--clear, though it must have been done in the dark. -How he must have tossed and hurled himself under the clothes; how those -strong knees must have worked themselves up and down before the potent -god of sleep would allow him to return to perfect consciousness; how his -fingers, restrained by no reason, would have trampled over his feverish -throat, scattering everywhere that unhappy poultice! Then when he should -have sat up wide awake, but still in the dark--with her mind’s eye she -saw it all--feeling that some fire as from the infernal regions had -fallen upon him, but whence he would know not, how fiercely wild would -be the working of his spirit! Ah, now she knew, now she felt, now she -acknowledged how bound she had been to awaken him at the moment, -whatever might have been the personal inconvenience to herself! In such -a position what would he do--or rather what had he done? She could -follow much of it in her own thoughts;--how he would scramble madly from -his bed, and, with one hand still on his throat, would snatch hurriedly -at the matches with the other. How the light would come, and how then he -would rush to the mirror. Ah, what a sight he would behold! She could -see it all to the last widespread daub. - -But she could not see, she could not tell herself, what in such a -position a man would do;--at any rate, not what that man would do. Her -husband, she thought, would tell his wife, and then the two of them, -between them, would--put up with it. There are misfortunes which, if -they be published, are simply aggravated by ridicule. But she remembered -the features of the stranger as she had seen them at that instant in -which she had dropped his beard, and she thought that there was a -ferocity in them, a certain tenacity of self-importance, which would not -permit their owner to endure such treatment in silence. Would he not -storm and rage, and ring the bell, and call all Paris to witness his -revenge? - -But the storming and the raging had not reached her yet, and now it -wanted but a quarter to five. In three-quarters of an hour they would be -in that demi-omnibus which they had ordered for themselves, and in half -an hour after that they would be flying towards Thompson Hall. Then she -allowed herself to think of the coming comforts,--of those comforts so -sweet, if only they would come! That very day now present to her was the -24th December, and on that very evening she would be sitting in -Christmas joy among all her uncles and cousins, holding her new -brother-in-law affectionately by the hand. Oh, what a change from -Pandemonium to Paradise;--from that wretched room, from that miserable -house in which there was such ample cause for fear, to all the domestic -Christmas bliss of the home of the Thompsons! She resolved that she -would not, at any rate, be deterred by any light opposition on the part -of her husband. “It wants just a quarter to five,” she said, putting -her hand steadily upon his shoulder, “and I’ll get a cup of chocolate -for you, so that you may get up comfortably.” - -“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the back -of his hands. “It will be so much better to go over by the mail train -to-night. We should be in time for Christmas just the same.” - -“That will not do at all,” she answered, energetically. “Come, Charles, -after all the trouble do not disappoint me.” - -“It is such a horrid grind.” - -“Think what I have gone through,--what I have done for you! In twelve -hours we shall be there, among them all. You won’t be so little like a -man as not to go on now.” He threw himself back upon the bed, and tried -to readjust the clothes round his neck. “No, Charles, no,” she -continued; “not if I know it. Take your chocolate and get up. There is -not a moment to be lost.” With that she laid her hand upon his shoulder, -and made him clearly understand that he would not be allowed to take -further rest in that bed. - -Grumbling, sulky, coughing continually, and declaring that life under -such circumstances was not worth having, he did at last get up and dress -himself. When once she knew that he was obeying her she became again -tender to him, and certainly took much more than her own share of the -trouble of the proceedings. Long before the time was up she was ready, -and the porter had been summoned to take the luggage downstairs. When -the man came she was rejoiced to see that it was not he whom she had -met among the passages during her nocturnal rambles. He shouldered the -box, and told them that they would find coffee and bread and butter in -the small salle-à-manger below. - -“I told you that it would be so, when you would boil that stuff,” said -the ungrateful man, who had nevertheless swallowed the hot chocolate -when it was given to him. - -They followed their luggage down into the hall; but as she went, at -every step, the lady looked around her. She dreaded the sight of that -porter of the night; she feared lest some potential authority of the -hotel should come to her and ask her some horrid question; but of all -her fears her greatest fear was that there should arise before her an -apparition of that face which she had seen recumbent on its pillow. - -As they passed the door of the great salon, Mr. Brown looked in. “Why, -there it is still!” said he. - -“What?” said she, trembling in every limb. - -“The mustard-pot!” - -“They have put it in there since,” she exclaimed energetically, in her -despair. “But never mind. The omnibus is here. Come away.” And she -absolutely took him by the arm. - -But at that moment a door behind them opened, and Mrs. Brown heard -herself called by her name. And there was the night-porter,--with a -handkerchief in his hand. But the further doings of that morning must be -told in a further chapter. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE. - - -It had been visible to Mrs. Brown from the first moment of her arrival -on the ground floor that “something was the matter,” if we may be -allowed to use such a phrase; and she felt all but convinced that this -something had reference to her. She fancied that the people of the hotel -were looking at her as she swallowed, or tried to swallow, her coffee. -When her husband was paying the bill there was something disagreeable in -the eye of the man who was taking the money. Her sufferings were very -great, and no one sympathised with her. Her husband was quite at his -ease, except that he was complaining of the cold. When she was anxious -to get him out into the carriage, he still stood there leisurely, -arranging shawl after shawl around his throat. “You can do that quite as -well in an omnibus,” she had just said to him very crossly, when there -appeared upon the scene through a side door that very night-porter whom -she dreaded, with a soiled pocket-handkerchief in his hand. - -Even before the sound of her own name met her ears Mrs. Brown knew it -all. She understood the full horror of her position from that man’s -hostile face, and from the little article which he held in his hand. If -during the watches of the night she had had money in her pocket, if she -had made a friend of this greedy fellow by well-timed liberality, all -might have been so different! But she reflected that she had allowed him -to go unfee’d after all his trouble, and she knew that he was her enemy. -It was the handkerchief that she feared. She thought that she might have -brazened out anything but that. No one had seen her enter or leave that -strange man’s room. No one had seen her dip her hands in that jar. She -had, no doubt, been found wandering about the house while the slumberer -had been made to suffer so strangely, and there might have been -suspicion, and perhaps accusation. But she would have been ready with -frequent protestations to deny all charges made against her, and, though -no one might have believed her, no one could have convicted her. Here, -however, was evidence against which she would be unable to stand for a -moment. At the first glance she acknowledged the potency of that damning -morsel of linen. - -During all the horrors of the night she had never given a thought to the -handkerchief, and yet she ought to have known that the evidence it would -bring against her was palpable and certain. Her name, “M. Brown,” was -plainly written on the corner. What a fool she had been not to have -thought of this! Had she but remembered the plain marking which she, as -a careful, well-conducted British matron, had put upon all her clothes, -she would at any hazard have recovered the article. Oh that she had -waked the man, or bribed the porter, or even told her husband! But now -she was, as it were, friendless, without support, without a word that -she could say in her own defence, convicted of having committed this -assault upon a strange man in his own bedroom, and then of having left -him! The thing must be explained by the truth; but how to explain such -truth, how to tell such story in a way to satisfy injured folk, and she -with only barely time sufficient to catch the train! Then it occurred to -her that they could have no legal right to stop her because the -pocket-handkerchief had been found in a strange gentleman’s bedroom. -“Yes, it is mine,” she said, turning to her husband, as the porter, with -a loud voice, asked if she were not Madame Brown. “Take it, Charles, and -come on.” Mr. Brown naturally stood still in astonishment. He did put -out his hand, but the porter would not allow the evidence to pass so -readily out of his custody. - -“What does it all mean?” asked Mr. Brown. - -“A gentleman has been--eh--eh--. Something has been done to a gentleman -in his bedroom,” said the clerk. - -“Something done to a gentleman!” repeated Mr. Brown. - -“Something very bad indeed,” said the porter. “Look here,” and he showed -the condition of the handkerchief. - -“Charles, we shall lose the train,” said the affrighted wife. - -“What the mischief does it all mean?” demanded the husband. - -“Did Madame go into the gentleman’s room?” asked the clerk. Then there -was an awful silence, and all eyes were fixed upon the lady. - -“What does it all mean?” demanded the husband. “Did you go into -anybody’s room?” - -“I did,” said Mrs. Brown with much dignity, looking round upon her -enemies as a stag at bay will look upon the hounds which are attacking -him. “Give me the handkerchief.” But the night-porter quickly put it -behind his back. “Charles, we cannot allow ourselves to be delayed. You -shall write a letter to the keeper of the hotel, explaining it all.” -Then she essayed to swim out, through the front door, into the courtyard -in which the vehicle was waiting for them. But three or four men and -women interposed themselves, and even her husband did not seem quite -ready to continue his journey. “To-night is Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. -Brown, “and we shall not be at Thompson Hall! Think of my sister!” - -“Why did you go into the man’s bedroom, my dear?” whispered Mr. Brown in -English. - -But the porter heard the whisper, and understood the language;--the -porter who had not been “tipped.” “Ye’es;--vy?” asked the porter. - -“It was a mistake, Charles; there is not a moment to lose. I can explain -it all to you in the carriage.” Then the clerk suggested that Madame had -better postpone her journey a little. The gentleman upstairs had -certainly been very badly treated, and had demanded to know why so great -an outrage had been perpetrated. The clerk said that he did not wish to -send for the police--here Mrs. Brown gasped terribly and threw herself -on her husband’s shoulder,--but he did not think he could allow the -party to go till the gentleman upstairs had received some satisfaction. -It had now become clearly impossible that the journey could be made by -the early train. Even Mrs. Brown gave it up herself, and demanded of her -husband that she should be taken back to her own bedroom. - -“But what is to be said to the gentleman?” asked the porter. - -Of course it was impossible that Mrs. Brown should be made to tell her -story there in the presence of them all. The clerk, when he found he had -succeeded in preventing her from leaving the house, was satisfied with a -promise from Mr. Brown that he would inquire from his wife what were -these mysterious circumstances, and would then come down to the office -and give some explanation. If it were necessary, he would see the -strange gentleman,--whom he now ascertained to be a certain Mr. Jones -returning from the east of Europe. He learned also that this Mr. Jones -had been most anxious to travel by that very morning train which he and -his wife had intended to use,--that Mr. Jones had been most particular -in giving his orders accordingly, but that at the last moment he had -declared himself to be unable even to dress himself, because of the -injury which had been done him during the night. When Mr. Brown heard -this from the clerk just before he was allowed to take his wife -upstairs, while she was sitting on a sofa in a corner with her face -hidden, a look of awful gloom came over his own countenance. What could -it be that his wife had done to the man of so terrible a nature? “You -had better come up with me,” he said to her with marital severity, and -the poor cowed woman went with him tamely as might have done some -patient Grizel. Not a word was spoken till they were in the room and the -door was locked. “Now,” said he, “what does it all mean?” - -It was not till nearly two hours had passed that Mr. Brown came down the -stairs very slowly,--turning it all over in his mind. He had now -gradually heard the absolute and exact truth, and had very gradually -learned to believe it. It was first necessary that he should understand -that his wife had told him many fibs during the night; but as she -constantly alleged to him when he complained of her conduct in this -respect, they had all been told on his behalf. Had she not struggled to -get the mustard for his comfort, and when she had secured the prize had -she not hurried to put it on,--as she had fondly thought,--his throat? -And though she had fibbed to him afterwards, had she not done so in -order that he might not be troubled? “You are not angry with me because -I was in that man’s room?” she asked, looking full into his eyes, but -not quite without a sob. He paused a moment and then declared, with -something of a true husband’s confidence in his tone, that he was not in -the least angry with her on that account. Then she kissed him, and bade -him remember that after all no one could really injure them. “What harm -has been done, Charles? The gentleman won’t die because he has had a -mustard plaster on his throat. The worst is about Uncle John and dear -Jane. They do think so much of Christmas Eve at Thompson Hall!” - -Mr. Brown, when he again found himself in the clerk’s office, requested -that his card might be taken up to Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones had sent down -his own card, which was handed to Mr. Brown: “Mr. Barnaby Jones.” “And -how was it all, sir?” asked the clerk, in a whisper--a whisper which had -at the same time something of authoritative demand and something also of -submissive respect. The clerk of course was anxious to know the mystery. -It is hardly too much to say that everyone in that vast hotel was by -this time anxious to have the mystery unravelled. But Mr. Brown would -tell nothing to anyone. “It is merely a matter to be explained between -me and Mr. Jones,” he said. The card was taken upstairs, and after -awhile he was ushered into Mr. Jones’ room. It was, of course, that very -353 with which the reader is already acquainted. There was a fire -burning, and the remains of Mr. Jones’ breakfast were on the table. He -was sitting in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his shirt open in -the front, and a silk handkerchief very loosely covering his throat. Mr. -Brown, as he entered the room, of course looked with considerable -anxiety at the gentleman of whose condition he had heard so sad an -account; but he could only observe some considerable stiffness of -movement and demeanour as Mr. Jones turned his head round to greet him. - -“This has been a very disagreeable accident, Mr. Jones,” said the -husband of the lady. - -“Accident! I don’t know how it could have been an accident. It has been -a most--most--most--a most monstrous,--er,--er,--I must say, -interference with a gentleman’s privacy, and personal comfort.” - -“Quite so, Mr. Jones, but,--on the part of the lady, who is my wife--” - -“So I understand. I myself am about to become a married man, and I can -understand what your feelings must be. I wish to say as little as -possible to harrow them.” Here Mr. Brown bowed. “But,--there’s the fact. -She did do it.” - -“She thought it was--me!” - -“What!” - -“I give you my word as a gentleman, Mr. Jones. When she was putting that -mess upon you she thought it was me! She did, indeed.” - -Mr. Jones looked at his new acquaintance and shook his head. He did not -think it possible that any woman would make such a mistake as that. - -“I had a very bad sore throat,” continued Mr. Brown, “and indeed you may -perceive it still,”--in saying this, he perhaps aggravated a little the -sign of his distemper, “and I asked Mrs. Brown to go down and get -one,--just what she put on you.” - -“I wish you’d had it,” said Mr. Jones, putting his hand up to his neck. - -“I wish I had,--for your sake as well as mine,--and for hers, poor -woman. I don’t know when she will get over the shock.” - -“I don’t know when I shall. And it has stopped me on my journey. I was -to have been to-night, this very night, this Christmas Eve, with the -young lady I am engaged to marry. Of course I couldn’t travel. The -extent of the injury done nobody can imagine at present.” - -“It has been just as bad to me, sir. We were to have been with our -family this Christmas Eve. There were particular reasons,--most -particular. We were only hindered from going by hearing of your -condition.” - -“Why did she come into my room at all? I can’t understand that. A lady -always knows her own room at an hotel.” - -“353--that’s yours; 333--that’s ours. Don’t you see how easy it was? She -had lost her way, and she was a little afraid lest the thing should fall -down.” - -“I wish it had, with all my heart.” - -“That’s how it was. Now I’m sure, Mr. Jones, you’ll take a lady’s -apology. It was a most unfortunate mistake,--most unfortunate; but what -more can be said?” - -Mr. Jones gave himself up to reflection for a few moments before he -replied to this. He supposed that he was bound to believe the story as -far as it went. At any rate, he did not know how he could say that he -did not believe it. It seemed to him to be almost -incredible,--especially incredible in regard to that personal mistake, -for, except that they both had long beards and brown beards, Mr. Jones -thought that there was no point of resemblance between himself and Mr. -Brown. But still, even that, he felt, must be accepted. But then why had -he been left, deserted, to undergo all those torments? “She found out -her mistake at last, I suppose?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“Why didn’t she wake a fellow and take it off again?” - -“Ah!” - -“She can’t have cared very much for a man’s comfort when she went away -and left him like that.” - -“Ah! there was the difficulty, Mr. Jones.” - -“Difficulty! Who was it that had done it? To come to me, in my bedroom, -in the middle of the night, and put that thing on me, and then leave it -there and say nothing about it! It seems to me deuced like a practical -joke.” - -“No, Mr. Jones!” - -“That’s the way I look at it,” said Mr. Jones, plucking up his courage. - -“There isn’t a woman in all England, or in all France, less likely to do -such a thing than my wife. She’s as steady as a rock, Mr. Jones, and -would no more go into another gentleman’s bedroom in joke than---- Oh -dear no! You’re going to be a married man yourself.” - -“Unless all this makes a difference,” said Mr. Jones, almost in tears. -“I had sworn that I would be with her this Christmas Eve.” - -“Oh, Mr. Jones, I cannot believe that will interfere with your -happiness. How could you think that your wife, as is to be, would do -such a thing as that in joke?” - -“She wouldn’t do it at all;--joke or anyway.” - -“How can you tell what accident might happen to anyone?” - -“She’d have wakened the man then afterwards. I’m sure she would. She -would never have left him to suffer in that way. Her heart is too soft. -Why didn’t she send you to wake me, and explain it all? That’s what my -Jane would have done; and I should have gone and wakened him. But the -whole thing is impossible,” he said, shaking his head as he remembered -that he and his Jane were not in a condition as yet to undergo any such -mutual trouble. At last Mr. Jones was brought to acknowledge that -nothing more could be done. The lady had sent her apology, and told her -story, and he must bear the trouble and inconvenience to which she had -subjected him. He still, however, had his own opinion about her conduct -generally, and could not be brought to give any sign of amity. He simply -bowed when Mr. Brown was hoping to induce him to shake hands, and sent -no word of pardon to the great offender. - -The matter, however, was so far concluded that there was no further -question of police interference, nor any doubt but that the lady with -her husband was to be allowed to leave Paris by the night train. The -nature of the accident probably became known to all. Mr. Brown was -interrogated by many, and though he professed to declare that he would -answer no question, nevertheless he found it better to tell the clerk -something of the truth than to allow the matter to be shrouded in -mystery. It is to be feared that Mr. Jones, who did not once show -himself through the day, but who employed the hours in endeavouring to -assuage the injury done him, still lived in the convicsion that the lady -had played a practical joke on him. But the subject of such a joke never -talks about it, and Mr. Jones could not be induced to speak even by the -friendly adherence of the night-porter. - -Mrs. Brown also clung to the seclusion of her own bedroom, never once -stirring from it till the time came in which she was to be taken down to -the omnibus. Upstairs she ate her meals, and upstairs she passed her -time in packing and unpacking, and in requesting that telegrams might be -sent repeatedly to Thompson Hall. In the course of the day two such -telegrams were sent, in the latter of which the Thompson family were -assured that the Browns would arrive, probably in time for breakfast on -Christmas Day, certainly in time for church. She asked more than once -tenderly after Mr. Jones’ welfare, but could obtain no information. “He -was very cross, and that’s all I know about it,” said Mr. Brown. Then -she made a remark as to the gentleman’s Christian name, which appeared -on the card as “Barnaby.” “My sister’s husband’s name will be Burnaby,” -she said. “And this man’s Christian name is Barnaby; that’s all the -difference,” said her husband, with ill-timed jocularity. - -We all know how people under a cloud are apt to fail in asserting their -personal dignity. On the former day a separate vehicle had been ordered -by Mr. Brown to take himself and his wife to the station, but now, after -his misfortunes, he contented himself with such provision as the people -at the hotel might make for him. At the appointed hour he brought his -wife down, thickly veiled. There were many strangers as she passed -through the hall, ready to look at the lady who had done that wonderful -thing in the dead of night, but none could see a feature of her face as -she stepped across the hall, and was hurried into the omnibus. And there -were many eyes also on Mr. Jones, who followed very quickly, for he -also, in spite of his sufferings, was leaving Paris on the evening in -order that he might be with his English friends on Christmas Day. He, as -he went through the crowd, assumed an air of great dignity, to which, -perhaps, something was added by his endeavours, as he walked, to save -his poor throat from irritation. He, too, got into the same omnibus, -stumbling over the feet of his enemy in the dark. At the station they -got their tickets, one close after the other, and then were brought into -each other’s presence in the waiting-room. I think it must be -acknowledged that here Mr. Jones was conscious, not only of her -presence, but of her consciousness of his presence, and that he assumed -an attitude, as though he should have said, “Now do you think it -possible for me to believe that you mistook me for your husband?” She -was perfectly quiet, but sat through that quarter of an hour with her -face continually veiled. Mr. Brown made some little overture of -conversation to Mr. Jones, but Mr. Jones, though he did mutter some -reply, showed plainly enough that he had no desire for further -intercourse. Then came the accustomed stampede, the awful rush, the -internecine struggle in which seats had to be found. Seats, I fancy, are -regularly found, even by the most tardy, but it always appears that -every British father and every British husband is actuated at these -stormy moments by a conviction that unless he proves himself a very -Hercules he and his daughters and his wife will be left desolate in -Paris. Mr. Brown was quite Herculean, carrying two bags and a hat-box in -his own hands, besides the cloaks, the coats, the rugs, the sticks, and -the umbrellas. But when he had got himself and his wife well seated, -with their faces to the engine, with a corner seat for her,--there was -Mr. Jones immediately opposite to her. Mr. Jones, as soon as he -perceived the inconvenience of his position, made a scramble for another -place, but he was too late. In that contiguity the journey as far as -Calais had to be made. She, poor woman, never once took up her veil. -There he sat, without closing an eye, stiff as a ramrod, sometimes -showing by little uneasy gestures that the trouble at his neck was still -there, but never speaking a word, and hardly moving a limb. - -Crossing from Calais to Dover the lady was, of course, separated from -her victim. The passage was very bad, and she more than once reminded -her husband how well it would have been with them now had they pursued -their journey as she had intended,--as though they had been detained in -Paris by his fault! Mr. Jones, as he laid himself down on his back, gave -himself up to wondering whether any man before him had ever been made -subject to such absolute injustice. Now and again he put his hand up to -his own beard, and began to doubt whether it could have been moved, as -it must have been moved, without waking him. What if chloroform had been -used? Many such suspicions crossed his mind during the misery of that -passage. - -They were again together in the same railway carriage from Dover to -London. They had now got used to the close neighbourhood, and knew how -to endure each the presence of the other. But as yet Mr. Jones had never -seen the lady’s face. He longed to know what were the features of the -woman who had been so blind--if indeed that story were true. Or if it -were not true, of what like was the woman who would dare in the middle -of the night to play such a trick as that? But still she kept her veil -close over her face. - -From Cannon Street the Browns took their departure in a cab for the -Liverpool Street Station, whence they would be conveyed by the Eastern -Counties Railway to Stratford. Now at any rate their troubles were over. -They would be in ample time, not only for Christmas Day church, but for -Christmas Day breakfast. “It will be just the same as getting in there -last night,” said Mr. Brown, as he walked across the platform to place -his wife in the carriage for Stratford. She entered it the first, and as -she did so there she saw Mr. Jones seated in the corner! Hitherto she -had borne his presence well, but now she could not restrain herself -from a little start and a little scream. He bowed his head very -slightly, as though acknowledging the compliment, and then down she -dropped her veil. When they arrived at Stratford, the journey being over -in a quarter of an hour, Jones was out of the carriage even before the -Browns. - -“There is Uncle John’s carriage,” said Mrs. Brown, thinking that now, at -any rate, she would be able to free herself from the presence of this -terrible stranger. No doubt he was a handsome man to look at, but on no -face so sternly hostile had she ever before fixed her eyes. She did not, -perhaps, reflect that the owner of no other face had ever been so deeply -injured by herself. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL. - - -“Please, sir, we were to ask for Mr. Jones,” said the servant, putting -his head into the carriage after both Mr. and Mrs. Brown had seated -themselves. - -“Mr. Jones!” exclaimed the husband. - -“Why ask for Mr. Jones?” demanded the wife. The servant was about to -tender some explanation when Mr. Jones stepped up and said that he was -Mr. Jones. “We are going to Thompson Hall,” said the lady with great -vigour. - -“So am I,” said Mr. Jones, with much dignity. It was, however, arranged -that he should sit with the coachman, as there was a rumble behind for -the other servant. The luggage was put into a cart, and away all went -for Thompson Hall. - -“What do you think about it, Mary?” whispered Mr. Brown, after a pause. -He was evidently awe-struck by the horror of the occasion. - -“I cannot make it out at all. What do you think?” - -“I don’t know what to think. Jones going to Thompson Hall?” - -“He’s a very good-looking young man,” said Mrs. Brown. - -“Well;--that’s as people think. A stiff, stuck-up fellow, I should say. -Up to this moment he has never forgiven you for what you did to him.” - -“Would you have forgiven his wife, Charles, if she’d done it to you?” - -“He hasn’t got a wife,--yet.” - -“How do you know?” - -“He is coming home now to be married,” said Mr. Brown. “He expects to -meet the young lady this very Christmas Day. He told me so. That was one -of the reasons why he was so angry at being stopped by what you did last -night.” - -“I suppose he knows Uncle John, or he wouldn’t be going to the Hall,” -said Mrs. Brown. - -“I can’t make it out,” said Mr. Brown, shaking his head. - -“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said Mrs. Brown, “though he has been -so stiff. Jones! Barnaby Jones! You’re sure it was Barnaby?” - -“That was the name on the card.” - -“Not Burnaby?” asked Mrs. Brown. - -“It was Barnaby Jones on the card,--just the same as ‘Barnaby Rudge,’ -and as for looking like a gentleman, I’m by no means quite so sure. A -gentleman takes an apology when it’s offered.” - -“Perhaps, my dear, that depends on the condition of his throat. If you -had had a mustard plaster on all night, you might not have liked it. But -here we are at Thompson Hall at last.” - -Thompson Hall was an old brick mansion, standing within a huge iron -gate, with a gravel sweep before it. It had stood there before Stratford -was a town, or even a suburb, and had then been known by the name of Bow -Place. But it had been in the hands of the present family for the last -thirty years, and was now known far and wide as Thompson Hall,--a -comfortable, roomy, old-fashioned place, perhaps a little dark and dull -to look at, but much more substantially built than most of our modern -villas. Mrs. Brown jumped with alacrity from the carriage, and with a -quick step entered the home of her forefathers. Her husband followed her -more leisurely, but he, too, felt that he was at home at Thompson Hall. -Then Mr. Jones walked in also;--but he looked as though he were not at -all at home. It was still very early, and no one of the family was as -yet down. In these circumstances it was almost necessary that something -should be said to Mr. Jones. - -“Do you know Mr. Thompson?” asked Mr. Brown. - -“I never had the pleasure of seeing him,--as yet,” answered Mr. Jones, -very stiffly. - -“Oh,--I didn’t know;--because you said you were coming here.” - -“And I have come here. Are you friends of Mr. Thompson?” - -“Oh, dear, yes,” said Mrs. Brown. “I was a Thompson myself before I -married.” - -“Oh,--indeed!” said Mr. Jones. “How very odd,--very odd, indeed.” - -During this time the luggage was being brought into the house, and two -old family servants were offering them assistance. Would the new comers -like to go up to their bedrooms? Then the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, -intimated with a wink that Miss Jane would, she was sure, be down quite -immediately. The present moment, however, was still very unpleasant. The -lady probably had made her guess as to the mystery; but the two -gentlemen were still altogether in the dark. Mrs. Brown had no doubt -declared her parentage, but Mr. Jones, with such a multitude of strange -facts crowding on his mind, had been slow to understand her. Being -somewhat suspicious by nature, he was beginning to think whether -possibly the mustard had been put by this lady on his throat with some -reference to his connexion with Thompson Hall. Could it be that she, for -some reason of her own, had wished to prevent his coming, and had -contrived this untoward stratagem out of her brain? or had she wished to -make him ridiculous to the Thompson family,--to whom, as a family, he -was at present unknown? It was becoming more and more improbable to him -that the whole thing should have been an accident. When, after the first -horrid torments of that morning in which he had in his agony invoked the -assistance of the night-porter, he had begun to reflect on his -situation, he had determined that it would be better that nothing -further should be said about it. What would life be worth to him if he -were to be known wherever he went as the man who had been -mustard-plastered in the middle of the night by a strange lady? The -worst of a practical joke is that the remembrance of the absurd -condition sticks so long to the sufferer! At the hotel that -night-porter, who had possessed himself of the handkerchief and had read -the name, and had connected that name with the occupant of 333 whom he -had found wandering about the house with some strange purpose, had not -permitted the thing to sleep. The porter had pressed the matter home -against the Browns, and had produced the interview which has been -recorded. But during the whole of that day Mr. Jones had been resolving -that he would never again either think of the Browns or speak of them. A -great injury had been done to him,--a most outrageous injustice;--but it -was a thing which had to be endured. A horrid woman had come across him -like a nightmare. All he could do was to endeavour to forget the -terrible visitation. Such had been his resolve,--in making which he had -passed that long day in Paris. And now the Browns had stuck to him from -the moment of his leaving his room! he had been forced to travel with -them, but had travelled with them as a stranger. He had tried to comfort -himself with the reflection that at every fresh stage he would shake -them off. In one railway after another the vicinity had been bad,--but -still they were strangers. Now he found himself in the same house with -them,--where of course the story would be told. Had not the thing been -done on purpose that the story might be told there at Thompson Hall? - -Mrs. Brown had acceded to the proposition of the housekeeper, and was -about to be taken to her room when there was heard a sound of footsteps -along the passage above and on the stairs, and a young lady came -bounding on to the scene. “You have all of you come a quarter of an hour -earlier than we thought possible,” said the young lady. “I did so mean -to be up to receive you!” With that she passed her sister on the -stairs,--for the young lady was Miss Jane Thompson, sister to our Mrs. -Brown,--and hurried down into the hall. Here Mr. Brown, who had ever -been on affectionate terms with his sister-in-law, put himself forward -to receive her embraces; but she, apparently not noticing him in her -ardour, rushed on and threw herself on to the breast of the other -gentleman. “This is my Charles,” she said. “Oh, Charles, I thought you -never would be here.” - -Mr. Charles Burnaby Jones, for such was his name since he had inherited -the Jones property in Pembrokeshire, received into his arms the ardent -girl of his heart with all that love and devotion to which she was -entitled, but could not do so without some external shrinking from her -embrace. “Oh, Charles, what is it?” she said. - -“Nothing, dearest--only--only--.” Then he looked piteously up into Mrs. -Brown’s face, as though imploring her not to tell the story. - -“Perhaps, Jane, you had better introduce us,” said Mrs. Brown. - -“Introduce you! I thought you had been travelling together, and staying -at the same hotel--and all that.” - -“So we have; but people may be in the same hotel without knowing each -other. And we have travelled all the way home with Mr. Jones without in -the least knowing who he was.” - -“How very odd! Do you mean you have never spoken?” - -“Not a word,” said Mrs. Brown. - -“I do so hope you’ll love each other,” said Jane. - -“It shan’t be my fault if we don’t,” said Mrs. Brown. - -“I’m sure it shan’t be mine,” said Mr. Brown, tendering his hand to the -other gentleman. The various feelings of the moment were too much for -Mr. Jones, and he could not respond quite as he should have done. But as -he was taken upstairs to his room he determined that he would make the -best of it. - -The owner of the house was old Uncle John. He was a bachelor, and with -him lived various members of the family. There was the great Thompson of -them all, Cousin Robert, who was now member of Parliament for the Essex -Flats, and young John, as a certain enterprising Thompson of the age of -forty was usually called, and then there was old Aunt Bess, and among -other young branches there was Miss Jane Thompson, who was now engaged -to marry Mr. Charles Burnaby Jones. As it happened, no other member of -the family had as yet seen Mr. Burnaby Jones, and he, being by nature of -a retiring disposition, felt himself to be ill at ease when he came into -the breakfast parlour among all the Thompsons. He was known to be a -gentleman of good family and ample means, and all the Thompsons had -approved of the match, but during the first Christmas breakfast he did -not seem to accept his condition jovially. His own Jane sat beside him, -but then on the other side sat Mrs. Brown. She assumed an immediate -intimacy,--as women know how to do on such occasions,--being determined -from the very first to regard her sister’s husband as a brother; but he -still feared her. She was still to him the woman who had come to him in -the dead of night with that horrid mixture,--and had then left him. - -“It was so odd that both of you should have been detained on the very -same day,” said Jane. - -“Yes, it was odd,” said Mrs. Brown, with a smile looking round upon her -neighbour. - -“It was abominably bad weather you know,” said Brown. - -“But you were both so determined to come,” said the old gentleman. “When -we got the two telegrams at the same moment, we were sure that there -had been some agreement between you.” - -“Not exactly an agreement,” said Mrs. Brown; whereupon Mr. Jones looked -as grim as death. - -“I’m sure there is something more than we understand yet,” said the -Member of Parliament. - -Then they all went to church, as a united family ought to do on -Christmas Day, and came home to a fine old English early dinner at three -o’clock,--a sirloin of beef a foot-and-a-half broad, a turkey as big as -an ostrich, a plum-pudding bigger than the turkey, and two or three -dozen mince-pies. “That’s a very large bit of beef,” said Mr. Jones, who -had not lived much in England latterly. “It won’t look so large,” said -the old gentleman, “when all our friends downstairs have had their say -to it.” “A plum-pudding on Christmas Day can’t be too big,” he said -again, “if the cook will but take time enough over it. I never knew a -bit go to waste yet.” - -By this time there had been some explanation as to past events between -the two sisters. Mrs. Brown had indeed told Jane all about it, how ill -her husband had been, how she had been forced to go down and look for -the mustard, and then what she had done with the mustard. “I don’t think -they are a bit alike you know, Mary, if you mean that,” said Jane. - -“Well, no; perhaps not quite alike. I only saw his beard, you know. No -doubt it was stupid, but I did it.” - -“Why didn’t you take it off again?” asked the sister. - -“Oh, Jane, if you’d only think of it! Could you?” Then of course all -that occurred was explained, how they had been stopped on their journey, -how Brown had made the best apology in his power, and how Jones had -travelled with them and had never spoken a word. The gentleman had only -taken his new name a week since, but of course had had his new card -printed immediately. “I’m sure I should have thought of it if they -hadn’t made a mistake with the first name. Charles said it was like -Barnaby Rudge.” - -“Not at all like Barnaby Rudge,” said Jane; “Charles Burnaby Jones is a -very good name.” - -“Very good indeed,--and I’m sure that after a little bit he won’t be at -all the worse for the accident.” - -Before dinner the secret had been told no further, but still there had -crept about among the Thompsons, and, indeed, downstairs also, among the -retainers, a feeling that there was a secret. The old housekeeper was -sure that Miss Mary, as she still called Mrs. Brown, had something to -tell if she could only be induced to tell it, and that this something -had reference to Mr. Jones’ personal comfort. The head of the family, -who was a sharp old gentleman, felt this also, and the member of -Parliament, who had an idea that he specially should never be kept in -the dark, was almost angry. Mr. Jones, suffering from some kindred -feeling throughout the dinner, remained silent and unhappy. When two or -three toasts had been drunk,--the Queen’s health, the old gentleman’s -health, the young couple’s health, Brown’s health, and the general -health of all the Thompsons, then tongues were loosened and a question -was asked, “I know that there has been something doing in Paris between -these young people that we haven’t heard as yet,” said the uncle. Then -Mrs. Brown laughed, and Jane, laughing too, gave Mr. Jones to understand -that she at any rate knew all about it. - -“If there is a mystery I hope it will be told at once,” said the member -of Parliament, angrily. - -“Come, Brown, what is it?” asked another male cousin. - -“Well, there was an accident. I’d rather Jones should tell,” said he. - -Jones’ brow became blacker than thunder, but he did not say a word. “You -mustn’t be angry with Mary,” Jane whispered into her lover’s ear. - -“Come, Mary, you never were slow at talking,” said the uncle. - -“I do hate this kind of thing,” said the member of Parliament. - -“I will tell it all,” said Mrs. Brown, very nearly in tears, or else -pretending to be very nearly in tears. “I know I was very wrong, and I -do beg his pardon, and if he won’t say that he forgives me I never shall -be happy again.” Then she clasped her hands, and turning round, looked -him piteously in the face. - -“Oh yes; I do forgive you,” said Mr. Jones. - -“My brother,” said she, throwing her arms round him and kissing him. He -recoiled from the embrace, but I think that he attempted to return the -kiss. “And now I will tell the whole story,” said Mrs. Brown. And she -told it, acknowledging her fault with true contrition, and swearing -that she would atone for it by life-long sisterly devotion. - -“And you mustard-plastered the wrong man!” said the old gentleman, -almost rolling off his chair with delight. - -“I did,” said Mrs. Brown, sobbing, “and I think that no woman ever -suffered as I suffered.” - -“And Jones wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?” - -“It was the handkerchief stopped us,” said Brown. - -“If it had turned out to be anybody else,” said the member of -Parliament, “the results might have been most serious,--not to say -discreditable.” - -“That’s nonsense, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown, who was disposed to resent -the use of so severe a word, even from the legislator cousin. - -“In a strange gentleman’s bedroom!” he continued. “It only shows that -what I have always said is quite true. You should never go to bed in a -strange house without locking your door.” - -Nevertheless it was a very jovial meeting, and before the evening was -over Mr. Jones was happy, and had been brought to acknowledge that the -mustard-plaster would probably not do him any permanent injury. - - - - -THE TELEGRAPH GIRL. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -LUCY GRAHAM AND SOPHY WILSON. - - -Three shillings a day to cover all expenses of life, food, raiment, -shelter, a room in which to eat and sleep, and fire and light,--and -recreation if recreation there might be,--is not much; but when Lucy -Graham, the heroine of this tale, found herself alone in the world, she -was glad to think that she was able to earn so much by her work, and -that thus she possessed the means of independence if she chose to be -independent. Her story up to the date with which we are dealing shall be -very shortly told. She had lived for many years with a married brother, -who was a bookseller in Holborn,--in a small way of business, and -burdened with a large family, but still living in decent comfort. In -order, however, that she might earn her own bread she had gone into the -service of the Crown as a “Telegraph Girl” in the Telegraph Office.[A] -And there she had remained till the present time, and there she was -earning eighteen shillings a week by eight hours’ continual work daily. -Her life had been full of occupation, as in her spare hours she had been -her brother’s assistant in his shop, and had made herself familiar with -the details of his trade. But the brother had suddenly died, and it had -been quickly decided that the widow and the children should take -themselves off to some provincial refuge. - -Then it was that Lucy Graham had to think of her independence and her -eighteen shillings a week on the one side, and of her desolation and -feminine necessities on the other. To run backwards and forwards from -High Holborn to St. Martin’s-le-Grand had been very well as long as she -could comfort herself with the companionship of her sister-in-law and -defend herself with her brother’s arm;--but how would it be with her if -she were called upon to live all alone in London? She was driven to -consider what else she could do to earn her bread. She might become a -nursemaid, or perhaps a nursery governess. Though she had been well and -in some respects carefully educated, she knew that she could not soar -above that. Of music she did not know a note. She could draw a little -and understood enough French,--not to read it, but to teach herself to -read it. With English literature she was better acquainted than is usual -with young women of her age and class; and, as her only personal -treasures, she had managed to save a few books which had become hers -through her brother’s kindness. To be a servant was distasteful to her, -not through any idea that service was disreputable, but from a dislike -to be subject at all hours to the will of others. To work and work hard -she was quite willing, so that there might be some hours of her life in -which she might not be called upon to obey. - -When, therefore, it was suggested to her that she had better abandon the -Telegraph Office and seek the security of some household, her spirit -rebelled against the counsel. Why should she not be independent, and -respectable, and safe? But then the solitude! Solitude would certainly -be hard, but absolute solitude might not perhaps be necessary. She was -fond too of the idea of being a government servant, with a sure and -fixed salary,--bound of course to her work at certain hours, but so -bound only for certain hours. During a third of the day she was, as she -proudly told herself, a servant of the Crown. During the other -two-thirds she was lord,--or lady,--of herself. - -But there was a quaintness, a mystery, even an awe, about her -independence which almost terrified her. During her labours she had -eight hundred female companions, all congregated together in one vast -room, but as soon as she left the Post Office she was to be all alone! -For a few months after her brother’s death she continued to live with -her sister-in-law, during which time this great question was being -discussed. But then the sister-in-law and the children disappeared, and -it was incumbent on Lucy to fix herself somewhere. She must begin life -after what seemed to her to be a most unfeminine fashion,--“just as -though she were a young man,”--for it was thus that she described to -herself her own position over and over again. - -At this time Lucy Graham was twenty-six years old. She had hitherto -regarded herself as being stronger and more steadfast than are women -generally of that age. She had taught herself to despise feminine -weaknesses, and had learned to be almost her brother’s equal in managing -the affairs of his shop in his absence. She had declared to herself, -looking forward then to some future necessity which had become present -to her with terrible quickness, that she would not be feckless, -helpless, and insufficient for herself as are so many females. She had -girded herself up for a work-a-day life,--looking forward to a time when -she might leave the telegraphs and become a partner with her brother. A -sudden disruption had broken up all that. - -She was twenty-six, well made, cheery, healthy, and to some eyes -singularly good-looking, though no one probably would have called her -either pretty or handsome. In the first place her complexion was--brown. -It was impossible to deny that her whole face was brown, as also was her -hair, and generally her dress. There was a pervading brownness about her -which left upon those who met her a lasting connection between Lucy -Graham and that serviceable, long-enduring colour. But there was nobody -so convinced that she was brown from head to foot as was she herself. A -good lasting colour she would call it,--one that did not require to be -washed every half-hour in order that it might be decent, but could bear -real washing when it was wanted; for it was a point of her inner creed, -of her very faith of faith, that she was not to depend upon feminine -good looks, or any of the adventitious charms of dress for her advance -in the world. “A good strong binding,” she would say of certain -dark-visaged books, “that will stand the gas, and not look disfigured -even though a blot of ink should come in its way.” And so it was that -she regarded her own personal binding. - -But for all that she was to some observers very attractive. There was -not a mean feature in her face. Her forehead was spacious and well -formed. Her eyes, which were brown also, were very bright, and could -sparkle with anger or solicitude, or perhaps with love. Her nose was -well formed, and delicately shaped enough. Her mouth was large, but full -of expression, and seemed to declare without speech that she could be -eloquent. The form of her face was oval, and complete, not as though it -had been moulded by an inartistic thumb, a bit added on here and a bit -there. She was somewhat above the average height of women, and stood -upon her legs,--or walked upon them,--as though she understood that they -had been given to her for real use. - -Two years before her brother’s death there had been a suitor for her -hand,--as to whose suit she had in truth doubted much. He also had been -a bookseller, a man in a larger way of business than her brother, some -fifteen years older than herself,--a widower, with a family. She knew -him to be a good man, with a comfortable house, an adequate income, and -a kind heart. Had she gone to him she would not have been required then -to live among the bookshelves or the telegraphs. She had doubted much -whether she would not go to him. She knew she could love the children. -She thought that she could buckle herself to that new work with a will. -But she feared,--she feared that she could not love him. - -Perhaps there had come across her heart some idea of what might be the -joy of real, downright, hearty love. If so it was only an idea. No -personage had come across her path thus to disturb her. But the idea, or -the fear, had been so strong with her that she had never been able to -induce herself to become the wife of this man; and when he had come to -her after her brother’s death, in her worst desolation,--when the -prospect of service in some other nursery had been strongest before her -eyes,--she had still refused him. Perhaps there had been a pride in -this,--a feeling that as she had rejected him in her comparative -prosperity, she should not take him now when the renewal of his offer -might probably be the effect of generosity. But she did refuse him; and -the widowed bookseller had to look elsewhere for a second mother for his -children. - -Then there arose the question, how and where she should live? When it -came to the point of settling herself, that idea of starting in life -like a young man became very awful indeed. How was she to do it? Would -any respectable keeper of lodgings take her in upon that principle? And -if so, in what way should she plan out her life? Sixteen hours a day -were to be her own. What should she do with them? Was she or was she not -to contemplate the enjoyment of any social pleasures; and if so, how -were they to be found of such a nature as not to be discreditable? On -rare occasions she had gone to the play with her brother, and had then -enjoyed the treat thoroughly. Whether it had been _Hamlet_ at the -Lyceum, or _Lord Dundreary_ at the Haymarket, she had found herself -equally able to be happy. But there could not be for her now even such -rare occasions as these. She thought that she knew that a young woman -all alone could not go to the theatre with propriety, let her be ever so -brave. And then those three shillings a day, though sufficient for life, -would hardly be more than sufficient. - -But how should she begin? At last chance assisted her. Another girl, -also employed in the Telegraph Office, with whom there had been some -family acquaintance over and beyond that formed in the office, happened -at this time to be thrown upon the world in some such fashion as -herself, and the two agreed to join their forces. - -She was one Sophy Wilson by name,--and it was agreed between them that -they should club their means together and hire a room for their joint -use. Here would be a companionship,--and possibly, after awhile, sweet -friendship. Sophy was younger than herself, and might probably need, -perhaps be willing to accept, assistance. To be able to do something -that should be of use to somebody would, she felt, go far towards giving -her life that interest which it would otherwise lack. - -When Lucy examined her friend, thinking of the closeness of their future -connection, she was startled by the girl’s prettiness and youth, and -thorough unlikeness to herself. Sophy had long, black, glossy curls, -large eyes, a pink complexion, and was very short. She seemed to have no -inclination for that strong, serviceable brown binding which was so -valuable in Lucy’s eyes; but rather to be wedded to bright colours and -soft materials. And it soon became evident to the elder young woman that -the younger looked upon her employment simply as a stepping-stone to a -husband. To get herself married as soon as possible was unblushingly -declared by Sophy Wilson to be the one object of her ambition,--and as -she supposed that of every other girl in the telegraph department. But -she seemed to be friendly and at first docile, to have been brought up -with aptitudes for decent life, and to be imbued with the necessity of -not spending more than her three shillings a day. And she was quick -enough at her work in the office,--quicker even than Lucy -herself,--which was taken by Lucy as evidence that her new friend was -clever, and would therefore probably be an agreeable companion. - -They took together a bedroom in a very quiet street in Clerkenwell,--a -street which might be described as genteel because it contained no -shops; and here they began to keep house, as they called it. Now the -nature of their work was such that they were not called upon to be in -their office till noon, but that then they were required to remain there -till eight in the evening. At two a short space was allowed them for -dinner, which was furnished to them at a cheap rate in a room adjacent -to that in which they worked. Here for eightpence each they could get a -good meal, or if they preferred it they could bring their food with -them, and even have it cooked upon the premises. In the evening tea and -bread and butter were provided for them by the officials; and then at -eight or a few minutes after they left the building and walked home. The -keeping of house was restricted in fact to providing tea and bread and -butter for the morning meal, and perhaps when they could afford it for -the repetition of such comfort later in the evening. There was the -Sunday to be considered,--as to which day they made a contract with the -keeper of the lodging-house to sit at her table and partake of her -dishes. And so they were established. - -From the first Lucy Graham made up her mind that it was her duty to be a -very friend of friends to this new companion. It was as though she had -consented to marry that widowed bookseller. She would then have -considered herself bound to devote herself to his welfare. It was not -that she could as yet say that she loved Sophy Wilson. Love with her -could not be so immediate as that. But the nature of the bond between -them was such, that each might possibly do so much either for the -happiness, or the unhappiness of the other! And then, though Sophy was -clever,--for as to this Lucy did not doubt,--still she was too evidently -in many things inferior to herself, and much in want of such assistance -as a stronger nature could give her. Lucy in acknowledging this put down -her own greater strength to the score of her years and the nature of the -life which she had been called upon to lead. She had early in her days -been required to help herself, to hold her own, and to be as it were a -woman of business. But the weakness of the other was very apparent to -her. That doctrine as to the necessity of a husband, which had been very -soon declared, had,--well,--almost disgusted Lucy. And then she found -cause to lament the peculiar arrangement which the requirements of the -office had made as to their hours. At first it had seemed to her to be -very pleasant that they should have their morning hours for needlework, -and perhaps for a little reading; but when she found that Sophy would -lie in bed till ten because early rising was not obligatory, then she -wished that they had been classed among those whose presence was -demanded at eight. - -After awhile, there was a little difference between them as to what -might or what might not be done with propriety after their office hours -were over. It must be explained that in that huge room in which eight -hundred girls were at work together, there was also a sprinkling of boys -and young men. As no girls were employed there after eight there would -always be on duty in the afternoon an increasing number of the other -sex, some of whom remained there till late at night,--some indeed all -night. Now, whether by chance,--or as Lucy feared by management,--Sophy -Wilson had her usual seat next to a young lad with whom she soon -contracted a certain amount of intimacy. And from this intimacy arose a -proposition that they two should go with Mr. Murray,--he was at first -called Mister, but the formal appellation soon degenerated into a -familiar Alec,--to a Music Hall! Lucy Graham at once set her face -against the Music Hall. - -“But why?” asked the other girl. “You don’t mean to say that decent -people don’t go to Music Halls?” - -“I don’t mean to say anything of the kind, but then they go decently -attended.” - -“How decently? We should be decent.” - -“With their brothers,” said Lucy;--“or something of that kind.” - -“Brothers!” ejaculated the other girl with a tone of thorough contempt. -A visit to a Music Hall with her brother was not at all the sort of -pleasure to which Sophy was looking forward. She did her best to get -over objections which to her seemed to be fastidious and absurd, -observing, “that if people were to feel like that there would be no -coming together of people at all.” But when she found that Lucy could -not be instigated to go to the Music Hall, and that the idea of Alec -Murray and herself going to such a place unattended by others was -regarded as a proposition too monstrous to be discussed, Sophy for -awhile gave way. But she returned again and again to the subject, -thinking to prevail by asserting that Alec had a friend, a most -excellent young man, who would go with them,--and bring his sister. Alec -was almost sure that the sister would come. Lucy, however, would have -nothing to do with it. Lucy thought that there should be very great -intimacy indeed before anything of that kind should be permitted. - -And so there was something of a quarrel. Sophy declared that such a life -as theirs was too hard for her, and that some kind of amusement was -necessary. Unless she were allowed some delight she must go mad, she -must die, she must throw herself off Waterloo Bridge. Lucy, remembering -her duty, remembering how imperative it was that she should endeavour to -do good to the one human being with whom she was closely concerned, -forgave her, and tried to comfort her;--forgave her even though at last -she refused to be guided by her monitress. For Sophy did go to the Music -Hall with Alec Murray,--reporting, but reporting falsely, that they were -accompanied by the friend and the friend’s sister. Lucy, poor Lucy, was -constrained by certain circumstances to disbelieve this false assertion. -She feared that Sophy had gone with Alec alone,--as was the fact. But -yet she forgave her friend. How are we to live together at all if we -cannot forgive each other’s offences? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -ABRAHAM HALL. - - -As there was no immediate repetition of the offence the forgiveness soon -became complete, and Lucy found the interest of her life in her -endeavours to be good to this weak child whom chance had thrown in her -way. For Sophy Wilson was but a weak child. She was full of Alec Murray -for awhile, and induced Lucy to make the young man’s acquaintance. The -lad was earning twelve shillings a week, and if these two poor young -creatures chose to love each other and get themselves married, it would -be respectable, though it might be unfortunate. It would at any rate be -the way of the world, and was a natural combination with which she would -have no right to interfere. But she found that Alec was a mere boy, and -with no idea beyond the enjoyment of a bright scarf and a penny cigar, -with a girl by his side at a Music Hall. “I don’t think it can be worth -your while to go much out of your way for his sake,” said Lucy. - -“Who is going out of her way? Not I. He’s as good as anybody else, I -suppose. And one must have somebody to talk to sometimes.” These last -words she uttered so plaintively, showing so plainly that she was unable -to endure the simple unchanging dulness of a life of labour, that Lucy’s -heart was thoroughly softened towards her. She had the great gift of -being not the less able to sympathize with the weakness of the weak -because of her own abnormal strength. And so it came to pass that she -worked for her friend,--stitching and mending when the girl ought to -have stitched and mended for herself,--reading to her, even though but -little of what was read might be understood,--yielding to her and -assisting her in all things, till at last it came to pass that in truth -she loved her. And such love and care were much wanted, for the elder -girl soon found that the younger was weak in health as well as weak in -spirit. There were days on which she could not,--or at any rate did not -go to her office. When six months had passed by Lucy had not once been -absent since she had begun her new life. - -“Have you seen that man who has come to look at our house?” asked Sophy -one day as they were walking down to the office. Lucy had seen a strange -man, having met him on the stairs. “Isn’t he a fine fellow?” - -“For anything that I know. Let us hope that he is very fine,” said Lucy -laughing. - -“He’s about as handsome a chap as I think I ever saw.” - -“As for being a chap the man I saw must be near forty.” - -“He is a little old I should say, but not near that. I don’t think he -can have a wife or he wouldn’t come here. He’s an engineer, and he has -the care of a steam-engine in the City Road,--that great printing place. -His name is Abraham Hall, and he’s earning three or four pounds a week. -A man like that ought to have a wife.” - -“How did you learn all about him?” - -“It’s all true. Sally heard it from Mrs. Green.” Mrs. Green was the -keeper of the lodging-house and Sally was the maid. “I couldn’t help -speaking to him yesterday because we were both at the door together. He -talked just like a gentleman although he was all smutty and greasy.” - -“I am glad he talked like a gentleman.” - -“I told him we lodged here and that we were telegraph girls, and that we -never got home till half-past eight. He would be just the beau for you -because he is such a big steady-looking fellow.” - -“I don’t want a beau,” said Lucy angrily. - -“Then I shall take him myself,” said Sophy as she entered the office. - -Soon after that it came to pass that there did arise a slight -acquaintance between both the girls and Abraham Hall, partly from the -fact of their near neighbourhood, partly perhaps from some little tricks -on Sophy’s part. But the man seemed to be so steady, so solid, so little -given to lightnesses of flirtation or to dangerous delights, that Lucy -was inclined to welcome the accident. When she saw him on a Sunday -morning free from the soil of his work, she could perceive that he was -still a young man, probably not much over thirty;--but there was a look -about him as though he were well inured to the cares of the world, such -as is often produced by the possession of a wife and family,--not a look -of depression by any means, but seeming to betoken an appreciation of -the seriousness of life. From all this Lucy unconsciously accepted an -idea of security in the man, feeling that it might be pleasant to have -some strong one near her, from whom in case of need assistance might be -asked without fear. For this man was tall and broad and powerful, and -seemed to Lucy’s eyes to be a very pillar of strength when he would -stand still for a moment to greet her in the streets. - -But poor Sophy, who had so graciously offered the man to her friend at -the beginning of their intercourse, seemed soon to change her mind and -to desire his attention for herself. He was certainly much more worthy -than Alec Murray. But to Lucy, to whom it was a rule of life as strong -as any in the commandments that a girl should not throw herself at a -man, but should be sought by him, it was a painful thing to see how many -of poor Sophy’s much-needed sixpences were now spent in little articles -of finery by which it was hoped that Mr. Hall’s eyes might be gratified, -and how those glossy ringlets were brushed and made to shine with -pomatum, and how the little collars were washed and re-washed and -starched and re-starched, in order that she might be smart for him. -Lucy, who was always neat, endeavoured to become browner and browner. -This she did by way of reproach and condemnation, not at all surmising -that Mr. Hall might possibly prefer a good solid wearing colour to -glittering blue and pink gewgaws. - -At this time Sophy was always full of what Mr. Hall had last said to -her; and after awhile broached an idea that he was some gentleman in -disguise. “Why in disguise? Why not a gentleman not in disguise?” asked -Lucy, who had her own ideas, perhaps a little exaggerated, as to -Nature’s gentlemen. Then Sophy explained herself. A gentleman, a real -gentleman, in disguise would be very interesting;--one who had -quarrelled with his father, perhaps, because he would not endure -paternal tyranny, and had then determined to earn his own bread till he -might happily come into the family honours and property in a year or -two. Perhaps instead of being Abraham Hall he was in reality the Right -Honourable Russell Howard Cavendish; and if, during his temporary -abeyance, he should prove his thorough emancipation from the thraldom of -his aristocracy by falling in love with a telegraph girl, how fine it -would be! When Lucy expressed an opinion that Mr. Hall might be a very -fine fellow though he were fulfilling no more than the normal condition -of his life at the present moment, Sophy would not be contented, -declaring that her friend, with all her reading, knew nothing of poetry. -In this way they talked very frequently about Abraham Hall, till Lucy -would often feel that such talking was indecorous. Then she would be -silent for awhile herself, and rebuke the other girl for her constant -mention of the man’s name. Then again she would be brought back to the -subject;--for in all the little intercourse which took place between -them and the man, his conduct was so simple and yet so civil, that she -could not really feel him to be unworthy of a place in her thoughts. -But Sophy soon declared frankly to her friend that she was absolutely in -love with the man. “You wouldn’t have him, you know,” she said when Lucy -scolded her for the avowal. - -“Have him! How can you bring yourself to talk in such a way about a man? -What does he want of either of us?” - -“Men do marry you know,--sometimes,” said Sophy; “and I don’t know how a -young man is to get a wife unless some girl will show that she is fond -of him.” - -“He should show first that he is fond of her.” - -“That’s all very well for talkee-talkee,” said Sophy; “but it doesn’t do -for practice. Men are awfully shy. And then though they do marry -sometimes, they don’t want to get married particularly,--not as we do. -It comes like an accident. But how is a man to fall into a pit if -there’s no pit open?” - -In answer to this Lucy used many arguments and much scolding. But to -very little effect. That the other girl should have thought so much -about it and be so ready with her arguments was horrid to her. “A pit -open!” ejaculated Lucy; “I would rather never speak to a man again than -regard myself in such a light.” Sophy said that all that might be very -well, but declared that it “would not wash.” - -The elder girl was so much shocked by all this that there came upon her -gradually a feeling of doubt whether their joint life could be -continued. Sophy declared her purpose openly of entrapping Abraham Hall -into a marriage, and had absolutely induced him to take her to the -theatre. He had asked Lucy to join them; but she had sternly refused, -basing her refusal on her inability to bear the expense. When he offered -to give her the treat, she told him with simple gravity that nothing -would induce her to accept such a favour from any man who was not either -a very old friend or a near relation. When she said this he so looked at -her that she was sure that he approved of her resolve. He did not say a -word to press her;--but he took Sophy Wilson, and, as Lucy knew, paid -for Sophy’s ticket. - -All this displeased Lucy so much that she began to think whether there -must not be a separation. She could not continue to live on terms of -affectionate friendship with a girl whose conduct she so strongly -disapproved. But then again, though she could not restrain the poor -light thing altogether, she did restrain her in some degree. She was -doing some good by her companionship. And then, if it really was in the -man’s mind to marry the girl, that certainly would be a good thing,--for -the girl. With such a husband she would be steady enough. She was quite -sure that the idea of preparing a pit for such a one as Abraham Hall -must be absurd. But Sophy was pretty and clever, and if married would at -any rate love her husband. Lucy thought she had heard that steady, -severe, thoughtful men were apt to attach themselves to women of the -butterfly order. She did not like the way in which Sophy was doing this; -but then, who was she that she should be a judge? If Abraham Hall liked -it, would not that be much more to the purpose? Therefore she resolved -that there should be no separation at present;--and, if possible, no -quarrelling. - -But soon it came to pass that there was another very solid reason -against separation. Sophy, who was often unwell, and would sometimes -stay away from the office for a day or two on the score of ill-health, -though by doing so she lost one of her three shillings on each such day, -gradually became worse. The superintendent at her department had -declared that in case of further absence a medical certificate must be -sent, and the doctor attached to the office had called upon her. He had -looked grave, had declared that she wanted considerable care, had then -gone so far as to recommend rest,--which meant absence from work,--for -at least a fortnight, and ordered her medicine. This of course meant the -loss of a third of her wages. In such circumstances and at such a time -it was not likely that Lucy should think of separation. - -While Sophy was ill Abraham Hall often came to the door to inquire after -her health;--so often that Lucy almost thought that her friend had -succeeded. The man seemed to be sympathetic and anxious, and would -hardly have inquired with so much solicitude had he not really been -anxious as to poor Sophy’s health. Then, when Sophy was better, he would -come in to see her, and the girl would deck herself out with some little -ribbon and would have her collar always starched and ironed, ready for -his reception. It certainly did seem to Lucy that the man was becoming -fond of her foolish little friend. - -During this period Lucy of course had to go to the office alone, leaving -Sophy to the care of the lodging-house keeper. And, in her solitude, -troubles were heavy on her. In the first place Sophy’s illness had -created certain necessarily increased expenses; and at the same time -their joint incomes had been diminished by one shilling a week out of -six. Lucy was in general matters allowed to be the dispenser of the -money; but on occasions the other girl would assert her rights,--which -always meant her right to some indulgence out of their joint incomes -which would be an indulgence to her and her alone. Even those bright -ribbons could not be had for nothing. Lucy wanted no bright ribbons. -When they were fairly prosperous she had not grudged some little -expenditure in this direction. She had told herself that young girls -like to be bright in the eyes of men, and that she had no right even to -endeavour to make her friend look at all these things with her eyes. She -even confessed to herself some deficiency on her own part, some want of -womanliness in that she did not aspire to be attractive,--still owning -to herself, vehemently declaring to herself, that to be attractive in -the eyes of a man whom she could love would of all delights be the most -delightful. Thinking of all this she had endeavoured not to be angry -with poor Sophy; but when she became pinched for shillings and sixpences -and to feel doubtful whether at the end of each fortnight there would -be money to pay Mrs. Green for lodgings and coal, then her heart became -sad within her, and she told herself that Sophy, though she was ill, -ought to be more careful. - -And there was another trouble which for awhile was very grievous. -Telegraphy is an art not yet perfected among us and is still subject to -many changes. Now it was the case at this time that the pundits of the -office were in favour of a system of communicating messages by ear -instead of by eye. The little dots and pricks which even in Lucy’s time -had been changed more than once, had quickly become familiar to her. No -one could read and use her telegraphic literature more rapidly or -correctly than Lucy Graham. But now that this system of little tinkling -sounds was coming up,--a system which seemed to be very pleasant to -those females who were gifted with musical aptitudes,--she found herself -to be less quick, less expert, less useful than her neighbours. This was -very sad, for she had always been buoyed up by an unconscious conviction -of her own superior intelligence. And then, though there had been -neither promises nor threats, she had become aware,--at any rate had -thought that she was aware,--that those girls who could catch and use -the tinkling sounds would rise more quickly to higher pay than the less -gifted ones. She had struggled therefore to overcome the difficulty. She -had endeavoured to force her ears to do that which her ears were not -capable of accomplishing. She had failed, and to-day had owned to -herself that she must fail. But Sophy had been one of the first to -catch the tinkling sounds. Lucy came back to her room sad and down at -heart and full of troubles. She had a long task of needlework before -her, which had been put by for awhile through causes consequent on -Sophy’s illness. “Now she is better perhaps he will marry her and take -her away, and I shall be alone again,” she said to herself, as though -declaring that such a state of things would be a relief to her, and -almost a happiness. - -“He has just been here,” said Sophy to her as soon as she entered the -room. Sophy was painfully, cruelly smart, clean and starched, and -shining about her locks,--so prepared that, as Lucy thought, she must -have evidently expected him. - -“Well;--and what did he say?” - -“He has not said much yet, but it was very good of him to come and see -me,--and he was looking so handsome. He is going out somewhere this -evening to some political meeting with two or three other men, and he -was got up quite like a gentleman. I do like to see him look like that.” - -“I always think a working man looks best in his working clothes,” said -Lucy. “There’s some truth about him then. When he gets into a black coat -he is pretending to be something else, but everybody can see the -difference.” - -There was a severity, almost a savageness in this, which surprised Sophy -so much that at first she hardly knew how to answer it. “He is going to -speak at the meeting,” she said after a pause. “And of course he had to -make himself tidy. He told me all that he is going to say. Should you -not like to hear him speak?” - -“No,” said Lucy very sharply, setting to work instantly upon her -labours, not giving herself a moment for preparation or a moment for -rest. Why should she like to hear a man speak who could condescend to -love so empty and so vain a thing as that? Then she became gradually -ashamed of her own feelings. “Yes,” she said; “I think I should like to -hear him speak;--only if I were not quite so tired. Mr. Hall is a man of -good sense, and well educated, and I think I should like to hear him -speak.” - -“I should like to hear him say one thing I know,” said Sophy. Then Lucy -in her rage tore asunder some fragment of a garment on which she was -working. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS. - - -Sophy went back to her work, and in a very few days was permanently -moved from the seat which she had hitherto occupied next to Alec Murray -and near to Lucy, to a distant part of the chamber in which the tinkling -instruments were used. And as a part of the arrangement consequent on -this she was called on to attend from ten till six instead of from noon -till eight. And her hour for dining was changed also. In this way a -great separation between the girls was made, for neither could they walk -to the office together, nor walk from it. To Lucy, though she was -sometimes inclined to be angry with her friend, this was very painful. -But Sophy triumphed in it greatly. “I think we are to have a step up to -21_s._ in the musical box,” she said laughing. For it was so that she -called the part of the room in which the little bells were always -ringing. “Won’t it be nice to have 3_s._ 6_d._ instead of 3_s._?” Lucy -said solemnly that any increase of income was always nice, and that when -such income was earned by superiority of acquirement it was a matter of -just pride. This she enunciated with something of a dogmatic air; having -schooled herself to give all due praise to Sophy, although it had to be -given at the expense of her own feelings. But when Sophy said in reply -that that was just what she had been thinking herself, and that as she -could do her work by ear she was of course worth more than those who -could not, then the other could only with difficulty repress the -soreness of her heart. - -But to Sophy I think the new arrangements were most pleasant because it -enabled her to reach the street in which she lived just when Abraham -Hall was accustomed to return from his work. He would generally come -home,--to clean himself as she called it,--and would then again go out -for his employment or amusement for the evening; and now, by a proper -system of lying in wait, by creeping slow or walking quick, and by -watching well, she was generally able to have a word or two with him. -But he was so very bashful! He would always call her Miss Wilson; and -she of course was obliged to call him Mr. Hall. “How is Miss Graham?” he -asked one evening. - -“She is very well. I think Lucy is always well. I never knew anybody so -strong as she is.” - -“It is a great blessing. And how are you yourself?” - -“I do get so tired at that nasty office. Though of course I like what I -am doing now better than the other. It was that rolling up the bands -that used to kill me. But I don’t think I shall ever really be strong -till I get away from the telegraphs. I suppose you have no young ladies -where you are?” - -“There are I believe a lot of them in the building, stitching bindings; -but I never see them.” - -“I don’t think you care much for young ladies, Mr. Hall.” - -“Not much--now.” - -“Why not now? What does that mean?” - -“I dare say I never told you or Miss Graham before. But I had a wife of -my own for a time.” - -“A wife! You!” - -“Yes indeed. But she did not stay with me long. She left me before we -had been a year married.” - -“Left you!” - -“She died,” he said, correcting very quickly the false impression which -his words had been calculated to make. - -“Dear me! Died before a year was out. How sad!” - -“It was very sad.” - -“And you had no,--no,--no baby, Mr. Hall?” - -“I wish she had had none, because then she would have been still living. -Yes, I have a boy. Poor little mortal! It is two years old I think -to-day.” - -“I should so like to see him. A little boy! Do bring him some day, Mr. -Hall.” Then the father explained that the child was in the country, down -in Hertfordshire; but nevertheless he promised that he would some day -bring him up to town and show him to his new friends. - -Surely having once been married and having a child he must want another -wife! And yet how little apt he was to say or do any of those things by -saying and doing which men are supposed to express their desire in that -direction! He was very slow at making love;--so slow that Sophy hardly -found herself able to make use of her own little experiences with him. -Alec Murray, who, however, in the way of a husband was not worth -thinking of, had a great deal more to say for himself. She could put on -her ribbons for Mr. Hall, and wait for him in the street, and look up -into his face, and call him Mr. Hall;--but she could not tell him how -dearly she would love that little boy and what an excellent mother she -would be to him, unless he gave her some encouragement. - -When Lucy heard that he had been a married man and that he had a child -she was gratified, though she knew not why. “Yes, I should like to see -him of course,” she said, speaking of the boy. “A child, if you have not -the responsibility of taking care of it, is always nice.” - -“I should so like to take care of it.” - -“I should not like to ask him to bring the boy up out of the country.” -She paused a moment, and then added, “He is just the man whom I should -have thought would have married, and just the man to be made very -serious by the grief of such a loss. I am coming to think it does a -person good to have to bear troubles.” - -“You would not say that if you always felt as sick as I do after your -day’s work.” - -About a week after that Sophy was so weak in the middle of the day that -she was obliged to leave the office and go home. “I know it will kill -me,” she said that evening, “if I go on with it. The place is so stuffy -and nasty, and then those terrible stairs. If I could get out of it and -settle down, then I should be quite well. I am not made for that kind of -work;--not like you are.” - -“I think I was made for it certainly.” - -“It is such a blessing to be strong,” said poor Sophy. - -“Yes; it is a blessing. And I do bless God that he has made me so. It is -the one good thing that has been given to me, and it is better, I think, -than all the others.” As she said this she looked at Sophy and thought -that she was very pretty; but she thought also that prettiness had its -dangers and its temptations; and that good strong serviceable health -might perhaps be better for one who had to earn her bread. - -But through all these thoughts there was a great struggle going on -within her. To be able to earn one’s bread without personal suffering is -very good. To be tempted by prettiness to ribbons, pomatum, and vanities -which one cannot afford is very bad. To do as Sophy was doing in regard -to this young man, setting her cap at him and resolving to make prey of -him as a fowler does of a bird, was, to her way of thinking, most -unseemly. But to be loved by such a man as Abraham Hall, to be chosen by -him as his companion, to be removed from the hard, outside, unwomanly -work of the world to the indoor occupations which a husband would -require from her; how much better a life according to her real tastes -would that be, than anything which she now saw before her! It was all -very well to be brown and strong while the exigencies of her position -were those which now surrounded her; but she could not keep herself from -dreaming of something which would have been much better than that. - -A month or two passed away during which the child had on one occasion -been brought up to town on a Saturday evening, and had been petted and -washed and fed and generally cared for by the two girls during the -Sunday,--all which greatly increased their intimacy with the father. And -now, as Lucy quickly observed, Abraham Hall called Sophy by her -Christian name. When the word was first pronounced in Lucy’s presence -Sophy blushed and looked round at her friend. But she never said that -the change had been made at her own request. “I do so hate to be called -Miss Wilson,” she had said. “It seems among friends as though I were a -hundred years old.” Then he had called her Sophy. But she did not -dare,--not as yet,--to call him Abraham. All which the other girl -watched very closely, saying nothing. - -But during these two months Sophy had been away from her office more -than half the time. Then the doctor said she had better leave town for -awhile. It was September, and it was desired that she should pass that -month at Hastings. Now it should be explained that in such emergencies -as this the department has provided a most kindly aid for young women. -Some five or six at a time are sent out for a month to Hastings or to -Brighton, and are employed in the telegraph offices in those towns. -Their railway fares are paid for them, and a small extra allowance is -made to them to enable them to live away from their homes. The privilege -is too generally sought to be always at the command of her who wants it; -nor is it accorded except on the doctor’s certificate. But in the -September Sophy Wilson was sent down to Hastings. - -In spite, however, of the official benevolence which greatly lightened -the special burden which illness must always bring on those who have to -earn their bread, and which in Sophy Wilson’s case had done so much for -her, nevertheless the weight of the misfortune fell heavily on poor -Lucy. Some little struggle had to be made as to clothes before the girl -could be sent away from her home; and, though the sick one was enabled -to support herself at Hastings, the cost of the London lodgings which -should have been divided fell entirely upon Lucy. Then at the end of the -month there came worse tidings. The doctor at Hastings declared that the -girl was unfit to go back to her work,--was, indeed, altogether unfit -for such effort as eight hours’ continued attendance required from her. -She wanted at any rate some period of perfect rest, and therefore she -remained down at the seaside without the extra allowance which was so -much needed for her maintenance. - -Then the struggle became very severe with Lucy,--so severe that she -began to doubt whether she could long endure it. Sophy had her two -shillings a day, the two-thirds of her wages, but she could not subsist -on that. Something had to be sent to her in addition, and this something -could only come from Lucy’s wages. So at least it was at first. In order -to avoid debt she gave up her more comfortable room and went upstairs -into a little garret. And she denied herself her accustomed dinner at -the office, contenting herself with bread and cheese,--or often simply -with bread,--which she could take in her pocket. And she washed her own -clothes and mended even her own boots, so that still she might send a -part of her earnings to the sick one. - -“Is she better?” Abraham asked her one day. - -“It is hard to know, Mr. Hall. She writes just as she feels at the -moment. I am afraid she fears to return to the office.” - -“Perhaps it does not suit her.” - -“I suppose not. She thinks some other kind of life would be better for -her. I dare say it would.” - -“Could I do anything?” asked the man very slowly. - -Could he do anything? well; yes. Lucy at least thought that he could do -a great deal. There was one thing which, if he would do it, would make -Sophy at any rate believe herself to be well. And this sickness was not -organic,--was not, as it appeared, due to any cause which could be -specified. It had not as yet been called by any name,--such as -consumption. General debility had been spoken of both by the office -doctor and by him at Hastings. Now Lucy certainly thought that a few -words from Mr. Hall would do more than all the doctors in the way of -effecting a cure. Sophy hated the telegraph office, and she lacked the -strength of mind necessary for doing that which was distasteful to her. -And that idea of a husband had taken such hold of her, that nothing else -seemed to her to give a prospect of contentment. “Why don’t you go down -and see her, Mr. Hall?” she said. - -Then he was silent for awhile before he answered,--silent and very -thoughtful. And Lucy as the sound of her own words rested on her ears -felt she had done wrong in asking such a question. Why should he go -down, unless indeed he were in love with the girl and prepared to ask -her to be his wife? If he were to go down expressly to visit her at -Hastings unless he were so prepared, what false hopes he would raise; -what damage he would do instead of good! How indeed could he possibly go -down on such a mission without declaring to all the world that he -intended to make the girl his wife? But it was necessary that the -question should be answered. “I could do no good by that,” he said. - -“No; perhaps not. Only I thought----” - -“What did you think?” Now he asked a question and showed plainly by his -manner that he expected an answer. - -“I don’t know,” said Lucy blushing. “I suppose I ought not to have -thought anything. But you seemed to be so fond of her.” - -“Fond of her! Well; one does get fond of kind neighbours. I suppose you -would think me impertinent, Miss Lucy,”--he had never made even this -approach to familiarity before,--“if I were to say that I am fond of -both of you.” - -“No indeed,” she replied, thinking that as a fondness declared by a -young man for two girls at one and the same moment could not be -interesting, so neither could it be impertinent. - -“I don’t think I should do any good by going down. All that kind of -thing costs so much money.” - -“Of course it does, and I was very wrong.” - -“But I should like to do something, Miss Lucy.” And then he put his hand -into his trousers pocket, and Lucy knew that he was going to bring forth -money. - -She was very poor; but the idea of taking money from him was shocking to -her. According to her theory of life, even though Sophy had been engaged -to the man as his promised wife, she should not consent to accept -maintenance from him or pecuniary aid till she had been made, in very -truth, flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. Presents an engaged -girl might take of course, but hardly even presents of simple utility. A -shawl might be given, so that it was a pretty thing and not a shawl -merely for warmth. An engaged girl should rather live on bread and water -up to her marriage, than take the means of living from the man she -loved, till she could take it by right of having become his wife. Such -were her feelings, and now she knew that this man was about to offer her -money. “We shall do very well,” she said, “Sophy and I together.” - -“You are very hard pinched,” he replied. “You have given up your room.” - -“Yes, I have done that. When I was alone I did not want so big a place.” - -“I suppose I understand all about it,” he said somewhat roughly, or, -perhaps, gruffly would be the better word. “I think there is one thing -poor people ought never to do. They ought never to be ashamed of being -poor among themselves.” - -Then she looked up into his face, and as she did so a tear formed itself -in each of her eyes. “Am I ashamed of anything before you?” she asked. - -“You are afraid of telling the truth lest I should offer to help you. I -know you don’t have your dinner regular as you used.” - -“Who has dared to tell you that, Mr. Hall? What is my dinner to -anybody?” - -“Well. It is something to me. If we are to be friends of course I don’t -like seeing you go without your meals. You’ll be ill next yourself.” - -“I am very strong.” - -“It isn’t the way to keep so, to work without the victuals you’re used -to.” He was talking to her now in such a tone as to make her almost feel -that he was scolding her. “No good can come of that. You are sending -your money down to Hastings to her.” - -“Of course we share everything.” - -“You wouldn’t take anything from me for yourself I dare say. Anybody can -see how proud you are. But if I leave it for her I don’t think you have -a right to refuse it. Of course she wants it if you don’t.” With that he -brought out a sovereign and put it down on the table. - -“Indeed I couldn’t, Mr. Hall,” she said. - -“I may give it to her if I please.” - -“You can send it her yourself,” said Lucy, not knowing how else to -answer him. - -“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know her address.” Then without waiting for -another word he walked out of the room, leaving the sovereign on the -table. This occurred in a small back parlour on the ground floor, which -was in the occupation of the landlady, but was used sometimes by the -lodgers for such occasional meetings. - -What was she to do with the sovereign? She would be very angry if any -man were to send her a sovereign; but it was not right that she should -measure Sophy’s feelings by her own. And then it might still be that the -man was sending the present to the girl whom he intended to make his -wife. But why--why--why, had he asked about her dinner? What were her -affairs to him? Would she not have gone without her dinner for ever -rather than have taken it at his hands? And yet, who was there in all -the world of whom she thought so well as of him? And so she took the -sovereign upstairs with her into her garret. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER. - - -Lucy, when she got up to her own little room with the sovereign, sat for -awhile on the bed, crying. But she could not in the least explain to -herself why it was that she was shedding tears at this moment. It was -not because Sophy was ill, though that was cause to her of great grief; -nor because she herself was so hard put to it for money to meet her -wants. It may be doubted whether grief or pain ever does of itself -produce tears, which are rather the outcome of some emotional feeling. -She was not thinking much of Sophy as she cried, nor certainly were her -own wants present to her mind. The sovereign was between her fingers, -but she did not at first even turn her mind to that, or consider what -had best be done with it. But what right had he to make inquiry as to -her poverty? It was that, she told herself, which now provoked her to -anger so that she wept from sheer vexation. Why should he have searched -into her wants and spoken to her of her need of victuals? What had there -been between them to justify him in tearing away that veil of custom -which is always supposed to hide our private necessities from our -acquaintances till we ourselves feel called upon to declare them? He had -talked to her about her meals. He ought to know that she would starve -rather than accept one from him. Yes;--she was very angry with him, and -would henceforth keep herself aloof from him. - -But still, as she sat, there were present to her eyes and ears the form -and words of an heroic man. He had seemed to scold her; but there are -female hearts which can be better reached and more surely touched by the -truth of anger than by the patent falseness of flattery. Had he paid her -compliments she would not now have been crying, nor would she have -complained to herself of his usage; but she certainly would not have sat -thinking of him, wondering what sort of woman had been that young wife -to whom he had first given himself, wondering whether it was possible -that Sophy should be good enough for him. - -Then she got up, and looking down upon her own hand gazed at the -sovereign till she had made up her mind what she would do with it. She -at once sat down and wrote to Sophy. She had made up her mind. There -should be no diminution in the contribution made from her own wages. In -no way should any portion of that sovereign administer to her own -comfort. Though she might want her accustomed victuals ever so badly, -they should not come to her from his earnings. So she told Sophy in the -letter that Mr. Hall had expressed great anxiety for her welfare, and -had begged that she would accept a present from him. She was to get -anything with the sovereign that might best tend to her happiness. But -the shilling a day which Lucy contributed out of her own wages was sent -with the sovereign. - -For an entire month she did not see Abraham Hall again so as to do more -than just speak to him on the stairs. She was almost inclined to think -that he was cold and unkind in not seeking her;--and yet she wilfully -kept out of his way. On each Sunday it would at any rate have been easy -for her to meet him; but with a stubborn purpose which she did not -herself understand she kept herself apart, and when she met him on the -stairs, which she would do occasionally when she returned from her work, -she would hardly stand till she had answered his inquiries after Sophy. -But at the end of the month one evening he came up and knocked at her -door. “I am sorry to intrude, Miss Lucy.” - -“It is no intrusion, Mr. Hall. I wish I had a place to ask you to sit -down in.” - -“I have come to bring another trifle for Miss Sophy.” - -“Pray do not do it. I cannot send it her. She ought not to take it. I am -sure you know that she ought not to take it.” - -“I know nothing of the kind. If I know anything, it is that the strong -should help the weak, and the healthy the sick. Why should she not take -it from me as well as from you?” - -It was necessary that Lucy should think a little before she could answer -this;--but, when she had thought, her answer was ready. “We are both -girls.” - -“Is there anything which ought to confine kindness to this or the other -sex? If you were knocked down in the street would you let no one but a -woman pick you up?” - -“It is not the same. I know you understand it, Mr. Hall. I am sure you -do.” - -Then he also paused to think what he would say, for he was conscious -that he did “understand it.” For a young woman to accept money from a -man seemed to imply that some return of favours would be due. But,--he -said to himself,--that feeling came from what was dirty and not from -what was noble in the world. “You ought to lift yourself above all -that,” he said at last. “Yes; you ought. You are very good, but you -would be better if you would do so. You say that I understand, and I -think that you, too, understand.” This again was said in that voice -which seemed to scold, and again her eyes became full of tears. Then he -was softer on a sudden. “Good night, Miss Lucy. You will shake hands -with me;--will you not?” She put her hand in his, being perfectly -conscious at the moment that it was the first time that she had ever -done so. What a mighty hand it seemed to be as it held hers for a -moment! “I will put the sovereign on the table,” he said, again leaving -the room and giving her no option as to its acceptance. - -But she made up her mind at once that she would not be the means of -sending his money to Sophy Wilson. She was sure that she would take -nothing from him for her own relief, and therefore sure that neither -ought Sophy to do so,--at any rate unless there had been more between -them than either of them had told to her. But Sophy must judge for -herself. She sent, therefore, the sovereign back to Hall with a little -note as follows:-- - -“DEAR MR. HALL,--Sophy’s address is at - - “Mrs. Pike’s, - - “19, Paradise Row, - - “Fairlight, near Hastings. - - “You can do as you like as to writing to her. I am obliged to send - back the money which you have so _very generously_ left for her, - because I do not think she ought to accept it. If she were quite in - want it might be different, but we have still five shillings a day - between us. If a young woman were starving perhaps it ought to be - the same as though she were being run over in the street, but it is - not like that. In my next letter I shall tell Sophy all about it. - -“Yours truly, - -“LUCY GRAHAM.” - - - -The following evening, when she came home, he was standing at the house -door evidently waiting for her. She had never seen him loitering in that -way before, and she was sure that he was there in order that he might -speak to her. - -“I thought I would let you know that I got the sovereign safely,” he -said. “I am so sorry that you should have returned it.” - -“I am sure that I was right, Mr. Hall.” - -“There are cases in which it is very hard to say what is right and what -is wrong. Some things seem right because people have been wrong so long. -To give and take among friends ought to be right.” - -“We can only do what we think right,” she said, as she passed in through -the passage upstairs. - -She felt sure from what had passed that he had not sent the money to -Sophy. But why not? Sophy had said that he was bashful. Was he so far -bashful that he did not dare himself to send the money to the girl he -loved, though he had no scruple as to giving it to her through another -person? And, as for bashfulness, it seemed to her that the man spoke out -his mind clearly enough. He could scold her, she thought, without any -difficulty, for it still seemed that his voice and manner were rough to -her. He was never rough to Sophy; but then she had heard so often that -love will alter a man amazingly! - -Then she wrote her letter to Sophy, and explained as well as she could -the whole affair. She was quite sure that Sophy would regret the loss of -the money. Sophy, she knew, would have accepted it without scruple. -People, she said to herself, will be different. But she endeavoured to -make her friend understand that she, with her feelings, could not be the -medium of sending on presents of which she disapproved. “I have given -him your address,” she said, “and he can suit himself as to writing to -you.” In this letter she enclosed a money order for the contribution -made to Sophy’s comfort out of her own wages. - -Sophy’s answer, which came in a day or two, surprised her very much. “As -to Mr. Hall’s money,” she began, “as things stand at present perhaps it -is as well that you didn’t take it.” As Lucy had expected that grievous -fault would be found with her, this was comfortable. But it was after -that, that the real news came. Sophy was a great deal better; that was -also good tidings;--but she did not want to leave Hastings just at -present. Indeed she thought that she did not want to leave it at all. A -very gentlemanlike young man, who was just going to be taken into -partnership in a hairdressing establishment, had proposed to her;--and -she had accepted him. Then there were two wishes expressed;--the first -was that Lucy would go on a little longer with her kind generosity, and -the second,--that Mr. Hall would not feel it very much. - -As regarded the first wish, Lucy resolved that she would go on at least -for the present. Sophy was still on sick leave from the office, and, -even though she might be engaged to a hairdresser, was still to be -regarded as an invalid. But as to Mr. Hall, she thought that she could -do nothing. She could not even tell him,--at any rate till that marriage -at Hastings was quite a settled thing. But she thought that Mr. Hall’s -future happiness would not be lessened by the event. Though she had -taught herself to love Sophy, she had been unable not to think that her -friend was not a fitting wife for such a man. But in telling herself -that he would have an escape, she put it to herself as though the fault -lay chiefly in him. “He is so stern and so hard that he would have -crushed her, and she never would have understood his justness and -honesty.” In her letter of congratulation, which was very kind, she said -not a word of Abraham Hall, but she promised to go on with her own -contribution till things were a little more settled. - -In the meantime she was very poor. Even brown dresses won’t wear for -ever, let them be ever so brown, and in the first flurry of sending -Sophy off to Hastings,--with that decent apparel which had perhaps been -the means of winning the hairdresser’s heart,--she had got somewhat into -debt with her landlady. This she was gradually paying off, even on her -reduced wages, but the effort pinched her closely. Day by day, in spite -of all her efforts with her needle, she became sensible of a -deterioration in her outward appearance which was painful to her at the -office, and which made her most careful to avoid any meeting with -Abraham Hall. Her boots were very bad, and she had now for some time -given up even the pretence of gloves as she went backwards and forwards -to the office. But perhaps it was her hat that was most vexatious. The -brown straw hat which had lasted her all the summer and autumn could -hardly be induced to keep its shape now when November was come. - -One day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Abraham Hall went to the -Post Office, and, having inquired among the messengers, made his way up -to the telegraph department at the top of the building. There he asked -for Miss Graham, and was told by the doorkeeper that the young ladies -were not allowed to receive visitors during office hours. He persisted, -however, explaining that he had no wish to go into the room, but that it -was a matter of importance, and that he was very anxious that Miss -Graham should be asked to come out to him. Now it is a rule that the -staff of the department who are engaged in sending and receiving -messages, the privacy of which may be of vital importance, should be -kept during the hours of work as free as possible from communication -with the public. It is not that either the girls or the young men would -be prone to tell the words which they had been the means of passing on -to their destination, but that it might be worth the while of some -sinner to offer great temptation, and that the power of offering it -should be lessened as much as possible. Therefore, when Abraham Hall -pressed his request the doorkeeper told him that it was quite -impossible. - -“Do you mean to say that if it were an affair of life and death she -could not be called out?” Abraham asked in that voice which had -sometimes seemed to Lucy to be so impressive. “She is not a prisoner!” - -“I don’t know as to that,” replied the man; “you would have to see the -superintendent, I suppose.” - -“Then let me see the superintendent.” And at last he did succeed in -seeing some one whom he so convinced of the importance of his message as -to bring Lucy to the door. - -“Miss Graham,” he said, when they were at the top of the stairs, and so -far alone that no one else could hear him, “I want you to come out with -me for half an hour.” - -“I don’t think I can. They won’t let me.” - -“Yes they will. I have to say something which I must say now.” - -“Will not the evening do, Mr. Hall?” - -“No; I must go out of town by the mail train from Paddington, and it -will be too late. Get your hat and come with me for half an hour.” - -Then she remembered her hat, and she snatched a glance at her poor -stained dress, and she looked up at him. He was not dressed in his -working clothes, and his face and hands were clean, and altogether there -was a look about him of well-to-do manly tidiness which added to her -feeling of shame. - -“If you will go on to the house I will follow you,” she said. - -“Are you ashamed to walk with me?” - -“I am, because----” - -He had not understood her at first, but now he understood it all. “Get -your hat,” he said, “and come with a friend who is really a friend. You -must come; you must, indeed.” Then she felt herself compelled to obey, -and went back and got her old hat and followed him down the stairs into -the street. “And so Miss Wilson is going to be married,” were the first -words he said in the street. - -“Has she written to you?” - -“Yes; she has told me all about it. I am so glad that she should be -settled to her liking, out of town. She says that she is nearly well -now. I hope that Mr. Brown is a good sort of man, and that he will be -kind to her.” - -It could hardly be possible, Lucy thought, that he should have taken her -away from the office merely to talk to her of Sophy’s prospects. It was -evident that he was strong enough to conceal any chagrin which might -have been caused by Sophy’s apostacy. Could it, however, be the case -that he was going to leave London because his feelings had been too much -disturbed to allow of his remaining quiet? “And so you are going away? -Is it for long?” “Well, yes; I suppose it is for always.” Then there -came upon her a sense of increased desolation. Was he not her only -friend? And then, though she had refused all pecuniary assistance, there -had been present to her a feeling that there was near to her a strong -human being whom she could trust, and who in any last extremity could be -kind to her. - -“For always! And you go to-night!” Then she thought that he had been -right to insist on seeing her. It would certainly have been a great blow -to her if he had gone without a word of farewell. - -“There is a man wanted immediately to look after the engines at a great -establishment on the Wye, in the Forest of Dean. They have offered me -four pounds a week.” - -“Four pounds a week!” - -“But I must go at once. It has been talked about for some time, and now -it has come all in a clap. I have to be off without a day’s notice, -almost before I know where I am. As for leaving London, it is just what -I like. I love the country.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “that will be nice;--and about your little boy?” -Could it be that she was to be asked to do something for the child? - -They were now at the door of their house. - -“Here we are,” he said, “and perhaps I can say better inside what I have -got to say.” Then she followed him into the back sitting-room on the -ground floor. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED. - - -“Yes;” he said;--“about my little boy. I could not say what I had to say -in the street, though I had thought to do so.” Then he paused, and she -sat herself down, feeling, she did not know why, as though she would -lack strength to hear him if she stood. It was then the case that some -particular service was to be demanded from her,--something that would -show his confidence in her. The very idea of this seemed at once to add -a grace to her life. She would have the child to love. There would be -something for her to do. And there must be letters between her and him. -It would certainly add a grace to her life. But how odd that he should -not take his child with him! He had paused a moment while she thought of -all this, and she was aware that he was looking at her. But she did not -dare to return his gaze, or even to glance up at his face. And then -gradually she felt that she was shivering and trembling. What was it -that ailed her,--just now when it would be so necessary that she should -speak out with some strength? She had eaten nothing since her breakfast -when he had come to her, and she was afraid that she would show herself -to be weak. “Will you be his mother?” he said. - -What did it mean? How was she to answer him? She knew that his eyes were -on her, but hers were more than ever firmly fixed upon the floor. And -she was aware that she ought briskly to have acceded to his -request,--so as to have shown by her ready alacrity that she had -attributed no other meaning to the words than they had been intended to -convey,--that she had not for a moment been guilty of rash folly. But -though it was so imperative upon her to say a word, yet she could not -speak. Everything was swimming round her. She was not even sure that she -could sit upon her chair. “Lucy,” he said;--then she thought she would -have fallen;--“Lucy, will you be my wife?” - -There was no doubt about the word. Her sense of hearing was at any rate -not deficient. And there came upon her at once a thorough conviction -that all her troubles had been changed for ever and a day into joys and -blessings. The word had been spoken from which he certainly would never -go back, and which of course,--of course,--must be a commandment to her. -But yet there was an unfitness about it which disturbed her, and she was -still powerless to speak. The remembrance of the meanness of her clothes -and poorness of her position came upon her,--so that it would be her -duty to tell him that she was not fit for him; and yet she could not -speak. - -“If you will say that you want time to think about it, I shall be -contented,” he said. But she did not want a moment to think about it. -She could not have confessed to herself that she had learned to love -him,--oh, so much too dearly,--if it were not for this most unexpected, -most unthought of, almost impossible revelation. But she did not want a -moment to make herself sure that she did love him. Yet she could not -speak. “Will you say that you will think of it for a month?” - -Then there came upon her an idea that he was not asking this because he -loved her, but in order that he might have a mother whom he could trust -for his child. Even that would have been flattering, but that would not -have sufficed. Then when she told herself what she was, or rather what -she thought herself to be, she felt sure that he could not really love -her. Why should such a man as he love such a woman? Then her mouth was -opened. “You cannot want me for myself,” she said. - -“Not for yourself! Then why? I am not the man to seek any girl for her -fortune, and you have none.” Then again she was dumfounded. She could -not explain what she meant. She could not say,--because I am brown, and -because I am plain, and because I have become thin and worn from want, -and because my clothes are old and shabby. “I ask you,” he said, -“because with all my heart I love you.” - -It was as though the heavens had been opened to her. That he should -speak a word that was not true was to her impossible. And, as it was so, -she would not coy her love to him for a moment. If only she could have -found words with which to speak to him! She could not even look up at -him, but she put out her hand so as to touch him. “Lucy,” he said, -“stand up and come to me.” Then she stood up and with one little step -crept close to his side. “Lucy, can you love me?” And as he asked the -question his arm was pressed round her waist, and as she put up her hand -to welcome rather than to restrain his embrace, she again felt the -strength, the support, and the warmth of his grasp. “Will you not say -that you love me?” - -“I am such a poor thing,” she replied. - -“A poor thing, are you? Well, yes; there are different ways of being -poor. I have been poor enough in my time, but I never thought myself a -poor thing. And you must not say it ever of yourself again.” - -“No?” - -“My girl must not think herself a poor thing. May I not say, my girl?” -Then there was just a little murmur, a sound which would have been “yes” -but for the inability of her lips to open themselves. “And if my girl, -then my wife. And shall my wife be called a poor thing? No, Lucy. I have -seen it all. I don’t think I like poor things;--but I like you.” - -“Do you?” - -“I do. And now I must go back to the City Road and give up charge and -take my money. And I must leave this at seven--after a cup of tea. Shall -I see you again?” - -“See me again! Oh, to-day, you mean. Indeed you shall. Not see you off? -My own, own, own man?” - -“What will they say at the office?” - -“I don’t care what they say. Let them say what they like. I have never -been absent a day yet without leave. What time shall I be here?” Then -he named an hour. “Of course I will have your last words. Perhaps you -will tell me something that I must do.” - -“I must leave some money with you.” - -“No; no; no; not yet. That shall come after.” This she said smiling up -at him, with a sparkle of a tear in each eye, but with such a smile! -Then he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “That may come at present -at any rate,” he said. To this, though it was repeated once and again, -there was no opposition. Then in his own masterful manner he put on his -hat and stalked out of the room without any more words. - -She must return to the office that afternoon, of course, if only for the -sake of explaining her wish to absent herself the rest of the day. But -she could not go forth into the streets just yet. Though she had been -able to smile at him and to return his caress, and for a moment so to -stand by him that she might have something of the delight of his love, -still she was too much flurried, too weak from the excitement of the -last half-hour, to walk back to the Post Office without allowing herself -some minutes to recruit her strength and collect her thoughts. She went -at once up to her own room and cut for herself a bit of bread which she -began to eat,--just as one would trim one’s lamp carefully for some -night work, even though oppressed by heaviest sorrow, or put fuel on the -fire that would be needed. Then having fed herself, she leaned back in -her chair, throwing her handkerchief over her face, in order that she -might think of it. - -Oh,--how much there was to fill her mind with many thoughts! Looking -back to what she had been even an hour ago, and then assuring herself -with infinite delight of the certain happiness of her present position, -she told herself that all the world had been altered to her within that -short space. As for loving him;--there was no doubt about that! Now she -could own to herself that she had long since loved him, even when she -thought that he might probably take that other girl as his wife. That -she should love him,--was it not a matter of course, he being what he -was? But that he should love her,--that, that was the marvel! But he -did. She need not doubt that. She could remember distinctly each word of -assurance that he had spoken to her. “I ask you, because with all my -heart I love you.” “May I not say my girl;--and, if my girl, then my -wife?” “I do not think that I like poor things; but I like you.” No. If -she were regarded by him as good enough to be his wife then she would -certainly never call herself a poor thing again. - -In her troubles and her poverty,--especially in her solitude, she had -often thought of that other older man who had wanted to make her his -wife,--sometimes almost with regret. There would have been duties for -her and a home, and a mode of life more fitting to her feminine nature -than this solitary tedious existence. And there would have been -something for her to love, some human being on whom to spend her human -solicitude and sympathies. She had leagued herself with Sophy Wilson, -and she had been true to the bond; but it had had in it but little -satisfaction. The other life, she had sometimes thought, would have been -better. But she had never loved the man, and could not have loved him as -a husband should, she thought, be loved by his wife. She had done what -was right in refusing the good things which he had offered her,--and now -she was rewarded! Now had come to her the bliss of which she had -dreamed, that of belonging to a man to whom she felt that she was bound -by all the chords of her heart. Then she repeated his name to -herself,--Abraham Hall, and tried in a lowest whisper the sound of that -other name,--Lucy Hall. And she opened her arms wide as she sat upon the -chair as though in that way she could take his child to her bosom. - -She had been sitting so nearly an hour when she started up suddenly and -again put on her old hat and hurried off towards her office. She felt -now that as regarded her clothes she did not care about herself. There -was a paradise prepared for her so dear and so near that the present was -made quite bright by merely being the short path to such a future. But -for his sake she cared. As belonging to him she would fain, had it been -possible, not have shown herself in a garb unfitting for his wife. -Everything about him had always been decent, fitting, and serviceable! -Well! It was his own doing. He had chosen her as she was. She would not -run in debt to make herself fit for his notice, because such debts would -have been debts to be paid by him. But if she could squeeze from her -food what should supply her with garments fit at any rate to stand with -him at the altar it should be done. - -Then, as she hurried on to the office, she remembered what he had said -about money. No! She would not have his money till it was hers of right. -Then with what perfect satisfaction would she take from him whatever he -pleased to give her, and how hard would she work for him in order that -he might never feel that he had given her his good things for nothing! - -It was five o’clock before she was at the office, and she had promised -to be back in the lodgings at six, to get for him his tea. It was quite -out of the question that she should work to-day. “The truth is, ma’am,” -she said to the female superintendent, “I have received and accepted an -offer of marriage this afternoon. He is going out of town to-night, and -I want to be with him before he goes.” This is a plea against which -official rigour cannot prevail. I remember once when a young man applied -to a saturnine pundit who ruled matters in a certain office for leave of -absence for a month to get married. “To get married!” said the saturnine -pundit. “Poor fellow! But you must have the leave.” The lady at the -telegraph office was no doubt less caustic, and dismissed our Lucy for -the day with congratulations rather than pity. - -She was back at the lodging before her lover, and had borrowed the -little back parlour from Mrs. Green, and had spread the tea-things, and -herself made the toast in the kitchen before he came. “There’s something -I suppose more nor friendship betwixt you and Mr. Hall, and better,” -said the landlady smiling. “A great deal better, Mrs. Green,” Lucy had -replied, with her face intent upon the toast. “I thought it never could -have been that other young lady,” said Mrs. Green. - -“And now, my dear, about money,” said Abraham as he rose to prepare -himself for the journey. Many things had been settled over that -meal,--how he was to get a house ready, and was then to say when she -should come to him, and how she should bring the boy with her, and how -he would have the banns called in the church, and how they would be -married as soon as possible after her arrival in the new country. “And -now, my dear, about money?” - -She had to take it at last. “Yes,” she said, “it is right that I should -have things fit to come to you in. It is right that you shouldn’t be -disgraced.” - -“I’d marry you in a sack from the poor-house, if it were necessary,” he -said with vehemence. - -“As it is not necessary, it shall not be so. I will get things;--but -they shall belong to you always; and I will not wear them till the day -that I also shall belong to you.” - -She went with him that night to the station, and kissed him openly as -she parted from him on the platform. There was nothing in her love now -of which she was ashamed. How, after some necessary interval, she -followed him down into Gloucestershire, and how she became his wife -standing opposite to him in the bright raiment which his liberality had -supplied, and how she became as good a wife as ever blessed a man’s -household, need hardly here be told. - -That Miss Wilson recovered her health and married the hairdresser may be -accepted by all anxious readers as an undoubted fact. - - - - -ALICE DUGDALE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY. - - -It used to be said in the village of Beetham that nothing ever went -wrong with Alice Dugdale,--the meaning of which, perhaps, lay in the -fact that she was determined that things should be made to go right. -Things as they came were received by her with a gracious welcome, and -“things,” whatever they were, seemed to be so well pleased with the -treatment afforded to them, that they too for most part made themselves -gracious in return. - -Nevertheless she had had sorrows, as who has not? But she had kept her -tears for herself, and had shown her smiles for the comfort, of those -around her. In this little story it shall be told how in a certain -period of her life she had suffered much;--how she still smiled, and how -at last she got the better of her sorrow. - -Her father was the country doctor in the populous and straggling parish -of Beetham. Beetham is one of those places so often found in the south -of England, half village, half town, for the existence of which there -seems to be no special reason. It had no mayor, no municipality, no -market, no pavements, and no gas. It was therefore no more than a -village;--but it had a doctor, and Alice’s father, Dr. Dugdale, was the -man. He had been established at Beetham for more than thirty years, and -knew every pulse and every tongue for ten miles round. I do not know -that he was very great as a doctor;--but he was a kind-hearted, liberal -man, and he enjoyed the confidence of the Beethamites, which is -everything. For thirty years he had worked hard and had brought up a -large family without want. He was still working hard, though turned -sixty, at the time of which we are speaking. He had even in his old age -many children dependent on him, and though he had fairly prospered, he -had not become a rich man. - -He had been married twice, and Alice was the only child left at home by -his first wife. Two elder sisters were married, and an elder brother was -away in the world. Alice had been much younger than they, and had been -the only child living with him when he had brought to his house a second -mother for her. She was then fifteen. Eight or nine years had since -gone, and almost every year had brought an increase to the doctor’s -family. There were now seven little Dugdales in and about the nursery; -and what the seven would do when Alice should go away the folk of -Beetham always declared that they were quite at a loss even to guess. -For Mrs. Dugdale was one of those women who succumb to -difficulties,--who seem originally to have been made of soft material -and to have become warped, out of joint, tattered, and almost useless -under the wear of the world. But Alice had been constructed of -thoroughly seasoned timber, so that, let her be knocked about as she -might, she was never out of repair. Now the doctor, excellent as he was -at doctoring, was not very good at household matters,--so that the folk -at Beetham had reason to be at a loss when they bethought themselves as -to what would happen when Alice should “go away.” - -Of course there is always that prospect of a girl’s “going away.” Girls -not unfrequently intend to go away. Sometimes they “go away” very -suddenly, without any previous intention. At any rate such a girl as -Alice cannot be regarded as a fixture in a house. Binding as may be her -duties at home, it is quite understood that should any adequate -provocation to “go away” be brought within her reach, she will go, let -the duties be what they may. Alice was a thoroughly good girl,--good to -her father, good to her little brothers and sisters, unutterably good to -that poor foolish stepmother;--but, no doubt she would “go away” if duly -asked. - -When that vista of future discomfort in the doctor’s house first made -itself clearly apparent to the Beethamites, an idea that Alice might -perhaps go very soon had begun to prevail in the village. The eldest son -of the vicar, Parson Rossiter, had come back from India as Major -Rossiter, with an appointment, as some said, of £2,000 a year;--let us -put it down as £1,500;--and had renewed his acquaintance with his old -playfellow. Others, more than one or two, had endeavoured before this to -entice Alice to “go away,” but it was said that the dark-visaged -warrior, with his swarthy face and black beard, and bright -eyes,--probably, too, something in him nobler than those outward -bearings,--had whispered words which had prevailed. It was supposed that -Alice now had a fitting lover, and that therefore she would “go away.” - -There was no doubt in the mind of any single inhabitant of Beetham as to -the quality of the lover. It was considered on all sides that he was -fitting,--so fitting that Alice would of course go when asked. John -Rossiter was such a man that every Beethamite looked upon him as a -hero,--so that Beetham was proud to have produced him. In small -communities a man will come up now and then as to whom it is surmised -that any young lady would of course accept him. This man, who was now -about ten years older than Alice, had everything to recommend him. He -was made up of all good gifts of beauty, conduct, dignity, good -heart,--and fifteen hundred a year at the very least. His official -duties required him to live in London, from which Beetham was seventy -miles distant; but those duties allowed him ample time for visiting the -parsonage. So very fitting he was to take any girl away upon whom he -might fix an eye of approbation, that there were others, higher than -Alice in the world’s standing, who were said to grudge the young lady -of the village so great a prize. For Alice Dugdale was a young lady of -the village and no more; whereas there were county families around, with -daughters, among whom the Rossiters had been in the habit of mixing. Now -that such a Rossiter had come to the fore, the parsonage family was held -to be almost equal to county people. - -To whatever extent Alice’s love affairs had gone, she herself had been -very silent about them; nor had her lover as yet taken the final step of -being closeted for ten minutes with her father. Nevertheless everybody -had been convinced in Beetham that it would be so,--unless it might be -Mrs. Rossiter. Mrs. Rossiter was ambitious for her son, and in this -matter sympathised with the county people. The county people certainly -were of opinion that John Rossiter might do better, and did not -altogether see what there was in Alice Dugdale to make such a fuss -about. Of course she had a sweet countenance, rather brown, with good -eyes. She had not, they said, another feature in her face which could be -called handsome. Her nose was broad. Her mouth was large. They did not -like that perpetual dimpling of the cheek which, if natural, looked as -if it were practised. She was stout, almost stumpy, they thought. No -doubt she danced well, having a good ear and being active and healthy; -but with such a waist no girl could really be graceful. They -acknowledged her to be the best nursemaid that ever a mother had in her -family; but they thought it a pity that she should be taken away from -duties for which her presence was so much desired, at any rate by such -a one as John Rossiter. I, who knew Beetham well, and who though turned -the hill of middle life had still an eye for female charms, used to -declare to myself that Alice, though she was decidedly village and not -county, was far, far away the prettiest girl in that part of the world. - -The old parson loved her, and so did Miss Rossiter,--Miss Janet -Rossiter,--who was four or five years older than her brother, and -therefore quite an old maid. But John was so great a man that neither of -them dared to say much to encourage him,--as neither did Mrs. Rossiter -to use her eloquence on the other side. It was felt by all of them that -any persuasion might have on John anything but the intended effect. When -a man at the age of thirty-three is Deputy Assistant Inspector General -of Cavalry, it is not easy to talk him this way or that in a matter of -love. And John Rossiter, though the best fellow in the world, was apt to -be taciturn on such a subject. Men frequently marry almost without -thinking about it at all. “Well; perhaps I might as well. At any rate I -cannot very well help it.” That too often is the frame of mind. -Rossiter’s discussion to himself was of a higher nature than that, but -perhaps not quite what it should have been. “This is a thing of such -moment that it requires to be pondered again and again. A man has to -think of himself, and of her, and of the children which have to come -after him;--of the total good or total bad which may come of such a -decision.” As in the one manner there is too much of negligence, so in -the other there may be too much of care. The “perhaps I might as -wells,”--so good is Providence,--are sometimes more successful than -those careful, long-pondering heroes. The old parson was very sweet to -Alice, believing that she would be his daughter-in-law, and so was Miss -Rossiter, thoroughly approving of such a sister. But Mrs. Rossiter was a -little cold;--all of which Alice could read plainly and digest, without -saying a word. If it was to be, she would welcome her happy lot with -heartfelt acknowledgment of the happiness provided for her; but if it -was not to be, no human being should know that she had sorrowed. There -should be nothing lack-a-daisical in her life or conduct. She had her -work to do, and she knew that as long as she did that, grief would not -overpower her. - -In her own house it was taken for granted that she was to “go,” in a -manner that distressed her. “You’ll never be here to lengthen ’em,” said -her stepmother to her, almost whining, when there was a question as to -flounces in certain juvenile petticoats which might require to be longer -than they were first made before they should be finally abandoned. - -“That I certainly shall if Tiny grows as she does now.” - -“I suppose he’ll pop regularly when he next comes down,” said Mrs. -Dugdale. - -There was ever so much in this which annoyed Alice. In the first place, -the word “pop” was to her abominable. Then she was almost called upon to -deny that he would “pop,” when in her heart she thought it very -probable that he might. And the word, she knew, had become intelligible -to the eldest of her little sisters who was present. Moreover, she was -most unwilling to discuss the subject at all, and could hardly leave it -undiscussed when such direct questions were asked. “Mamma,” she said, -“don’t let us think about anything of the kind.” This did not at all -satisfy herself. She ought to have repudiated the lover altogether; and -yet she could not bring herself to tell the necessary lie. - -“I suppose he will come--some day,” said Minnie, the child old enough to -understand the meaning of such coming. - - “For men may come and men may go, - But I go on for ever,--for ever,” - -said or sang Alice, with a pretence of drollery, as she turned herself -to her little sister. But even in her little song there was a purpose. -Let any man come or let any man go, she would go on, at any rate -apparently untroubled, in her walk of life. - -“Of course he’ll take you away, and then what am I to do?” said Mrs. -Dugdale moaning. It is sad enough for a girl thus to have her lover -thrown in her face when she is by no means sure of her lover. - -A day or two afterwards another word, much more painful, was said to her -up at the parsonage. Into the parsonage she went frequently to show that -there was nothing in her heart to prevent her visiting her old friends -as had been her wont. - -“John will be down here next week,” said the parson, whom she met on -the gravel drive just at the hall door. - -“How often he comes! What do they do at the Horse Guards, or wherever it -is that he goes to?” - -“He’ll be more steady when he has taken a wife,” said the old man. - -“In the meantime what becomes of the cavalry?” - -“I dare say you’ll know all about that before long,” said the parson -laughing. - -“Now, my dear, how can you be so foolish as to fill the girl’s head with -nonsense of that kind?” said Mrs. Rossiter, who at that moment came out -from the front door. “And you’re doing John an injustice. You are making -people believe that he has said that which he has not said.” - -Alice at the moment was very angry,--as angry as she well could be. It -was certain that Mrs. Rossiter did not know what her son had said or had -not said. But it was cruel that she who had put forward no claim, who -had never been forward in seeking her lover, should be thus almost -publicly rebuked. Quiet as she wished to be, it was necessary that she -should say one word in her own defence. “I don’t think Mr. Rossiter’s -little joke will do John any injustice or me any harm,” she said. “But, -as it may be taken seriously, I hope he will not repeat it.” - -“He could not do better for himself. That’s my opinion,” said the old -man, turning back into the house. There had been words before on the -subject between him and his wife, and he was not well pleased with her -at this moment. - -“My dear Alice, I am sure you know that I mean everything the best for -you,” said Mrs. Rossiter. - -“If nobody would mean anything, but just let me alone, that would be -best. And as for nonsense, Mrs. Rossiter, don’t you know of me that I’m -not likely to be carried away by foolish ideas of that kind?” - -“I do know that you are very good.” - -“Then why should you talk at me as though I were very bad?” Mrs. -Rossiter felt that she had been reprimanded, and was less inclined than -ever to accept Alice as a daughter-in-law. - -Alice, as she walked home, was low in spirits, and angry with herself -because it was so. People would be fools. Of course that was to be -expected. She had known all along that Mrs. Rossiter wanted a grander -wife for her son, whereas the parson was anxious to have her for his -daughter-in-law. Of course she loved the parson better than his wife. -But why was it that she felt at this moment that Mrs. Rossiter would -prevail? - -“Of course it will be so,” she said to herself. “I see it now. And I -suppose he is right. But then certainly he ought not to have come here. -But perhaps he comes because he wishes to--see Miss Wanless.” She went a -little out of her road home, not only to dry a tear, but to rid herself -of the effect of it, and then spent the remainder of the afternoon -swinging her brothers and sisters in the garden. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -MAJOR ROSSITER. - - -“Perhaps he is coming here to see Miss Wanless,” Alice had said to -herself. And in the course of that week she found that her surmise was -correct. John Rossiter stayed only one night at the parsonage, and then -went over to Brook Park where lived Sir Walter Wanless and all the -Wanlesses. The parson had not so declared when he told Alice that his -son was coming, but John himself said on his arrival that this was a -special visit made to Brook Park, and not to Beetham. It had been -promised for the last three months, though only fixed lately. He took -the trouble to come across to the doctor’s house with the express -purpose of explaining the fact. “I suppose you have always been intimate -with them,” said Mrs. Dugdale, who was sitting with Alice and a little -crowd of the children round them. There was a tone of sarcasm in the -words not at all hidden. “We all know that you are a great deal finer -than we mere village folk. We don’t know the Wanlesses, but of course -you do. You’ll find yourself much more at home at Brook Park than you -can in such a place as this.” All that, though not spoken, was contained -in the tone of the lady’s speech. - -“We have always been neighbours,” said John Rossiter. - -“Neighbours ten miles off!” said Mrs Dugdale. - -“I dare say the Good Samaritan lived thirty miles off,” said Alice. - -“I don’t think distance has much to do with it,” said the Major. - -“I like my neighbours to be neighbourly. I like Beetham neighbours,” -said Mrs. Dugdale. There was a reproach in every word of it. Mrs. -Dugdale had heard of Miss Georgiana Wanless, and Major Rossiter knew -that she had done so. After her fashion the lady was accusing him for -deserting Alice. - -Alice understood it also, and yet it behoved her to hold herself well up -and be cheerful. “I like Beetham people best myself,” she said, “but -then it is because I don’t know any other. I remember going to Brook -Park once, when there was a party of children, a hundred years ago, and -I thought it quite a paradise. There was a profusion of strawberries by -which my imagination has been troubled ever since. You’ll just be in -time for the strawberries, Major Rossiter.” He had always been John till -quite lately,--John with the memories of childhood; but now he had -become Major Rossiter. - -She went out into the garden with him for a moment as he took his -leave,--not quite alone, as a little boy of two years old was clinging -to her hand. “If I had my way,” she said, “I’d have my neighbours -everywhere,--at any distance. I envy a man chiefly for that.” - -“Those one loves best should be very near, I think.” - -“Those one loves best of all? Oh yes, so that one may do something. It -wouldn’t do not to have you every day, would it, Bobby?” Then she -allowed the willing little urchin to struggle up into her arms and to -kiss her, all smeared as was his face with bread-and-butter. - -“Your mother meant to say that I was running away from my old friends.” - -“Of course she did. You see, you loom so very large to us here. You -are--such a swell, as Dick says, that we are a little sore when you pass -us by. Everybody likes to be bowed to by royalty. Don’t you know that? -Brook Park is, of course, the proper place for you; but you don’t expect -but what we are going to express our little disgusts and little prides -when we find ourselves left behind!” No words could have less declared -her own feelings on the matter than those she was uttering; but she -found herself compelled to laugh at him, lest, in the other direction, -something of tenderness might escape her, whereby he might be injured -worse than by her raillery. In nothing that she might say could there be -less of real reproach to him than in this. - -“I hate that word ‘swell,’” he said. - -“So do I.” - -“Then why do you use it?” - -“To show you how much better Brook Park is than Beetham. I am sure they -don’t talk about swells at Brook Park.” - -“Why do you throw Brook Park in my teeth?” - -“I feel an inclination to make myself disagreeable to-day. Are you never -like that?” - -“I hope not.” - -“And then I am bound to follow up what poor dear mamma began. But I -won’t throw Brook Park in your teeth. The ladies I know are very nice. -Sir Walter Wanless is a little grand;--isn’t he?” - -“You know,” said he, “that I should be much happier here than there.” - -“Because Sir Walter is so grand?” - -“Because my friends here are dearer friends. But still it is right that -I should go. One cannot always be where one would be happiest.” - -“I am happiest with Bobby,” said she; “and I can always have Bobby.” -Then she gave him her hand at the gate, and he went down to the -parsonage. - -That night Mrs. Rossiter was closeted for awhile with her son before -they both went to bed. She was supposed, in Beetham, to be of a higher -order of intellect,--of a higher stamp generally,--than her husband or -daughter, and to be in that respect nearly on a par with her son. She -had not travelled as he had done, but she was of an ambitious mind and -had thoughts beyond Beetham. The poor dear parson cared for little -outside the bounds of his parish. “I am so glad you are going to stay -for awhile over at Brook Park,” she said. - -“Only for three days.” - -“In the intimacy of a house three days is a lifetime. Of course I do not -like to interfere.” When this was said the Major frowned, knowing well -that his mother was going to interfere. “But I cannot help thinking how -much a connection with the Wanlesses would do for you.” - -“I don’t want anything from any connection.” - -“That is all very well, John, for a man to say; but in truth we all -depend on connections one with another. You are beginning the world.” - -“I don’t know about that, mother.” - -“To my eyes you are. Of course, you look upwards.” - -“I take all that as it comes.” - -“No doubt; but still you must have it in your mind to rise. A man is -assisted very much by the kind of wife he marries. Much would be done -for a son-in-law of Sir Walter Wanless.” - -“Nothing, I hope, ever for me on that score. To succeed by favour is -odious.” - -“But even to rise by merit, so much outside assistance is often -necessary! Though you will assuredly deserve all that you will ever get, -yet you may be more likely to get it as a son-in-law to Sir Walter -Wanless than if you were married to some obscure girl. Men who make the -most of themselves in the world do think of these things. I am the last -woman in the world to recommend my boy to look after money in marriage.” - -“The Miss Wanlesses will have none.” - -“And therefore I can speak the more freely. They will have very -little,--as coming from such a family. But he has great influence. He -has contested the county five times. And then--where is there a -handsomer girl than Georgiana Wanless?” The Major thought that he knew -one, but did not answer the question. “And she is all that such a girl -ought to be. Her manners are perfect,--and her conduct. A constant -performance of domestic duties is of course admirable. If it comes to -one to have to wash linen, she who washes her linen well is a good -woman. But among mean things high spirits are not to be found.” - -“I am not so sure of that.” - -“It must be so. How can the employment of every hour in the day on -menial work leave time for the mind to fill itself? Making children’s -frocks may be a duty, but it must also be an impediment.” - -“You are speaking of Alice.” - -“Of course I am speaking of Alice.” - -“I would wager my head that she has read twice more in the last two -years than Georgiana Wanless. But, mother, I am not disposed to discuss -either the one young lady or the other. I am not going to Brook Park to -look for a wife; and if ever I take one, it will be simply because I -like her best, and not because I wish to use her as a rung of a ladder -by which to climb upwards into the world.” That all this and just this -would be said to her Mrs. Rossiter had been aware; but still she had -thought that a word in season might have its effect. - -And it did have its effect. John Rossiter, as he was driven over to -Brook Park on the following morning, was unconsciously mindful of that -allusion to the washerwoman. He had seen that Alice’s cheek had been -smirched by the greasy crumbs from her little brother’s mouth, he had -seen that the tips of her fingers showed the mark of the needle; he had -seen fragments of thread about her dress, and the mud even from the -children’s boots on her skirts. He had seen this, and had been aware -that Georgiana Wanless was free from all such soil on her outward -raiment. He liked the perfect grace of unspotted feminine apparel, and -he had, too, thought of the hours in which Alice might probably be -employed amidst the multifarious needs of a nursery, and had argued to -himself much as his mother had argued. It was good and homely,--worthy -of a thousand praises; but was it exactly that which he wanted in a -wife? He had repudiated with scorn his mother’s cold, worldly doctrine; -but yet he had felt that it would be a pleasant thing to have it known -in London that his wife was the daughter of Sir Walter Wanless. It was -true that she was wonderfully handsome,--a complexion perfectly clear, a -nose cut as out of marble, a mouth delicate as of a goddess, with a -waist quite to match it. Her shoulders were white as alabaster. Her -dress was at all times perfect. Her fingers were without mark or stain. -There might perhaps be a want of expression; but faces so symmetrical -are seldom expressive. And then, to crown all this, he was justified in -believing that she was attached to himself. Almost as much had been said -to him by Lady Wanless herself,--a word which would amount to as much, -coupled as it was with an immediate invitation to Brook Park. Of this -he had given no hint to any human being; but he had been at Brook Park -once before, and some rumour of something between him and Miss Georgiana -Wanless had reached the people at Beetham,--had reached, as we have -seen, not only Mrs. Rossiter, but also Alice Dugdale. - -There had been moments up in London when his mind had veered round -towards Miss Wanless. But there was one little trifle which opposed the -action of his mind, and that was his heart. He had begun to think that -it might be his duty to marry Georgiana;--but the more he thought so the -more clearly would the figure of Alice stand before him, so that no veil -could be thrown over it. When he tried to summon to his imagination the -statuesque beauty of the one girl, the bright eyes of the other would -look at him, and the words from her speaking mouth would be in his ears. -He had once kissed Alice, immediately on his return, in the presence of -her father, and the memory of the halcyon moment was always present to -him. When he thought most of Miss Wanless he did not think much of her -kisses. How grand she would be at his dining-table, how glorious in his -drawing-room! But with Alice how sweet would it be to sit by some brook -side and listen to the waters! - -And now since he had been at Beetham, from the nature of things which -sometimes make events to come from exactly contrary causes, a new charm -had been added to Alice, simply by the little effort she had made to -annoy him. She had talked to him of “swells,” and had pretended to be -jealous of the Wanlesses, just because she had known that he would hate -to hear such a word from her lips, and that he would be vexed by -exhibition of such a feeling on her part! He was quite sure that she had -not committed these sins because they belonged to her as a matter of -course. Nothing could be more simple than her natural language or her -natural feelings. But she had chosen to show him that she was ready to -run into little faults which might offend him. The reverse of her ideas -came upon him. She had said, as it were,--“See how little anxious I must -be to dress myself in your mirror when I put myself in the same category -with my poor stepmother.” Then he said to himself that he could see her -as he was fain to see her, in her own mirror, and he loved her the -better because she had dared to run the risk of offending him. - -As he was driven up to the house at Brook Park he knew that it was his -destiny to marry either the one girl or the other; and he was afraid of -himself,--that before he left the house he might be engaged to the one -he did not love. There was a moment in which he thought he would turn -round and go back. “Major Rossiter,” Lady Wanless had said, “you know -how glad we are to see you here. There is no young man of the day of -whom Sir Walter thinks so much.” Then he had thanked her. “But--may I -say a word in warning?” - -“Certainly.” - -“And I may trust to your honour?” - -“I think so, Lady Wanless.” - -“Do not be much with that sweet darling of mine,--unless indeed--” And -then she had stopped. Major Rossiter, though he was a major and had -served some years in India, blushed up to his eyebrows and was unable to -answer a word. But he knew that Georgiana Wanless had been offered to -him, and was entitled to believe that the young lady was prone to fall -in love with him. Lady Wanless, had she been asked for an excuse for -such conduct, would have said that the young men of the present day were -slow in managing their own affairs, unless a little help were given to -them. - -When the Major was almost immediately invited to return to Brook Park, -he could not but feel that, if he were so to make his choice, he would -be received there as a son-in-law. It may be that unless he intended so -to be received, he should not have gone. This he felt as he was driven -across the park, and was almost minded to return to Beetham. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -LADY WANLESS. - - -Sir Walter Wanless was one of those great men who never do anything -great, but achieve their greatness partly by their tailors, partly by a -breadth of eyebrow and carriage of the body,--what we may call -deportment,--and partly by the outside gifts of fortune. Taking his -career altogether we must say that he had been unfortunate. He was a -baronet with a fine house and park,--and with an income hardly -sufficient for the place. He had contested the county four times on old -Whig principles, and had once been in Parliament for two years. There he -had never opened his mouth; but in his struggle to get there had greatly -embarrassed his finances. His tailor had been well chosen, and had -always turned him out as the best dressed old baronet in England. His -eyebrow was all his own, and certainly commanded respect from those with -whom eyebrows are efficacious. He never read; he eschewed farming, by -which he had lost money in early life; and had, so to say, no visible -occupation at all. But he was Sir Walter Wanless, and what with his -tailor and what with his eyebrow he did command a great deal of respect -in the country round Beetham. He had, too, certain good gifts for which -people were thankful as coming from so great a man. He paid his bills, -he went to church, he was well behaved, and still maintained certain -old-fashioned family charities, though money was not plentiful with him. - -He had two sons and five daughters. The sons were in the army, and were -beyond his control. The daughters were all at home, and were altogether -under the control of their mother. Indeed everything at Brook Park was -under the control of Lady Wanless,--though no man alive gave himself -airs more autocratic than Sir Walter. It was on her shoulders that fell -the burden of the five daughters, and of maintaining with straitened -means the hospitality of Brook Park on their behoof. A hard-worked -woman was Lady Wanless, in doing her duty,--with imperfect lights no -doubt, but to the best of her abilities with such lights as she -possessed. She was somewhat fine in her dress, not for any comfort that -might accrue to herself, but from a feeling that an alliance with the -Wanlesses would not be valued by the proper sort of young men unless she -were grand herself. The girls were beautifully dressed; but oh, with -such care and economy and daily labour among them, herself, and the two -lady’s-maids upstairs! The father, what with his election and his -farming, and a period of costly living early in his life, had not done -well for the family. That she knew, and never rebuked him. But it was -for her to set matters right, which she could only do by getting -husbands for the daughters. That this might be achieved the Wanless -prestige must be maintained; and with crippled means it is so hard to -maintain a family prestige! A poor duke may do it, or perhaps an earl; -but a baronet is not high enough to give bad wines to his guests without -serious detriment to his unmarried daughters. - -A beginning to what might be hoped to be a long line of successes had -already been made. The eldest girl, Sophia, was engaged. Lady Wanless -did not look very high, knowing that failure in such operations will -bring with it such unutterable misfortune. Sophia was engaged to the -eldest son of a neighbouring Squire,--whose property indeed was not -large, nor was the squire likely to die very soon; but there were the -means of present living and a future rental of £4,000 a year. Young Mr. -Cobble was now staying at the house, and had been duly accepted by Sir -Walter himself. The youngest girl, who was only nineteen, had fallen in -love with a young clergyman in the neighbourhood. That would not do at -all, and the young clergyman was not allowed within the Park. Georgiana -was the beauty; and for her, if for any, some great destiny might have -been hoped. But it was her turn, a matter of which Lady Wanless thought -a great deal, and the Major was too good to be allowed to escape. -Georgiana, in her cold, impassive way, seemed to like the Major, and -therefore Lady Wanless paired them off instantly with that decision -which was necessary amidst the labours of her life. She had no scruples -in what she did, feeling sure that her daughters would make honest, good -wives, and that the blood of the Wanlesses was a dowry in itself. - -The Major had been told to come early, because a party was made to visit -certain ruins about eight miles off,--Castle Owless, as it was -called,--to which Lady Wanless was accustomed to take her guests, -because the family history declared that the Wanlesses had lived there -at some very remote period. It still belonged to Sir Walter, though -unfortunately the intervening lands had for the most part fallen into -other hands. Owless and Wanless were supposed to be the same, and thus -there was room for a good deal of family tattle. - -“I am delighted to see you at Brook Park,” said Sir Walter as they met -at the luncheon table. “When I was at Christchurch your father was at -Wadham, and I remember him well.” Exactly the same words had been spoken -when the Major, on a former occasion, had been made welcome at the -house, and clearly implied a feeling that Christchurch, though much -superior, may condescend to know Wadham--under certain circumstances. Of -the Baronet nothing further was heard or seen till dinner. - -Lady Wanless went in the open carriage with three daughters, Sophie -being one of them. As her affair was settled it was not necessary that -one of the two side-saddles should be allotted to her use. Young Cobble, -who had been asked to send two horses over from Cobble Hall so that -Rossiter might ride one, felt this very hard. But there was no appeal -from Lady Wanless. “You’ll have plenty enough of her all the evening,” -said the mother, patting him affectionately, “and it is so necessary -just at present that Georgiana and Edith should have horse exercise.” In -this way it was arranged that Georgiana should ride with the Major, and -Edith, the third daughter, with young Burmeston, the son of Cox and -Burmeston, brewers at the neighbouring town of Slowbridge. A country -brewer is not quite what Lady Wanless would have liked; but with -difficulties such as hers a rich young brewer might be worth having. All -this was hard upon Mr. Cobble, who would not have sent his horses over -had he known it. - -Our Major saw at a glance that Georgiana rode well. He liked ladies to -ride, and doubted whether Alice had ever been on horseback in her life. -After all, how many advantages does a girl lose by having to pass her -days in a nursery! For a moment some such idea crossed his mind. Then he -asked Georgiana some question as to the scenery through which they were -passing. “Very fine, indeed,” said Georgiana. She looked square before -her, and sat with her back square to the horse’s tail. There was no -hanging in the saddle, no shifting about in uneasiness. She could rise -and fall easily, even gracefully, when the horse trotted. “You are fond -of riding I can see,” said the Major. “I do like riding,” answered -Georgiana. The tone in which she spoke of her present occupation was -much more lively than that in which she had expressed her approbation of -scenery. - -At the ruin they all got down, and Lady Wanless told them the entire -story of the Owlesses and the Wanlesses, and filled the brewer’s mind -with wonder as to the antiquity and dignity of the family. But the Major -was the fish just at this moment in hand. “The Rossiters are very old, -too,” she said smiling; “but perhaps that is a kind of thing you don’t -care for.” - -“Very much indeed,” said he. Which was true,--for he was proud of -knowing that he had come from the Rossiters who had been over four -hundred years in Herefordshire. “A remembrance of old merit will always -be an incitement to new.” - -“It is just that, Major Rossiter. It is strange how very nearly in the -same words Georgiana said the same thing to me yesterday.” Georgiana -happened to overhear this, but did not contradict her mother, though she -made a grimace to her sister which was seen by no one else. Then Lady -Wanless slipped aside to assist the brewer and Edith, leaving the Major -and her second daughter together. The two younger girls, of whom the -youngest was the wicked one with the penchant for the curate, were -wandering among the ruins by themselves. - -“I wonder whether there ever were any people called Owless,” said -Rossiter, not quite knowing what subject of conversation to choose. - -“Of course there were. Mamma always says so.” - -“That settles the question;--does it not?” - -“I don’t see why there shouldn’t be Owlesses. No; I won’t sit on the -wall, thank you, because I should stain my habit.” - -“But you’ll be tired.” - -“Not particularly tired. It is not so very far. I’d go back in the -carriage, only of course we can’t because of the habits. Oh, yes; I’m -very fond of dancing,--very fond indeed. We always have two balls every -year at Slowbridge. And there are some others about the county. I don’t -think you ever have balls at Beetham.” - -“There is no one to give them.” - -“Does Miss Dugdale ever dance?” - -The Major had to think for a moment before he could answer the question. -Why should Miss Wanless ask as to Alice’s dancing? “I am sure she does. -Now I think of it I have heard her talk of dancing. You don’t know -Alice Dugdale?” Miss Wanless shook her head. “She is worth knowing.” - -“I am quite sure she is. I have always heard that you thought so. She is -very good to all those children; isn’t she?” - -“Very good indeed.” - -“She would be almost pretty if she wasn’t so,--so, so dumpy I should -say.” Then they got on their horses again and rode back to Brook Park. -Let Georgiana be ever so tired she did not show it, but rode in under -the portico with perfect equestrian grace. - -“I’m afraid you took too much out of her,” said Lady Wanless to the -Major that evening. Georgiana had gone to bed a little earlier than the -others. - -This was in some degree hard upon him, as he had not proposed the -ride,--and he excused himself. “It was you arranged it all, Lady -Wanless.” - -“Yes indeed,” said she, smiling. “I did arrange the little excursion, -but it was not I who kept her talking the whole day.” Now this again was -felt to be unfair, as nearly every word of conversation between the -young people has been given in this little chronicle. - -On the following day the young people were again thrust together, and -before they parted for the night another little word was spoken by Lady -Wanless which indicated very clearly that there was some special bond of -friendship between the Major and her second daughter. “You are quite -right,” she had said in answer to some extracted compliment; “she does -ride very well. When I was up in town in May I thought I saw no one -with such a seat in the row. Miss Green, who taught the Duchess of -Ditchwater’s daughters, declared that she knew nothing like it.” - -On the third morning he returned to Beetham early, as he intended to go -up to town the same afternoon. Then there was prepared for him a little -valedictory opportunity in which he could not but press the young lady’s -fingers for a moment. As he did so no one was looking at him, but then -he knew that it was so much the more dangerous because no one was -looking. Nothing could be more knowing than the conduct of the young -lady, who was not in any way too forward. If she admitted that slight -pressure, it was done with a retiring rather than obtrusive favour. It -was not by her own doing that she was alone with him for a moment. There -was no casting down or casting up of her eyes. And yet it seemed to him -as he left her and went out into the hall that there had been so much -between them that he was almost bound to propose to her. In the hall -there was the Baronet to bid him farewell,--an honour which he did to -his guests only when he was minded to treat them with great distinction. -“Lady Wanless and I are delighted to have had you here,” he said. -“Remember me to your father, and tell him that I remember him very well -when I was at Christchurch and he was at Wadham.” It was something to -have had one’s hand taken in so paternal a manner by a baronet with such -an eyebrow, and such a coat. - -And yet when he returned to Beetham he was not in a good-humour with -himself. It seemed to him that he had been almost absorbed among the -Wanlesses without any action or will of his own. He tried to comfort -himself by declaring that Georgiana was, without doubt, a remarkably -handsome young woman, and that she was a perfect horsewoman,--as though -all that were a matter to him of any moment! Then he went across to the -doctor’s house to say a word of farewell to Alice. - -“Have you had a pleasant visit?” she asked. - -“Oh, yes; all very well.” - -“That second Miss Wanless is quite beautiful; is she not?” - -“She is handsome certainly.” - -“I call her lovely,” said Alice. “You rode with her the other day over -to that old castle.” - -Who could have told this of him already? “Yes; there was a party of us -went over.” - -“When are you going there again?” Now something had been said of a -further visit, and Rossiter had almost promised that he would return. It -is impossible not to promise when undefined invitations are given. A man -cannot declare that he is engaged for ever and ever. But how was it that -Alice knew all that had been said and done? “I cannot say that I have -fixed any exact day,” he replied almost angrily. - -“I’ve heard all about you, you know. That young Mr. Burmeston was at -Mrs. Tweed’s and told them what a favourite you are. If it be true I -will congratulate you, because I do really think that the young lady is -the most beautiful that I ever saw in my life.” This she said with a -smile and a good-humoured little shake of the head. If it was to be that -her heart must be broken he at least should not know it. And she still -hoped, she still thought, that by being very constant at her work she -might get over it. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -THE BEETHAMITES. - - -IT was told all through Beetham before a week was over that Major -Rossiter was to marry the second Miss Wanless, and Beetham liked the -news. Beetham was proud that one of her sons should be introduced into -the great neighbouring family, and especially that he should be honoured -by the hand of the acknowledged beauty. Beetham, a month ago, had -declared that Alice Dugdale, a Beethamite herself from her -babyhood,--who had been born and bred at Beetham and had ever lived -there,--was to be honoured by the hand of the young hero. But it may be -doubted whether Beetham had been altogether satisfied with the -arrangement. We are apt to envy the good luck of those who have always -been familiar with us. Why should it have been Alice Dugdale any more -than one of the Tweed girls, or Miss Simkins, the daughter of the -attorney, who would certainly have a snug little fortune of her -own,--which unfortunately would not be the case with Alice Dugdale? It -had been felt that Alice was hardly good enough for their hero,--Alice -who had been seen about with all the Dugdale children, pushing them in -perambulators almost every day since the eldest was born! We prefer the -authority of a stranger to that of one chosen from among ourselves. As -the two Miss Tweeds, and Miss Simkins, with Alice and three or four -others, could not divide the hero among them, it was better then that -the hero should go from among them, and choose a fitting mate in a -higher realm. They all felt the greatness of the Wanlesses, and argued -with Mrs. Rossiter that the rising star of the village should obtain -such assistance in rising as would come to him from an almost noble -marriage. - -There had been certainly a decided opinion that Alice was to be the -happy woman. Mrs. Dugdale, the stepmother, had boasted of the promotion; -and old Mr. Rossiter had whispered his secret conviction into the ear of -every favoured parishioner. The doctor himself had allowed his patients -to ask questions about it. This had become so common that Alice herself -had been inwardly indignant,--would have been outwardly indignant but -that she could not allow herself to discuss the matter. That having been -so, Beetham ought to have been scandalised by the fickleness of her -hero. Beetham ought to have felt that her hero was most unheroic. But, -at any rate among the ladies, there was no shadow of such a feeling. Of -course such a man as the Major was bound to do the best for himself. -The giving away of his hand in marriage was a very serious thing, and -was not to be obligatory on a young hero because he had been carried -away by the fervour of old friendship to kiss a young lady immediately -on his return home. The history of the kiss was known all over Beetham, -and was declared by competent authorities to have amounted to nothing. -It was a last lingering touch of childhood’s happy embracings, and if -Alice was such a fool as to take it for more, she must pay the penalty -of her folly. “It was in her father’s presence,” said Mrs. Rossiter, -defending her son to Mrs. Tweed, and Mrs. Tweed had expressed her -opinion that the kiss ought to go for nothing. The Major was to be -acquitted,--and the fact of the acquittal made its way even to the -doctor’s nursery; so that Alice knew that the man might marry that girl -at Brook Park with clean hands. That, as she declared to herself, did -not increase her sorrow. If the man were minded to marry the girl he was -welcome for her. And she apologised for him to her own heart. What a man -generally wants, she said, is a beautiful wife; and of the beauty of -Miss Georgiana Wanless there could be no doubt. Only,--only--only, there -had been a dozen words which he should have left unspoken! - -That which riveted the news on the minds of the Beethamites was the -stopping of the Brook Park carriage at the door of the parsonage one day -about a week after the Major’s visit. It was not altogether an -unprecedented occurrence. Had there been no precedent it could hardly -have been justified on the present occasion. Perhaps once in two years -Lady Wanless would call at the parsonage, and then there would be a -return visit during which a reference would always be made to Wadham and -Christchurch. The visit was now out of its order, only nine months -having elapsed,--of which irregularity Beetham took due notice. On this -occasion Miss Wanless and the third young lady accompanied their mother, -leaving Georgiana at home. What was whispered between the two old ladies -Beetham did not quite know,--but made its surmises. It was in this wise. -“We were so glad to have the Major over with us,” said her ladyship. - -“It was so good of you,” said Mrs. Rossiter. - -“He is a great favourite with Sir Walter.” - -“That is so good of Sir Walter.” - -“And we are quite pleased to have him among our young people.” That was -all, but it was quite sufficient to tell Mrs. Rossiter that John might -have Georgiana Wanless for the asking, and that Lady Wanless expected -him to ask. Then the parting was much more affectionate than it had ever -been before, and there was a squeezing of the hand and a nodding of the -head which meant a great deal. - -Alice held her tongue, and did her work and attempted to be cheery -through it all. Again and again she asked herself,--what did it matter? -Even though she were unhappy, even though she felt a keen, palpable, -perpetual aching at her heart, what would it matter so long as she -could go about and do her business? Some people in this world had to be -unhappy;--perhaps most people. And this was a sorrow which, though it -might not wear off, would by wearing become dull enough to be bearable. -She distressed herself in that there was any sorrow. Providence had -given to her a certain condition of life to which many charms were -attached. She thoroughly loved the people about her,--her father, her -little brothers and sisters, even her overworn and somewhat idle -stepmother. She was a queen in the house, a queen among her busy toils; -and she liked being a queen, and liked being busy. No one ever scolded -her or crossed her or contradicted her. She had the essential -satisfaction of the consciousness of usefulness. Why should not that -suffice to her? She despised herself because there was a hole in her -heart,--because she felt herself to shrink all over when the name of -Georgiana Wanless was mentioned in her hearing. Yet she would mention -the name herself, and speak with something akin to admiration of the -Wanless family. And she would say how well it was that men should strive -to rise in the world, and how that the world progressed through such -individual efforts. But she would not mention the name of John Rossiter, -nor would she endure that it should be mentioned in her hearing with any -special reference to herself. - -Mrs. Dugdale, though she was overworn and idle,--a warped and almost -useless piece of furniture, made, as was said before, of bad -timber,--yet saw more of this than anyone else, and was indignant. To -lose Alice, to have no one to let down those tucks and take up those -stitches, would be to her the loss of all her comforts. But, though she -was feckless, she was true-hearted, and she knew that Alice was being -wronged. It was Alice that had a right to the hero, and not that -stuck-up young woman at Brook Park. It was thus she spoke of the affair -to the doctor, and after awhile found herself unable to be silent on the -subject to Alice herself. “If what they say does take place I shall -think worse of John Rossiter than I ever did of any man I ever knew.” -This she said in the presence both of her husband and her step-daughter. - -“John Rossiter will not be very much the worse for that,” said Alice -without relaxing a moment from her work. There was a sound of drolling -in her voice, as though she were quizzing her stepmother for her folly. - -“It seems to me that men may do anything now,” continued Mrs. Dugdale. - -“I suppose they are the same now as they always were,” said the doctor. -“If a man chose to be false he could always be false.” - -“I call it unmanly,” said Mrs. Dugdale. “If I were a man I would beat -him.” - -“What would you beat him for?” said Alice, getting up, and as she did so -throwing down on the table before her the little frock she was making. -“If you had the power of beating him, why would you beat him?” - -“Because he is ill-using you.” - -“How do you know that? Did I ever tell you so? Have you ever heard a -word that he has said to me, either direct from himself, or second-hand, -that justifies you in saying that he has ill-used me? You ill-use me -when you speak like that.” - -“Alice, do not be so violent,” said the doctor. - -“Father, I will speak of this once, and once for all;--and then pray, -pray, let there be no further mention of it. I have no right to complain -of anything in Major Rossiter. He has done me no wrong. Those who love -me should not mention his name in reference to me.” - -“He is a villain,” said Mrs. Dugdale. - -“He is no villain. He is a gentleman, as far as I know, from the crown -of his head to the sole of his foot. Does it ever occur to you how -little you make of me when you talk of him in this way? Dismiss it all -from your mind, father, and let things be as they were. Do you think -that I am pining for any man’s love? I say that Major Rossiter is a true -man and a gentleman;--but I would not give my Bobby’s little finger for -all his whole body.” Then there was silence, and afterwards the doctor -told his wife that the Major’s name had better not be mentioned again -among them. Alice on this occasion was, or appeared to be, very angry -with Mrs. Dugdale; but on that evening and the next morning there was an -accession of tenderness in her usually sweet manner to her stepmother. -The expression of her mother’s anger against the Major had been -wrong;--but the feeling of anger was not the less endearing. - -Some time after that, one evening, the parson came upon Alice as she -was picking flowers in one of the Beetham lanes. She had all the -children with her, and was filling Minnie’s apron with roses from the -hedge. Old Mr. Rossiter stopped and talked to them, and after awhile -succeeded in getting Alice to walk on with him. “You haven’t heard from -John?” he said. - -“Oh, no,” replied Alice, almost with a start. And then she added -quickly, “There is no one at our house likely to hear from him. He does -not write to anyone there.” - -“I did not know whether any message might have reached you.” - -“I think not.” - -“He is to be here again before long,” said the parson. - -“Oh, indeed.” She had but a moment to think of it all; but, after -thinking, she continued, “I suppose he will be going over to Brook -Park.” - -“I fear he will.” - -“Fear;--why should you fear, Mr. Rossiter? If that is true, it is the -place where he ought to be.” - -“But I doubt its truth, my dear.” - -“Ah! I know nothing about that. If so he had better stay up in London, I -suppose.” - -“I don’t think John can care much for Miss Wanless.” - -“Why not? She is the most thoroughly beautiful young woman I ever saw.” - -“I don’t think he does, because I believe his heart is elsewhere. Alice, -you have his heart.” - -“No.” - -“I think so, Alice.” - -“No, Mr. Rossiter. I have not. It is not so. I know nothing of Miss -Wanless, but I can speak of myself.” - -“It seems to me that you are speaking of him now.” - -“Then why does he go there?” - -“That is just what I cannot answer. Why does he go there? Why do we do -the worst thing so often, when we see the better?” - -“But we don’t leave undone the thing which we wish to do, Mr. Rossiter.” - -“That is just what we do do,--under constraint. Alice, I hope, I hope -that you may become his wife.” She endeavoured to deny that it could -ever be so;--she strove to declare that she herself was much too -heart-free for that; but the words would not come to her lips, and she -could only sob while she struggled to retain her tears. “If he does come -to you give him a chance again, even though he may have been untrue to -you for a moment.” - -Then she was left alone among the children. She could dry her tears and -suppress her sobs, because Minnie was old enough to know the meaning of -them if she saw them; but she could not for awhile go back into the -house. She left them in the passage and then went out again, and walked -up and down a little pathway that ran through the shrubs at the bottom -of the garden. “I believe his heart is elsewhere.” Could it be that it -was so? And if so, of what nature can be a man’s love, if when it be -given in one direction, he can go in another with his hand? She could -understand that there had not been much heart in it;--that he, being a -man and not a woman, could have made this turning point of his life an -affair of calculation, and had taken himself here or there without much -love at all; that as he would seek a commodious house, so would he also -a convenient wife. Resting on that suggestion to herself, she had dared -to declare to her father and mother that Major Rossiter was, not a -villain, but a perfect gentleman. But all that was not compatible with -his father’s story. “Alice, you have his heart,” the old man had said. -How had it come to pass that the old man had known it? And yet the -assurance was so sweet, so heavenly, so laden to her ears with divine -music, that at this moment she would not even ask herself to disbelieve -it. “If he does come to you, give him a chance again.” Why;--yes! Though -she never spoke a word of Miss Wanless without praise, though she had -tutored herself to swear that Miss Wanless was the very wife for him, -yet she knew herself too well not to know that she was better than Miss -Wanless. For his sake, she could with a clear conscience--give him a -chance again. The dear old parson! He had seen it all. He had known. He -had appreciated. If it should ever come to pass that she was to be his -daughter-in-law, he should have his reward. She would not tell herself -that she expected him to come again; but, if he did come, she would -give the parson his chance. Such was her idea at that moment. But she -was forced to change it before long. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -THE INVITATION. - - -WHEN Major Rossiter discussed his own conduct with himself as men are so -often compelled to do by their own conscience, in opposition to their -own wishes, he was not well pleased with himself. On his return home -from India he had found himself possessed of a liberal income, and had -begun to enjoy himself without thinking much about marrying. It is not -often that a man looks for a wife because he has made up his mind that -he wants the article. He roams about unshackled, till something, which -at the time seems to be altogether desirable, presents itself to him; -and then he meditates marriage. So it had been with our Major. Alice had -presented herself to him as something altogether desirable,--a something -which, when it was touched and looked at, seemed to be so full of -sweetnesses, that to him it was for the moment of all things the most -charming. He was not a forward man,--one of those who can see a girl for -the first time on a Monday, and propose to her on the Tuesday. When the -idea first suggested itself to him of making Alice his wife he became -reticent and undemonstrative. The kiss had in truth meant no more than -Mrs. Tweed had said. When he began to feel that he loved her, then he -hardly dared to dream of kissing her. - -But though he felt that he loved her,--liked perhaps it would be fairer -to say in that early stage of his feelings,--better than any other -woman, yet when he came to think of marriage, the importance of it all -made him hesitate; and he was reminded, by little hints from others, and -by words plain enough from one person, that Alice Dugdale was after all -a common thing. There is a fitness in such matters,--so said Mrs. -Rossiter,--and a propriety in like being married to like. Had it been -his lot to be a village doctor, Alice would have suited him well. -Destiny, however, had carried him,--the Major,--higher up, and would -require him to live in London, among ornate people, with polished -habits, and peculiar manners of their own. Would not Alice be out of her -element in London? See the things among which she passed her life! Not a -morsel of soap or a pound of sugar was used in the house, but what she -gave it out. Her hours were passed in washing, teaching, and sewing for -the children. In her very walks she was always pushing a perambulator. -She was, no doubt, the doctor’s daughter; but, in fact, she was the -second Mrs. Dugdale’s nursemaid. Nothing could be more praiseworthy. But -there is a fitness in things; and he, the hero of Beetham, the Assistant -Deputy Inspector-General of the British Cavalry, might surely do better -than marry a praiseworthy nursery girl. It was thus that Mrs. Rossiter -argued with her son, and her arguments were not without avail. - -Then Georgiana Wanless had been, as it were, thrown at his head. When -one is pelted with sugar-plums one can hardly resent the attack. He was -clever enough to feel that he was pelted, but at first he liked the -sweetmeats. A girl riding on horseback, with her back square to the -horse’s tail, with her reins well held, and a chimney-pot hat on her -head, is an object, unfortunately, more attractive to the eyes of -ordinary men, than a young woman pushing a perambulator with two babies. -Unfortunately, I say, because in either case the young woman should be -judged by her personal merits and not by externals. But the Major -declared to himself that the personal merits would be affected by the -externals. A girl who had pushed a perambulator for many years, would -hardly have a soul above perambulators. There would be wanting the -flavour of the aroma of romance, that something of poetic vagueness -without which a girl can hardly be altogether charming to the senses of -an appreciative lover. Then, a little later on, he asked himself whether -Georgiana Wanless was romantic and poetic,--whether there was much of -true aroma there. - -But yet he thought that fate would require him to marry Georgiana -Wanless, whom he certainly did not love, and to leave Alice to her -perambulator,--Alice, whom he certainly did love. And as he thought of -this, he was ill at ease with himself. It might be well that he should -give up his Assistant Deputy Inspector-Generalship, go back to India, -and so get rid of his two troubles together. Fate, as he personified -fate to himself in this matter,--took the form of Lady Wanless. It made -him sad to think that he was but a weak creature in the hands of an old -woman, who wanted to use him for a certain purpose;--but he did not see -his way of escaping. When he began to console himself by reflecting that -he would have one of the handsomest women in London at his dinner-table -he knew that he would be unable to escape. - -About the middle of July he received the following letter from Lady -Wanless:-- - - “DEAR MAJOR ROSSITER,--The girls have been at their father for the - last ten days to have an archery meeting on the lawn, and have at - last prevailed, though Sir Walter has all a father’s abhorrence to - have the lawn knocked about. Now it is settled. ‘I’ll see about - it,’ Sir Walter said at last, and when so much as that had been - obtained, they all knew that the archery meeting was to be. Sir - Walter likes his own way, and is not always to be persuaded. But - when he has made the slightest show of concession, he never goes - back from it. Then comes the question as to the day, which is now - in course of discussion in full committee. In that matter Sir - Walter is supposed to be excluded from any voice. ‘It cannot matter - to him what day of the week or what day of the month,’ said - Georgiana very irreverently. It will not, however, much matter to - him so long as it is all over before St. Partridge comes round. - - “The girls one and all declared that you must be here,--as one of - the guests in the house. Our rooms will be mostly full of young - ladies, but there will be one at any rate for you. Now, what day - will suit you,--or rather what day will suit the Cavalry generally? - Everything must of course depend on the Cavalry. The girls say that - the Cavalry is sure to go out of town after the tenth of August. - But they would put it off for a week longer rather than not have - the Inspector-General. Would Wednesday 14th suit the Cavalry? They - are all reading every word of my letter as it is written, and bid - me say that if Thursday or Friday in that week, or Wednesday or - Thursday in the next, will do better, the accommodation of the - Cavalry shall be consulted. It cannot be on a Monday or Saturday - because there would be some Sunday encroachment. On Tuesday we - cannot get the band from Slowbridge. - - “Now you know our great purpose and our little difficulties. One - thing you cannot know,--how determined we are to accommodate - ourselves to the Cavalry. _The meeting is not to take place without - the Inspector-General._ So let us have an early answer from that - august functionary. The girls think that the Inspector had better - come down before the day, so as to make himself useful in - preparing. - - “Pray believe me, with Sir Walter’s kind regards, yours most - sincerely, - - “MARGARET WANLESS.” - - - -The Major felt that the letter was very flattering, but that it was -false and written for a certain purpose. He could read between the lines -at every sentence of it. The festival was to be got up, not at the -instance of the girls but of Lady Wanless herself, as a final trap for -the catching of himself,--and perhaps for Mr. Burmeston. Those -irreverent words had never come from Georgiana, who was too placid to -have said them. He did not believe a word of the girls looking over the -writing of the letter. In all such matters Lady Wanless had more life, -more energy than her daughters. All that little fun about the Cavalry -came from Lady Wanless herself. The girls were too like their father for -such ebullitions. The little sparks of joke with which the names of the -girls were connected,--with which in his hearing the name of Georgiana -had been specially connected,--had, he was aware, their origin always -with Lady Wanless. Georgiana had said this funny thing and that,--but -Georgiana never spoke after that fashion in his hearing. The traps were -plain to his eyes, and yet he knew that he would sooner or later be -caught in the traps. - -He took a day to think of it before he answered the letter, and -meditated a military tour to Berlin just about the time. If so, he must -be absent during the whole of August, so as to make his presence at the -toxopholite meeting an impossibility. And yet at last he wrote and said -that he would be there. There would be something mean in flight. After -all, he need not ask the girl to be his wife unless he chose to do so. -He wrote a very pretty note to Lady Wanless saying that he would be at -Brook Park on the 14th, as she had suggested. - -Then he made a great resolution and swore an oath to himself,--that he -would not be caught on that occasion, and that after this meeting he -would go no more either to Brook Park or to Beetham for awhile. He would -not marry the girl to whom he was quite indifferent, nor her who from -her position was hardly qualified to be his wife. Then he went about his -duties with a quieted conscience, and wedded himself for once and for -always to the Cavalry. - -Some tidings of the doings proposed by the Wanlesses had reached the -parson’s ears when he told Alice in the lane that his son was soon -coming down to Beetham again, and that he was again going to Brook Park. -Before July was over the tidings of the coming festivity had been spread -over all that side of the county. Such a thing had not been done for -many years,--not since Lady Wanless had been herself a young wife, with -two sisters for whom husbands had to be,--and were provided. There were -those who could still remember how well Lady Wanless had behaved on that -occasion. Since those days hospitality on a large scale had not been -rife at Brook Park--and the reason why it was so was well known. Sir -Walter was determined not to embarrass himself further, and would do -nothing that was expensive. It could not be but that there was great -cause for such a deviation as this. Then the ladies of the neighbourhood -put their heads together,--and some of the gentlemen,--and declared -that a double stroke of business was to be done in regard to Major -Rossiter and Mr. Burmeston. How great a relief that would be to the -mother’s anxiety if the three eldest girls could be married and got rid -of all on the same day! - -Beetham, which was ten miles from Brook Park, had a station of its own, -whereas Slowbridge with its own station was only six miles from the -house. The Major would fain have reached his destination by Slowbridge, -so as to have avoided the chance of seeing Alice, were it not that his -father and mother would have felt themselves aggrieved by such -desertion. On this occasion his mother begged him to give them one -night. She had much that she wished to say to him, and then of course he -could have the parsonage horse and the parsonage phaeton to take him -over to Brook Park free of expense. He did go down to Beetham, did spend -an evening there, and did go on to the Park without having spoken to -Alice Dugdale. - -“Everybody says you are to marry Georgiana Wanless,” said Mrs. Rossiter. - -“If there were no other reason why I should not, the saying of everybody -would be sufficient against it.” - -“That is unreasonable, John. The thing should be looked at itself, -whether it is good or bad. It may be the case that Lady Wanless talks -more than she ought to do. It may be the case that, as people say, she -is looking out for husbands for her daughters. I don’t know but that I -should do the same if I had five of them on my hands and very little -means for them. And if I did, how could I get a better husband for one -of them than--such a one as Major John Rossiter?” Then she kissed his -forehead. - -“I hate the kind of thing altogether,” said he. He pretended to be -stern, but yet he showed that he was flattered by his mother’s softness. - -“It may well be, John, that such a match shall be desirable to them and -to you too. If so, why should there not be a fair bargain between the -two of you? You know that you admire the girl.” He would not deny this, -lest it should come to pass hereafter that she should become his wife. -“And everybody knows that as far as birth goes there is not a family in -the county stands higher. I am so proud of my boy that I wish to see him -mated with the best.” - -He reached the parsonage that evening only just before dinner, and on -the next morning he did not go out of the house till the phaeton came -round to take him to Brook Park. “Are you not going up to see the old -doctor?” said the parson after breakfast. - -“No;--I think not. He is never at home, and the ladies are always -surrounded by the children.” - -“She will take it amiss,” said the father almost in a whisper. - -“I will go as I come back,” said he, blushing as he spoke at his own -falsehood. For, if he held to his present purpose, he would return by -Slowbridge. If Fate intended that there should be nothing further -between him and Alice, it would certainly be much better that they -should not be brought together any more. He knew too what his father -meant, and was more unwilling to take counsel from his father even than -his mother. Yet he blushed because he knew that he was false. - -“Do not seem to slight her,” said the old man. “She is too good for -that.” - -Then he drove himself over to Brook Park, and, as he made his way by one -of the innumerable turnings out of Beetham, he saw at one of the corners -Alice, still with the children and still with the perambulator. He -merely lifted his hat as he passed, but did not stop to speak to her. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -THE ARCHERY MEETING. - - -THE Assistant Deputy Inspector-General, when he reached Brook Park, -found that things were to be done on a great scale. The two -drawing-rooms were filled with flowers, and the big dining-room was laid -out for to-morrow’s lunch, in preparation for those who would prefer the -dining-room to the tent. Rossiter was first taken into the Baronet’s own -room, where Sir Walter kept his guns and administered justice. “This is -a terrible bore, Rossiter,” he said. - -“It must disturb you a great deal, Sir Walter.” - -“Oh, dear--dreadfully! What would my old friend, your father, think of -having to do this kind of thing? Though, when I was at Christchurch and -he at Wadham, we used to be gay enough. I’m not quite sure that I don’t -owe it to you.” - -“To me, Sir Walter!” - -“I rather think you put the girls up to it.” Then he laughed as though -it were a very good joke and told the Major where he would find the -ladies. He had been expressly desired by his wife to be genial to the -Major, and had been as genial as he knew how. - -Rossiter, as he went out on to the lawn, saw Mr. Burmeston, the brewer, -walking with Edith, the third daughter. He could not but admire the -strategy of Lady Wanless when he acknowledged to himself how well she -managed all these things. The brewer would not have been allowed to walk -with Gertrude, the fourth daughter, nor even with Maria, the naughty -girl who liked the curate,--because it was Edith’s turn. Edith was -certainly the plainest of the family, and yet she had her turn. Lady -Wanless was by far too good a mother to have favourites among her own -children. - -He then found the mother, the eldest daughter, and Gertrude overseeing -the decoration of a tent, which had been put up as an addition to the -dining-room. He expected to find Mr. Cobble, to whom he had taken a -liking, a nice, pleasant, frank young country gentleman; but Mr. Cobble -was not wanted for any express purpose, and might have been in the way. -Mr. Cobble was landed and safe. Before long he found himself walking -round the garden with Lady Wanless herself. The other girls, though they -were to be his sisters, were never thrown into any special intimacy with -him. “She will be down before long now that she knows you are here,” -said Lady Wanless. “She was fatigued a little, and I thought it better -that she should lie down. She is so impressionable, you know.” “She” was -Georgiana. He knew that very well. But why should Georgiana be called -“She” to him, by her mother? Had “She” been in truth engaged to him it -would have been intelligible enough. But there had been nothing of the -kind. As “She” was thus dinned into his ears, he thought of the very -small amount of conversation which had ever taken place between himself -and the young lady. - -Then there occurred to him an idea that he would tell Lady Wanless in so -many words that there was a mistake. The doing so would require some -courage, but he thought that he could summon up manliness for the -purpose,--if only he could find the words and occasion. But though “She” -were so frequently spoken of, still nothing was said which seemed to -give him the opportunity required. It is hard for a man to have to -reject a girl when she has been offered,--but harder to do so before the -offer has in truth been made. “I am afraid there is a little mistake in -your ideas as to me and your daughter.” It was thus that he would have -had to speak, and then to have endured the outpouring of her wrath, when -she would have declared that the ideas were only in his own arrogant -brain. He let it pass by and said nothing, and before long he was -playing lawn-tennis with Georgiana, who did not seem to have been in the -least fatigued. - -“My dear, I will not have it,” said Lady Wanless about an hour -afterwards, coming up and disturbing the game. “Major Rossiter, you -ought to know better.” Whereupon she playfully took the racket out of -the Major’s hand. “Mamma is such an old bother,” said Georgiana as she -walked back to the house with her Major. The Major had on a previous -occasion perceived that the second Miss Wanless rode very well, and now -he saw that she was very stout at lawn-tennis; but he observed none of -that peculiarity of mental or physical development which her mother had -described as “impressionable.” Nevertheless she was a handsome girl, and -if to play at lawn-tennis would help to make a husband happy, so much at -any rate she could do. - -This took place on the day before the meeting,--before the great day. -When the morning came the girls did not come down early to breakfast, -and our hero found himself left alone with Mr. Burmeston. “You have -known the family a long time,” said the Major as they were sauntering -about the gravel paths together, smoking their cigars. - -“No, indeed,” said Mr. Burmeston. “They only took me up about three -months ago,--just before we went over to Owless. Very nice -people;--don’t you think so?” - -“Very nice,” said the Major. - -“They stand so high in the county, and all that sort of thing. Birth -does go a long way, you know.” - -“So it ought,” said the Major. - -“And though the Baronet does not do much in the world, he has been in -the House, you know. All those things help.” Then the Major understood -that Mr. Burmeston had looked the thing in the face, and had determined -that for certain considerations it was worth his while to lead one of -the Miss Wanlesses to the hymeneal altar. In this Mr. Burmeston was -behaving with more manliness than he,--who had almost made up his mind -half-a-dozen times, and had never been satisfied with the way he had -done it. - -About twelve the visitors had begun to come, and Sophia with Mr. Cobble -were very soon trying their arrows together. Sophia had not been allowed -to have her lover on the previous day, but was now making up for it. -That was all very well, but Lady Wanless was a little angry with her -eldest daughter. Her success was insured for her. Her business was done. -Seeing how many sacrifices had been made to her during the last -twelvemonths, surely now she might have been active in aiding her -sisters, instead of merely amusing herself. - -The Major was not good at archery. He was no doubt an excellent Deputy -Inspector-General of Cavalry; but if bows and arrows had still been the -weapons used in any part of the British army, he would not, without -further instruction, have been qualified to inspect that branch. -Georgiana Wanless, on the other hand, was a proficient. Such shooting as -she made was marvellous to look at. And she was a very image of Diana, -as with her beautiful figure and regular features, dressed up to the -work, she stood with her bow raised in her hand and let twang the -arrows. The circle immediately outside the bull’s-eye was the farthest -from the mark she ever touched. But good as she was and bad as was the -Major, nevertheless they were appointed always to shoot together. After -a world of failures the Major would shoot no more,--but not the less did -he go backwards and forwards with Georgiana when she changed from one -end to the other, and found himself absolutely appointed to that task. -It grew upon him during the whole day that this second Miss Wanless was -supposed to be his own,--almost as much as was the elder the property of -Mr. Cobble. Other young men would do no more than speak to her. And when -once, after the great lunch in the tent, Lady Wanless came and put her -hand affectionately upon his arm, and whispered some word into his ear -in the presence of all the assembled guests, he knew that the entire -county had recognised him as caught. - -There was old Lady Deepbell there. How it was that towards the end of -the day’s delights Lady Deepbell got hold of him he never knew. Lady -Deepbell had not been introduced to him, and yet she got hold of him. -“Major Rossiter, you are the luckiest man of the day,” she said to him. - -“Pretty well,” said he, affecting to laugh; “but why so?” - -“She is the handsomest young woman out. There hasn’t been one in London -this season with such a figure.” - -“You are altogether wrong in your surmise, Lady Deepbell.” - -“No, no; I am right enough. I see it all. Of course the poor girl won’t -have any money; but then how nice it is when a gentleman like you is -able to dispense with that. Perhaps they do take after their father a -little, and he certainly is not bright; but upon my word, I think a girl -is all the better for that. What’s the good of having such a lot of -talkee-talkee?” - -“Lady Deepbell, you are alluding to a young lady without the slightest -warrant,” said the Major. - -“Warrant enough;--warrant enough,” said the old woman, toddling off. - -Then young Cobble came to him, and talked to him as though he were a -brother of the house. Young Cobble was an honest fellow, and quite in -earnest in his matrimonial intentions. “We shall be delighted if you’ll -come to us on the first,” said Cobble. The first of course meant the -first of September. “We ain’t so badly off just for a week’s shooting. -Sophia is to be there, and we’ll get Georgiana too.” - -The Major was fond of shooting, and would have been glad to accept the -offer; but it was out of the question that he should allow himself to be -taken in at Cobble Hall under a false pretext. And was it not incumbent -on him to make this young man understand that he had no pretensions -whatever to the hand of the second Miss Wanless? “You are very good,” -said he. - -“We should be delighted,” said young Cobble. - -“But I fear there is a mistake. I can’t say anything more about it now -because it doesn’t do to name people;--but there is a mistake. Only for -that I should have been delighted. Good-bye.” Then he took his -departure, leaving young Cobble in a state of mystified suspense. - -The day lingered on to a great length. The archery and the lawn-tennis -were continued till late after the so-called lunch, and towards the -evening a few couples stood up to dance. It was evident to the Major -that Burmeston and Edith were thoroughly comfortable together. Gertrude -amused herself well, and even Maria was contented, though the curate as -a matter of course was not there. Sophia with her legitimate lover was -as happy as the day and evening were long. But there came a frown upon -Georgiana’s brow, and when at last the Major, as though forced by -destiny, asked her to dance, she refused. It had seemed to her a matter -of course that he should ask her, and at last he did;--but she refused. -The evening with him was very long, and just as he thought that he would -escape to bed, and was meditating how early he would be off on the -morrow, Lady Wanless took possession of him and carried him off alone -into one of the desolate chambers. “Is she very tired?” asked the -anxious mother. - -“Is who tired?” The Major at that moment would have given twenty guineas -to have been in his lodgings near St. James’s Street. - -“My poor girl,” said Lady Wanless, assuming a look of great solicitude. - -It was vain for him to pretend not to know who was the “she” intended. -“Oh, ah, yes; Miss Wanless.” - -“Georgiana.” - -“I think she is tired. She was shooting a great deal. Then there was a -quadrille;--but she didn’t dance. There has been a great deal to tire -young ladies.” - -“You shouldn’t have let her do so much.” - -How was he to get out of it? What was he to say? If a man is clearly -asked his intentions he can say that he has not got any. That used to be -the old fashion when a gentleman was supposed to be dilatory in -declaring his purpose. But it gave the oscillating lover so easy an -escape! It was like the sudden jerk of the hand of the unpractised -fisherman: if the fish does not succumb at once it goes away down the -stream and is no more heard of. But from this new process there is no -mode of immediate escape. “I couldn’t prevent her because she is nothing -to me.” That would have been the straightforward answer;--but one most -difficult to make. “I hope she will be none the worse to-morrow -morning,” said the Major. - -“I hope not, indeed. Oh, Major Rossiter!” The mother’s position was -also difficult, as it is of no use to play with a fish too long without -making an attempt to stick the hook into his gills. - -“Lady Wanless!” - -“What am I to say to you? I am sure you know my feelings. You know how -sincere is Sir Walter’s regard.” - -“I am very much flattered, Lady Wanless.” - -“That means nothing.” This was true, but the Major did not mean to -intend anything. “Of all my flock she is the fairest.” That was true -also. The Major would have been delighted to accede to the assertion of -the young lady’s beauty, if this might have been the end of it. “I had -thought----” - -“Had thought what, Lady Wanless?” - -“If I am deceived in you, Major Rossiter, I never will believe in a man -again. I have looked upon you as the very soul of honour.” - -“I trust that I have done nothing to lessen your good opinion.” - -“I do not know. I cannot say. Why do you answer me in this way about my -child?” Then she held her hands together and looked up into his face -imploringly. He owned to himself that she was a good actress. He was -almost inclined to submit and to declare his passion for Georgiana. For -the present that way out of the difficulty would have been so easy! - -“You shall hear from me to-morrow morning,” he said, almost solemnly. - -“Shall I?” she asked, grasping his hand. “Oh, my friend, let it be as I -desire. My whole life shall be devoted to making you happy,--you and -her.” Then he was allowed to escape. - -Lady Wanless, before she went to bed, was closeted for awhile with the -eldest daughter. As Sophia was now almost as good as a married woman, -she was received into closer counsel than the others. “Burmeston will -do,” she said; “but, as for that Cavalry man, he means it no more than -the chair.” The pity was that Burmeston might have been secured without -the archery meeting, and that all the money, spent on behalf of the -Major, should have been thrown away. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -AFTER THE PARTY. - - -WHEN the Major left Brook Park on the morning after the archery -amusements he was quite sure of this,--that under no circumstances -whatever would he be induced to ask Miss Georgiana Wanless to be his -wife. He had promised to write a letter,--and he would write one -instantly. He did not conceive it possible but that Lady Wanless should -understand what would be the purport of that letter, although as she -left him on the previous night she had pretended to hope otherwise. That -her hopes had not been very high we know from the words which she spoke -to Sophia in the privacy of her own room. - -He had intended to return by Slowbridge, but when the morning came he -changed his mind and went to Beetham. His reason for doing so was hardly -plain, even to himself. He tried to make himself believe that the letter -had better be written from Beetham,--hot, as it were, from the immediate -neighbourhood,--than from London; but, as he thought of this, his mind -was crowded with ideas of Alice Dugdale. He would not propose to Alice. -At this moment, indeed, he was averse to matrimony, having been -altogether disgusted with female society at Brook Park; but he had to -acknowledge a sterling worth about Alice, and the existence of a genuine -friendship between her and himself, which made it painful to him to -leave the country without other recognition than that raising of his hat -when he saw her at the corner of the lane. He had behaved badly in this -Brook Park affair,--in having been tempted thither in opposition to -those better instincts which had made Alice so pleasant a companion to -him,--and was ashamed of himself. He did not think that he could go back -to his former ideas. He was aware that Alice must think ill of -him,--would not believe him to be now such as she had once thought him. -England and London were distasteful to him. He would go abroad on that -foreign service which he had proposed to himself. There was an opening -for him to do so if he liked, and he could return to his present duties -after a year or two. But he would see Alice again before he went. -Thinking of all this, he drove himself back to Beetham. - -On that morning tidings of the successful festivities at Brook Park -reached the doctor’s house. Tidings of the coming festivities, then of -the preparations, and at last of the festal day itself, had reached -Alice, so that it seemed to her that all Beetham talked of nothing else. -Old Lady Deepbell had caught a cold, walking about on the lawn with -hardly anything on her old shoulders,--stupid old woman,--and had sent -for the doctor the first thing in the morning. “Positively settled,” she -had said to the doctor, “absolutely arranged, Dr. Dugdale. Lady Wanless -told me so herself, and I congratulated the gentleman.” She did not go -on to say that the gentleman had denied the accusation,--but then she -had not believed the denial. The doctor, coming home, had thought it his -duty to tell Alice, and Alice had received the news with a smile. “I -knew it would be so, father.” - -“And you?” This he said, holding her hand and looking tenderly into her -eyes. - -“Me! It will not hurt me. Not that I mean to tell a lie to you, father,” -she added after a moment. “A woman isn’t hurt because she doesn’t get a -prize in the lottery. Had it ever come about, I dare say I should have -liked him well enough.” - -“No more than that?” - -“And why should it have come about?” she went on saying, avoiding her -father’s last question, determined not to lie if she could help it, but -determined, also, to show no wound. “I think my position in life very -happy, but it isn’t one from which he would choose a wife.” - -“Why not, my dear?” - -“A thousand reasons; I am always busy, and he would naturally like a -young lady who had nothing to do.” She understood the effect of the -perambulator and the constant needle and thread. “Besides, though he -might be all very well, he could never, I think, be as dear to me as the -bairns. I should feel that I lost more than I got by going.” This she -knew to be a lie, but it was so important that her father should believe -her to be contented with her home duties! And she was contented, though -very unhappy. When her father kissed her, she smiled into his face,--oh, -so sweetly, so pleasantly! And the old man thought that she could not -have loved very deeply. Then she took herself to her own room, and sat -awhile alone with a countenance much changed. The lines of sorrow about -her brow were terrible. There was not a tear; but her mouth was close -pressed, and her hand was working constantly by her side. She gazed at -nothing, but sat with her eyes wide open, staring straight before her. -Then she jumped up quickly, and striking her hand upon her heart, she -spoke aloud to herself. “I will cure it,” she said. “He is not worthy, -and it should therefore be easier. Though he were worthy, I would cure -it. Yes, Bobby, I am coming.” Then she went about her work. - -That might have been about noon. It was after their early dinner with -the children that the Major came up to the doctor’s house. He had -reached the parsonage in time for a late breakfast, and had then written -his letter. After that he had sat idling about on the lawn,--not on the -best terms with his mother, to whom he had sworn that, under no -circumstances, would he make Georgiana Wanless his wife. “I would sooner -marry a girl from a troop of tight-rope dancers,” he had said in his -anger. Mrs. Rossiter knew that he intended to go up to the doctor’s -house, and therefore the immediate feeling between the mother and son -was not pleasant. My readers, if they please, shall see the letter to -Lady Wanless. - - “MY DEAR LADY WANLESS,--It is a great grief to me to say that there - has been, I fear, a misconception between you and me on a certain - matter. This is the more a trouble to me because you and Sir Walter - have been so very kind to me. From a word or two which fell from - you last night I was led to fear that you suspected feelings on my - part which I have never entertained, and aspirations to which I - have never pretended. No man can be more alive than I am to the - honour which has been suggested, but I feel bound to say that I am - not in a condition to accept it. - - “Pray believe me to be, - - “Dear Lady Wanless, - - “Yours always very faithfully, - - “JOHN ROSSITER.” - - - -The letter, when it was written, was, to himself, very unsatisfactory. -It was full of ambiguous words and namby-pamby phraseology which -disgusted him. But he did not know how to alter it for the better. It is -hard to say an uncivil thing civilly without ambiguous namby-pamby -language. He could not bring it out in straightforward stout English: -“You want me to marry your daughter, but I won’t do anything of the -kind.” So the letter was sent. The conduct of which he was really -ashamed did not regard Miss Wanless, but Alice Dugdale. - -At last, very slowly, he took himself up to the doctor’s house. He -hardly knew what it was that he meant to say when he found himself -there, but he was sure that he did not mean to make an offer. Even had -other things suited, there would have been something distasteful to him -in doing this so quickly after the affair of Miss Wanless. He was in no -frame now for making love; but yet it would be ungracious in him, he -thought, to leave Beetham without seeing his old friend. He found the -two ladies together, with the children still around them, sitting near a -window which opened down to the ground. Mrs. Dugdale had a novel in -hand, and, as usual, was leaning back in a rocking-chair. Alice had also -a book open on the table before her, but she was bending over a -sewing-machine. They had latterly divided the cares of the family -between them. Mrs. Dugdale had brought the children into the world, and -Alice had washed, clothed, and fed them when they were there. When the -Major entered the room, Alice’s mind was, of course, full of the -tidings she had heard from her father,--which tidings, however, had not -been communicated to Mrs. Dugdale. - -Alice at first was very silent while Mrs. Dugdale asked as to the -festivities. “It has been the grandest thing anywhere about here for a -long time.” - -“And, like other grand things, a great bore,” said the Major. - -“I don’t suppose you found it so, Major Rossiter,” said the lady. - -Then the conversation ran away into a description of what had been done -during the day. He wished to make it understood that there was no -permanent link binding him to Brook Park, but he hardly knew how to say -it without going beyond the lines of ordinary conversation. At last -there seemed to be an opening,--not exactly what he wished, but still an -opening. “Brook Park is not exactly the place,” said he, “at which I -should ever feel myself quite at home.” This was in answer to some -chance word which had fallen from Mrs. Dugdale. - -“I am sorry for that,” said Alice. She would have given a guinea to -bring the word back after it had been spoken. But spoken words cannot be -brought back. - -“Why sorry?” he asked, smiling. - -“Because--Oh, because it is so likely that you may be there often.” - -“I don’t know that at all.” - -“You have become so intimate with them!” said Alice. “We are told in -Beetham that the party was got up all for your honour.” - -So Sir Walter had told him, and so Maria, the naughty girl, had said -also--“Only for your beaux yeux, Major Rossiter, we shouldn’t have had -any party at all.” This had been said by Maria when she was laughing at -him about her sister Georgiana. “I don’t know how that may be,” said the -Major; “but all the same I shall never be at home at Brook Park.” - -“Don’t you like the young ladies?” asked Mrs. Dugdale. - -“Oh, yes; very much; and Lady Wanless; and Sir Walter. I like them all, -in a way. But yet I shall never find myself at home at Brook Park.” - -Alice was very angry with him. He ought not to have gone there at all. -He must have known that he could not be there without paining her. She -thoroughly believed that he was engaged to marry the girl of whose -family he spoke in this way. He had thought,--so it seemed to her,--that -he might lessen the blow to her by making little of the great folk among -whom his future lot was to be cast. But what could be more mean? He was -not the John Rossiter to whom she had given her heart. There had been no -such man. She had been mistaken. “I am afraid you are one of those,” she -said, “who, wherever they find themselves, at once begin to wish for -something better.” - -“That is meant to be severe.” - -“My severity won’t go for much.” - -“I am sure you have deserved it,” said Mrs. Dugdale, most indiscreetly. - -“Is this intended for an attack?” he asked, looking from one to the -other. - -“Not at all,” said Alice, affecting to laugh. “I should have said -nothing if I thought mamma would take it up so seriously. I was only -sorry to hear you speak of your new friends so slightingly.” - -After that the conversation between them was very difficult, and he soon -got up to go away. As he did so, he asked Alice to say a word to him out -in the garden, having already explained to them both that it might be -some time before he would be again down at Beetham. Alice rose slowly -from her sewing-machine, and, putting on her hat, led the way with a -composed and almost dignified step out through the window. Her heart was -beating within her, but she looked as though she were mistress of every -pulse. “Why did you say that to me?” he asked. - -“Say what?” - -“That I always wished for better things and better people than I found.” - -“Because I think you ambitious,--and discontented. There is nothing -disgraceful in that, though it is not the character which I myself like -the best.” - -“You meant to allude specially to the Wanlesses?” - -“Because you have just come from there, and were speaking of them.” - -“And to one of that family specially?” - -“No, Major Rossiter. There you are wrong. I alluded to no one in -particular. They are nothing to me. I do not know them; but I hear that -they are kind and friendly people, with good manners and very handsome. -Of course I know, as we all know everything of each other in this little -place, that you have of late become very intimate with them. Then when I -hear you aver that you are already discontented with them, I cannot help -thinking that you are hard to please. I am sorry that mamma spoke of -deserving. I did not intend to say anything so seriously.” - -“Alice!” - -“Well, Major Rossiter.” - -“I wish I could make you understand me.” - -“I do not know that that would do any good. We have been old friends, -and of course I hope that you may be happy. I must say good-bye now. I -cannot go beyond the gate, because I am wanted to take the children -out.” - -“Good-bye then. I hope you will not think ill of me.” - -“Why should I think ill of you? I think very well,--only that you are -ambitious.” As she said this, she laughed again, and then she left him. - -He had been most anxious to tell her that he was not going to marry that -girl, but he had not known how to do it. He could not bring himself to -declare that he would not marry a girl when by such declaration he would -have been forced to assume that he might marry her if he pleased. So he -left Alice at the gate, and she went back to the house still convinced -that he was betrothed to Georgiana Wanless. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -SIR WALTER UP IN LONDON. - - -The Major, when he left the doctor’s house, was more thoroughly in love -with Alice than ever. There had been something in her gait as she led -the way out through the window, and again, as with determined purpose -she bade him speedily farewell at the gate, which forced him to -acknowledge that the dragging of perambulators and the making of -petticoats had not detracted from her feminine charm or from her -feminine dignity. She had been dressed in her ordinary morning -frock,--the very frock on which he had more than once seen the marks of -Bobby’s dirty heels; but she had pleased his eye better than Georgiana, -clad in all the glory of her toxopholite array. The toxopholite feather -had been very knowing, the tight leathern belt round her waist had been -bright in colour and pretty in design. The looped-up dress, fit for the -work in hand, had been gratifying. But with it all there had been the -show of a thing got up for ornament and not for use. She was like a box -of painted sugar-plums, very pretty to the eye, but of which no one -wants to extract any for the purpose of eating them. Alice was like a -housewife’s store, kept beautifully in order, but intended chiefly for -comfortable use. As he went up to London he began to doubt whether he -would go abroad. Were he to let a few months pass by would not Alice be -still there, and willing perhaps to receive him with more kindness when -she should have heard that his follies at Brook Park were at an end? - -Three days after his return, when he was sitting in his offices thinking -perhaps more of Alice Dugdale than of the whole British Cavalry, a -soldier who was in waiting brought a card to him. Sir Walter Wanless had -come to call upon him. If he were disengaged Sir Walter would be glad to -see him. He was not at all anxious to see Sir Walter; but there was no -alternative, and Sir Walter was shown into the room. - -In explaining the purport of Sir Walter’s visit we must go back for a -few minutes to Brook Park. When Sir Walter came down to breakfast on the -morning after the festivities he was surprised to hear that Major -Rossiter had taken his departure. There sat young Burmeston. He at any -rate was safe. And there sat young Cobble, who by Sophia’s aid had -managed to get himself accommodated for the night, and all the other -young people, including the five Wanless girls. The father, though not -observant, could see that Georgiana was very glum. Lady Wanless herself -affected a good-humour which hardly deceived him, and certainly did not -deceive anyone else. “He was obliged to be off this morning, because of -his duties,” said Lady Wanless. “He told me that it was to be so, but I -did not like to say anything about it yesterday.” Georgiana turned up -her nose, as much as to say that the going and coming of Major Rossiter -was not a matter of much importance to any one there, and, least of all, -to her. Except the father, there was not a person in the room who was -not aware that Lady Wanless had missed her fish. - -But she herself was not quite sure even yet that she had failed -altogether. She was a woman who hated failure, and who seldom failed. -She was brave of heart too, and able to fight a losing battle to the -last. She was very angry with the Major, who she well knew was -endeavouring to escape from her toils. But he would not on that account -be the less useful as a son-in-law;--nor on that account was she the -more willing to allow him to escape. With five daughters without -fortunes it behoved her as a mother to be persistent. She would not give -it up, but must turn the matter well in her mind before she took further -steps. She feared that a simple invitation could hardly bring the Major -back to Brook Park. Then there came the letter from the Major which did -not make the matter easier. - -“My dear,” she said to her husband, sitting down opposite to him in his -room, “that Major Rossiter isn’t behaving quite as he ought to do.” - -“I’m not a bit surprised,” said the Baronet angrily. “I never knew -anybody from Wadham behave well.” - -“He’s quite a gentleman, if you mean that,” said Lady Wanless; “and -he’s sure to do very well in the world; and poor Georgiana is really -fond of him,--which doesn’t surprise me in the least.” - -“Has he said anything to make her fond of him? I suppose she has gone -and made a fool of herself,--like Maria.” - -“Not at all. He has said a great deal to her;--much more than he ought -to have done, if he meant nothing. But the truth is, young men nowadays -never know their own minds unless there is somebody to keep them up to -the mark. You must go and see him.” - -“I!” said the afflicted father. - -“Of course, my dear. A few judicious words in such a case may do so -much. I would not ask Walter to go,”--Walter was the eldest son, who was -with his regiment,--“because it might lead to quarrelling. I would not -have anything of that kind, if only for the dear girl’s sake. But what -you would say would be known to nobody; and it might have the desired -effect. Of course you will be very quiet,--and very serious also. Nobody -could do it better than you will. There can be no doubt that he has -trifled with the dear girl’s affections. Why else has he been with her -whenever he has been here? It was so visible on Wednesday that everybody -was congratulating me. Old Lady Deepbell asked whether the day was -fixed. I treated him quite as though it were settled. Young men do so -often get these sudden starts of doubt. Then, sometimes, just a word -afterwards will put it all right.” In this way the Baronet was made to -understand that he must go and see the Major. - -He postponed the unwelcome task till his wife at last drove him out of -the house. “My dear,” she said, “will you let your child die -broken-hearted for want of a word?” When it was put to him in that way -he found himself obliged to go, though, to tell the truth, he could not -find any sign of heart-breaking sorrow about his child. He was not -allowed to speak to Georgiana herself, his wife telling him that the -poor child would be unable to bear it. - -Sir Walter, when he was shown into the Major’s room, felt himself to be -very ill able to conduct the business in hand, and to the Major himself -the moment was one of considerable trouble. He had thought it possible -that he might receive an answer to his letter, a reply that might be -indignant, or piteous, admonitory, or simply abusive, as the case might -be,--one which might too probably require a further correspondence; but -it had never occurred to him that Sir Walter would come in person. But -here he was,--in the room,--by no means with that pretended air of -geniality with which he had last received the Major down at Brook Park. -The greeting, however, between the gentlemen was courteous if not -cordial, and then Sir Walter began his task. “We were quite surprised -you should have left us so early that morning.” - -“I had told Lady Wanless.” - -“Yes; I know. Nevertheless we were surprised. Now, Major Rossiter, what -do you mean to do about,--about,--about this young lady?” The Major sat -silent. He could not pretend to be ignorant what young lady was intended -after the letter which he had himself written to Lady Wanless. “This, -you know, is a very painful kind of thing, Major Rossiter.” - -“Very painful indeed, Sir Walter.” - -“When I remembered that I had been at Christchurch and your excellent -father at Wadham both at the same time, I thought that I might trust you -in my house without the slightest fear.” - -“I make bold to say, Sir Walter, that you were quite justified in that -expectation, whether it was founded on your having been at Christchurch -or on my position and character in the world.” He knew that the scene -would be easier to him if he could work himself up to a little -indignation on his own part. - -“And yet I am told,--I am told----” - -“What are you told, Sir Walter?” - -“There can, I think, be no doubt that you have--in point of fact, paid -attention to my daughter.” Sir Walter was a gentleman, and felt that the -task imposed upon him grated against his better feelings. - -“If you mean that I have taken steps to win her affections, you have -been wrongly informed.” - -“That’s what I do mean. Were you not received just now at Brook Park -as,--as paying attention to her?” - -“I hope not.” - -“You hope not, Major Rossiter?” - -“I hope no such mistake was made. It certainly was not made by me. I -felt myself much flattered by being received at your house. I wrote the -other day a line or two to Lady Wanless and thought I had explained all -this.” - -Sir Walter opened his eyes when he heard, for the first time, of the -letter, but was sharp enough not to exhibit his ignorance at the moment. -“I don’t know about explaining,” he said. “There are some things which -can’t be so very well explained. My wife assures me that that poor girl -has been deceived,--cruelly deceived. Now I put it to you, Major -Rossiter, what ought you as a gentleman to do?” - -“Really, Sir Walter, you are not entitled to ask me any such question.” - -“Not on behalf of my own child?” - -“I cannot go into the matter from that view of the case. I can only -declare that I have said nothing and done nothing for which I can blame -myself. I cannot understand how there should have been such a mistake; -but it did not, at any rate, arise with me.” - -Then the Baronet sat dumb. He had been specially instructed not to give -up the interview till he had obtained some sign of weakness from the -enemy. If he could only induce the enemy to promise another visit to -Brook Park that would be much. If he could obtain some expression of -liking or admiration for the young lady that would be something. If he -could induce the Major to allude to delay as being necessary, farther -operations would be founded on that base. But nothing had been obtained. -“It’s the most,--the most,--the most astonishing thing I ever heard,” he -said at last. - -“I do not know that I can say anything further.” - -“I’ll tell you what,” said the Baronet. “Come down and see Lady Wanless. -The women understand these things much better than we do. Come down and -talk it over with Lady Wanless. She won’t propose anything that isn’t -proper.” In answer to this the Major shook his head. “You won’t?” - -“It would do no good, Sir Walter. It would be painful to me, and must, I -should say, be distressing to the young lady.” - -“Then you won’t do anything!” - -“There is nothing to be done.” - -“Upon my word, I never heard such a thing in all my life, Major -Rossiter. You come down to my house; and then,--then,--then you -won’t,--you won’t come again! To be sure he was at Wadham; but I did -think your father’s son would have behaved better.” Then he picked up -his hat from the floor and shuffled out of the room without another -word. - -Tidings that Sir Walter had been up to London and had called upon Major -Rossiter made their way into Beetham and reached the ears of the -Dugdales,--but not correct tidings as to the nature of the conversation. -“I wonder when it will be,” said Mrs. Dugdale to Alice. “As he has been -up to town I suppose it’ll be settled soon.” - -“The sooner the better for all parties,” said Alice cheerily. “When a -man and a woman have agreed together, I can’t see why they shouldn’t at -once walk off to the church arm in arm.” - -“The lawyers have so much to do.” - -“Bother the lawyers! The parson ought to do all that is necessary, and -the sooner the better. Then there would not be such paraphernalia of -presents and gowns and eatings and drinkings, all of which is got up for -the good of the tradesmen. If I were to be married, I should like to -slip out round the corner, just as though I were going to get an extra -loaf of bread from Mrs. Bakewell.” - -“That wouldn’t do for my lady at Brook Park.” - -“I suppose not.” - -“Nor yet for the Major.” - -Then Alice shook her head and sighed, and took herself out to walk alone -for a few minutes among the lanes. How could it be that he should be so -different from that which she had taken him to be! It was now September, -and she could remember an early evening in May, when the leaves were -beginning to be full, and they were walking together with the spring air -fresh around them, just where she was now creeping alone with the more -perfect and less fresh beauty of the autumn around her. How different a -person he seemed to her to be now from that which he had seemed to be -then;--not different because he did not love her, but different because -he was not fit to be loved! “Alice,” he had then said, “you and I are -alike in this, that simple, serviceable things are dear to both of us.” -The words had meant so much to her that she had never forgotten them. -Was she simple and serviceable, so that she might be dear to him? She -had been sure then that he was simple, and that he was serviceable, so -that she could love him. It was thus that she had spoken of him to -herself, thinking herself to be sure of his character. And now, before -the summer was over, he was engaged to marry such a one as Georgiana -Wanless and to become the hero of a fashionable wedding! - -But she took pride to herself as she walked alone that she had already -overcome the bitterness of the malady which, for a day or two, had been -so heavy that she had feared for herself that it would oppress her. For -a day or two after that farewell at the gate she had with a rigid -purpose tied herself to every duty,--even to the duty of looking -pleasant in her father’s eyes, of joining in the children’s games, of -sharing the gossip of her stepmother. But this she had done with an -agony that nearly crushed her. Now she had won her way through it, and -could see her path before her. She had not cured altogether that wound -in her heart; but she had assured herself that she could live on without -further interference from the wound. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -LADY DEEPBELL. - - -Then by degrees it began to be rumoured about the country, and at last -through the lanes of Beetham itself, that the alliance between Major -Rossiter and Miss Georgiana Wanless was not quite a settled thing. Mr. -Burmeston had whispered in Slowbridge that there was a screw loose, -perhaps thinking that if another could escape, why not he also? Cobble, -who had no idea of escaping, declared his conviction that Major Rossiter -ought to be horsewhipped; but Lady Deepbell was the real town-crier who -carried the news far and wide. But all of them heard it before Alice, -and when others believed it Alice did not believe it,--or, indeed, care -to believe or not to believe. - -Lady Deepbell filled a middle situation, half way between the -established superiority of Brook Park and the recognised humility of -Beetham. Her title went for something; but her husband had been only a -Civil Service Knight, who had deserved well of his country by a -meritorious longevity. She lived in a pretty little cottage half way -between Brook Park and Beetham, which was just large enough to enable -her to talk of her grounds. She loved Brook Park dearly, and all the -county people; but in her love for social intercourse generally she was -unable to eschew the more frequent gatherings of the village. She was -intimate not only with Mrs. Rossiter, but with the Tweeds and Dugdales -and Simkinses, and, while she could enjoy greatly the grandeur of the -Wanless aristocracy, so could she accommodate herself comfortably to the -cosy gossip of the Beethamites. It was she who first spread the report -in Beetham that Major Rossiter was,--as she called it,--“off.” - -She first mentioned the matter to Mrs. Rossiter herself; but this she -did in a manner more subdued than usual. The “alliance” had been high, -and she was inclined to think that Mrs. Rossiter would be disappointed. -“We did think, Mrs. Rossiter, that these young people at Brook Park had -meant something the other day.” - -Mrs. Rossiter did not stand in awe of Lady Deepbell, and was not pleased -at the allusion. “It would be much better if young people could be -allowed to arrange their own affairs without so much tattling about it,” -she said angrily. - -“That’s all very well, but tongues will talk, you know, Mrs. Rossiter. I -am sorry for both their sakes, because I thought that it would do very -well.” - -“Very well indeed, if the young people, as you call them, liked each -other.” - -“But I suppose it’s over now, Mrs. Rossiter?” - -“I really know nothing about it, Lady Deepbell.” Then the old woman, -quite satisfied after this that the “alliance” had fallen to the ground, -went on to the Tweeds. - -“I never thought it would come to much,” said Mrs. Tweed. - -“I don’t see why it shouldn’t,” said Matilda Tweed. “Georgiana Wanless -is good-looking in a certain way; but they none of them have a penny, -and Major Rossiter is quite a fashionable man.” The Tweeds were quite -outside the Wanless pale; and it was the feeling of this that made -Matilda love to talk about the second Miss Wanless by her Christian -name. - -“I suppose he will go back to Alice now,” said Clara, the younger Tweed -girl. - -“I don’t see that at all,” said Mrs. Tweed. - -“I never believed much in that story,” said Lady Deepbell. - -“Nor I either,” said Matilda. “He used to walk about with her, but what -does that come to? The children were always with them. I never would -believe that he was going to make so little of himself.” - -“But is it quite sure that all the affair at Brook Park will come to -nothing, after the party and everything?” asked Mrs. Tweed. - -“Quite positive,” said Lady Deepbell authoritatively. “I am able to say -certainly that that is all over.” Then she toddled off and went to the -Simkinses. - -The rumour did not reach the doctor’s house on that day. The conviction -that Major Rossiter had behaved badly to Alice,--that Alice had been -utterly thrown over by the Wanless “alliance,” had been so strong, that -even Lady Deepbell had not dared to go and probe wilfully that wound. -The feeling in this respect had been so general that no one in Beetham -had been hard-hearted enough to speak to Alice either of the triumph of -Miss Wanless, or of the misconduct of the Major; and now Lady Deepbell -was afraid to carry her story thither. - -It was the doctor himself who first brought the tidings to the house, -and did not do this till some days after Lady Deepbell had been in the -village. “You had better not say anything to Alice about it.” Such at -first had been the doctor’s injunction to his wife. “One way or the -other, it will only be a trouble to her.” Mrs. Dugdale, full of her -secret, anxious to be obedient, thinking that the gentleman relieved -from his second love, would be ready at once to be on again with his -first, was so fluttered and fussy that Alice knew that there was -something to be told. “You have got some great secret, mamma,” she said. - -“What secret, Alice?” - -“I know you have. Don’t wait for me to ask you to tell it. If it is to -come, let it come.” - -“I’m not going to say anything.” - -“Very well, mamma. Then nothing shall be said.” - -“Alice, you are the most provoking young woman I ever had to deal with -in my life. If I had twenty secrets I would not tell you one of them.” - -On the next morning Alice heard it all from her father. “I knew there -was something by mamma’s manner,” she said. - -“I told her not to say anything.” - -“So I suppose. But what does it matter to me, papa, whether Major -Rossiter does or does not marry Miss Wanless? If he has given her his -word, I am sure I hope that he will keep it.” - -“I don’t suppose he ever did.” - -“Even then it doesn’t matter. Papa, do not trouble yourself about him.” - -“But you?” - -“I have gone through the fire, and have come out without being much -scorched. Dear papa, I do so wish that you should understand it all. It -is so nice to have some one to whom everything can be told. I did like -him.” - -“And he?” - -“I have nothing to say about that;--not a word. Girls, I suppose, are -often foolish, and take things for more than they are intended to mean. -I have no accusation to make against him. But I did,--I did allow myself -to be weak. Then came this about Miss Wanless, and I was unhappy. I woke -from a dream, and the waking was painful. But I have got over it. I do -not think that you will ever know from your girl’s manner that anything -has been the matter with her.” - -“My brave girl!” - -“But don’t let mamma talk to me as though he could come back because the -other girl has not suited him. He is welcome to the other girl,--welcome -to do without her,--welcome to do with himself as it may best please -him; but he shall not trouble me again.” There was a stern strength in -her voice as she said this, which forced her father to look at her -almost with amazement. “Do not think that I am fierce, papa.” - -“Fierce, my darling!” - -“But that I am in earnest. Of course, if he comes to Beetham we shall -see him. But let him be like anybody else. Don’t let it be supposed that -because he flitted here once, and was made welcome, like a bird that -comes in at the window, and then flitted away again, that he can be -received in at the window just as before, should he fly this way any -more. That’s all, papa.” Then, as before, she went off by herself,--to -give herself renewed strength by her solitary thinkings. She had so -healed the flesh round that wound that there was no longer danger of -mortification. She must now take care that there should be no further -wound. The people around her would be sure to tell her of this breach -between her late lover and the Wanless young lady. The Tweeds and the -Simkinses, and old Lady Deepbell would be full of it. She must take care -so to answer them at the first word that they should not dare to talk to -her of Major Rossiter. She had cured herself so that she no longer -staggered under the effects of the blow. Having done that, she would not -allow herself to be subject to the little stings of the little creatures -around her. She had had enough of love,--of a man’s love, and would make -herself happy now with Bobby and the other bairns. - -“He’ll be sure to come back,” said Mrs Dugdale to her husband. - -“We shall do no good by talking about it,” said the doctor. “If you will -take my advice, you will not mention his name to her. I fear that he is -worthless and unworthy of mention.” That might be very well, thought -Mrs. Dugdale; but no one in the village doubted that he had at the very -least £1,500 a year, and that he was a handsome man, and such a one as -is not to be picked up under every hedge. The very men who go about the -world most like butterflies before marriage “steady down the best” -afterwards. These were her words as she discussed the matter with Mrs. -Tweed, and they both agreed that if the hero showed himself again at the -doctor’s house “bygones ought to be bygones.” - -Lady Wanless, even after her husband’s return from London, declared to -herself that even yet the game had not been altogether played out. Sir -Walter, who had been her only possible direct messenger to the man -himself, had been, she was aware, as bad a messenger as could have been -selected. He could be neither authoritative nor persuasive. Therefore -when he told her, on coming home, that it was easy to perceive that -Major Rossiter’s father could not have been educated at Christchurch, -she did not feel very much disappointed. As her next step she determined -to call on Mrs. Rossiter. If that should fail she must beard the lion in -his den, and go herself to Major Rossiter at the Horse Guards. She did -not doubt but that she would at least be able to say more than Sir -Walter. Mrs. Rossiter, she was aware, was herself favourable to the -match. - -“My dear Mrs. Rossiter,” she said in her most confidential manner, -“there is a little something wrong among these young people, which I -think you and I can put right if we put our heads together.” - -“If I know one of the young people,” said Mrs. Rossiter, “it will be -very hard to make him change his mind.” - -“He has been very attentive to the young lady.” - -“Of course I know nothing about it, Lady Wanless. I never saw them -together.” - -“Dear Georgiana is so very quiet that she said nothing even to me, but I -really thought that he had proposed to her. She won’t say a word against -him, but I believe he did. Now, Mrs. Rossiter, what has been the meaning -of it?” - -“How is a mother to answer for her son, Lady Wanless?” - -“No;--of course not. I know that. Girls, of course, are different. But I -thought that perhaps you might know something about it, for I did -imagine you would like the connection.” - -“So I should. Why not? Nobody thinks more of birth than I do, and -nothing in my opinion could have been nicer for John. But he does not -see with my eyes. If I were to talk to him for a week it would have no -effect.” - -“Is it that girl of the doctor’s, Mrs. Rossiter?” - -“I think not. My idea is that when he has turned it all over in his mind -he has come to the conclusion that he will be better without a wife than -with one.” - -“We might cure him of that, Mrs. Rossiter. If I could only have him down -there at Brook Park for another week, I am sure he would come to.” Mrs. -Rossiter, however, could not say that she thought it probable that her -son would be induced soon to pay another visit to Brook Park. - -A week after this Lady Wanless absolutely did find her way into the -Major’s presence at the Horse Guards,--but without much success. The -last words at that interview only shall be given to the reader,--the -last words as they were spoken both by the lady and by the gentleman. -“Then I am to see my girl die of a broken heart?” said Lady Wanless, -with her handkerchief up to her eyes. - -“I hope not, Lady Wanless; but in whatever way she might die, the fault -would not be mine.” There was a frown on the gentleman’s brow as he said -this which cowed even the lady. - -As she went back to Slowbridge that afternoon, and then home to Brook -Park, she determined at last that the game must be looked upon as played -out. There was no longer any ground on which to stand and fight. Before -she went to bed that night she sent for Georgiana. “My darling child,” -she said, “that man is unworthy of you.” - -“I always thought he was,” said Georgiana. And so there was an end to -that little episode in the family of the Wanlesses. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -THE BIRD THAT PECKED AT THE WINDOW. - - -THE bird that had flown in at the window and had been made welcome, had -flown away ungratefully. Let him come again pecking as he might at the -window, no more crumbs of love should be thrown to him. Alice, with a -steady purpose, had resolved on that. With all her humble ways, her -continual darning of stockings, her cutting of bread and butter for the -children, her pushing of the perambulator in the lanes, there was a -pride about her, a knowledge of her own dignity as a woman, which could -have been stronger in the bosom of no woman of title, of wealth, or of -fashion. She claimed nothing. She had expected no admiration. She had -been contented to take the world as it came to her, without thinking -much of love or romance. When John Rossiter had first shown himself at -Beetham, after his return from India, and when he had welcomed her so -warmly,--too warmly,--as his old playfellow, no idea had occurred to her -that he would ever be more to her than her old playfellow. Her own heart -was too precious to herself to be given away idly to the first comer. -Then the bird had flown in at the window, and it had been that the -coming of the stranger had been very sweet to her. But, even for the -stranger, she would not change her ways,--unless, perchance, some day -she might appertain to the stranger. Then it would be her duty to fit -herself entirely to him. In the meantime, when he gave her little hints -that something of her domestic slavery might be discontinued, she would -not abate a jot from her duties. If he liked to come with her when she -pushed the children, let him come. If he cared to see her when she was -darning a stocking or cutting bread and butter, let him pay his visits. -If he thought those things derogatory, certainty let him stay away. So -the thing had grown till she had found herself surprised, and taken, as -it were, into a net,--caught in a pitfall of love. But she held her -peace, stuck manfully to the perambulator, and was a little colder in -her demeanour than heretofore. Whereupon Major Rossiter, as the reader -is aware, made two visits to Brook Park. The bird might peck at the -window, but he should never again be taken into the room. - -But the bird, from the moment in which he had packed up his portmanteau -at Brook Park, had determined that he would be taken in at the window -again,--that he would at any rate return to the window, and peck at the -glass with constancy, soliciting that it might be opened. As he now -thought of the two girls, the womanliness of the one, as compared with -the worldliness of the other, conquered him completely. There had never -been a moment in which his heart had in truth inclined itself towards -the young athlete of Brook Park,--never a moment, hardly a moment, in -which his heart had been untrue to Alice. But glitter had for awhile -prevailed with him, and he had, just for a moment, allowed himself to be -discontented with the homely colour of unalloyed gold. He was thoroughly -ashamed of himself, knowing well that he had given pain. He had learned, -clearly enough, from what her father, mother, and others had said to -him, that there were those who expected him to marry Alice Dugdale, and -others who hoped that he would marry Georgiana Wanless. Now, at last, he -could declare that no other love than that which was warm within his -heart at present could ever have been possible to him. But he was aware -that he had much to do to recover his footing. Alice’s face and her -manner as she bade him good-bye at the gate were very clear before his -eyes. - -Two months passed by before he was again seen at Beetham. It had -happened that he was, in truth, required elsewhere, on duty, during the -period, and he took care to let it be known at Beetham that such was the -case. Information to this effect was in some shape sent to Alice. -Openly, she took no notice of it; but, inwardly, she said to herself -that they who troubled themselves by sending her such tidings, troubled -themselves in vain. “Men may come and men may go,” she sang to herself, -in a low voice. How little they knew her, to come to her with news as to -Major Rossiter’s coming and going! - -Then one day he came. One morning early in December the absolute fact -was told at the dinner table. “The Major is at the parsonage,” said the -maid-servant. Mrs. Dugdale looked at Alice, who continued, however, to -distribute hashed mutton with an equanimity which betrayed no flaw. - -After that not a word was said about him. The doctor had warned his wife -to be silent; and though she would fain have spoken, she restrained -herself. After dinner the usual work went on, and then the usual playing -in the garden. The weather was dry and mild for the time of year, so -that Alice was swinging two of the children when Major Rossiter came up -through the gate. Minnie, who had been a favourite, ran to him, and he -came slowly across the lawn to the tree on which the swing was hung. For -a moment Alice stopped her work that she might shake hands with him, -and then at once went back to her place. “If I were to stop a moment -before Bobby has had his turn,” she said, “he would feel the injustice.” - -“No, I isn’t,” said Bobby. “Oo may go ’is time.” - -“But I don’t want to go, Bobby, and Major Rossiter will find mamma in -the drawing-room;” and Alice for a moment thought of getting her hat and -going off from the place. Then she reflected that to run away would be -cowardly. She did not mean to run away always because the man came. Had -she not settled it with herself that the man should be nothing to her? -Then she went on swinging the children,--very deliberately, in order -that she might be sure of herself, that the man’s coming had not even -flurried her. - -In ten minutes the Major was there again. It had been natural to suppose -that he should not be detained long in conversation by Mrs. Dugdale. -“May I swing one of them for a time?” he asked. - -“Well, no; I think not. It is my allotted exercise, and I never give it -up.” But Minnie, who knew what a strong arm could do, was imperious, and -the Major got possession of the swing. - -Then of a sudden he stopped. “Alice,” he said, “I want you to take a -turn with me up the road.” - -“I am not going out at all to-day,” she said. Her voice was steady and -well preserved; but there was a slight rising of colour on her cheeks. - -“But I wish it expressly. You must come to-day.” - -She could consider only for a moment,--but for a moment she did think -the matter over. If the man chose to speak to her seriously, she must -listen to him,--once, and once only. So much he had a right to demand. -When a bird of that kind pecks in that manner some attention must be -paid to him. So she got her hat, and leading the way down the road, -opened the gate and turned up the lane away from the street of the -village. For some yards he did not speak. She, indeed, was the first to -do so. “I cannot stay out very long, Major Rossiter; so, if there is -anything----?” - -“There is a something, Alice.” Of course she knew, but she was quite -resolved. Resolved! Had not every moment of her life since last she had -parted with him been given up to the strengthening this resolution? Not -a stitch had gone through the calico which had not been pulled the -tighter by the tightening of her purpose! And now he was there. Oh, how -more than earthly sweet it had been to have him there, when her -resolutions had been of another kind! But she had been punished for -that, and was strong against such future ills. “Alice, it had better -come out simply. I love you, and have ever loved you with all my heart.” -Then there was a frown and a little trampling of the ground beneath her -feet, but she said not a word. Oh, if it only could have come sooner,--a -few weeks sooner! “I know what you would say to me, but I would have you -listen to me, if possible, before you say it. I have given you cause to -be angry with me.” - -“Oh no!” she cried, interrupting him. - -“But I have never been untrue to you for a moment. You seemed to slight -me.” - -“And if I did?” - -“That may pass. If you should slight me now, I must bear it. Even though -you should deliberately tell me that you cannot love me, I must bear -that. But with such a load of love as I have at my heart, it must be -told to you. Day and night it covers me from head to foot. I can think -of nothing else. I dream that I have your hand in mine, but when I wake -I think it can never be so.” - -There was an instinct with her at the moment to let her fingers glide -into his; but it was shown only by the gathering together of her two -hands, so that no rebellious fingers straying from her in that direction -might betray her. “If you have never loved me, never can love me, say -so, and I will go away.” She should have spoken now, upon the instant; -but she simply moved her foot upon the gravel and was silent. “That I -should be punished might be right. If it could be possible that the -punishment should extend to two, that could not be right.” - -She did not want to punish him,--only to be brave herself. If to be -obdurate would in truth make him unhappy, then would it be right that -she should still be firm? It would be bad enough, after so many -self-assurances, to succumb at the first word; but for his sake,--for -his sake,--would it not be possible to bear even that? “If you never -have loved me, and never can love me, say so, and I will go.” Even to -herself, she had not pledged herself to lie. If he asked her to be his -wife in the plain way, she could say that she would not. Then the way -would be plain before her. But what reply was she to make in answer to -such a question as this? Could she say that she had not loved him,--or -did not love him? “Alice,” he said, putting his hand up to her arm. - -“No!” - -“Alice, can you not forgive me?” - -“I have forgiven.” - -“And will you not love me?” - -She turned her face upon him with a purpose to frown, but the fulness of -his eyes upon her was too much, and the frown gave way, and a tear came -into her eye, and her lips trembled; and then she acknowledged to -herself that her resolution had not been worth a straw to her. - -It should be added that considerably before Alice’s wedding, both Sophia -and Georgiana Wanless were married,--Sophia, in due order, as of course, -to young Cobble, and Georgiana to Mr. Burmeston, the brewer. This, as -the reader will remember, was altogether unexpected; but it was a great -and guiding principle with Lady Wanless that the girls should not be -taken out of their turns. - - THE END. - - - PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON. - - -FOOTNOTES: - - [A] I presume my readers to be generally aware that the headquarters - of the National Telegraph Department are held at the top of one of - the great buildings belonging to the General Post Office, in St. - Martin’s-le-Grand. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Why Frau Frohmann Raised her Prices and -other stories, by Anthony Trollope - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES *** - -***** This file should be named 55212-0.txt or 55212-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/1/55212/ - -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: Why Frau Frohmann Raised her Prices and other stories - -Author: Anthony Trollope - -Release Date: July 28, 2017 [EBook #55212] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED<br /> -HER PRICES<br /><br /> -<i>AND OTHER STORIES</i></p> - -<h1> -WHY FRAU FROHMANN<br /> -RAISED HER PRICES</h1> -<p class="cb"><span class="eng">And other Stories</span><br /> -<br /><br /> -BY<br /> -ANTHONY TROLLOPE<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “FRAMLEY PARSONAGE,” “SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON,” &c., &c.</small><br /> -<br /> -LONDON<br /> -<span class="smcap">Wm. ISBISTER, Limited</span><br /> -56, LUDGATE HILL<br /> -1882<br /> -<br /><small> -LONDON:<br /> -PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED,<br /> -CITY ROAD.</small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><th colspan="3"><a href="#WHY_FRAU_FROHMANN_RAISED_HER_PRICES">WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><span class="smcap">Chap.</span></td> -<td> </td> -<td class="rt"><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-1">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-1">THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-1">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-1">THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_017">17</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-1">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-1">THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_029">29</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-1">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-1">THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD -DAYS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_040">40</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-1">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-1">A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_051">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-1">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-1">HOFF THE BUTCHER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_067">67</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-1">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-1">“AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP”</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_079">79</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-1">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-1">IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_091">91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="3"><a href="#THE_LADY_OF_LAUNAY">THE LADY OF LAUNAY.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-2">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-2">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR WOULDN’T MARRY THE PARSON</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_111">111</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-2">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-2">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_128">128</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-2">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR CEASED TO BE A YOUNG LADY OF -IMPORTANCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_136">136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-2">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS TO BE BANISHED</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-2">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BANISHED TO NORMANDY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-2">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_159">159</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX-2">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR ANSWERED THE TWO LETTERS, AND -WHAT CAME OF IT </a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X-2">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR’S LOVER ARGUED HIS CASE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_174">174</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI-2">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_182">182</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII-2">XII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII-2">HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BROUGHT BACK, AND WHAT THEN -BECAME OF HER </a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="3"><a href="#CHRISTMAS_AT_THOMPSON_HALL">CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-3">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-3">MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_201">201</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-3">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-3">MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_214">214</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-3">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-3">MRS. BROWN ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_223">223</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-3">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-3">MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_234">234</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-3">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-3">MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_249">249</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="3"><a href="#THE_TELEGRAPH_GIRL">THE TELEGRAPH GIRL.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-4">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-4">LUCY GRAHAM AND SOPHY WILSON</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_263">263</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-4">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-4">ABRAHAM HALL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_275">275</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-4">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-4">SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_286">286</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-4">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-4">MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_298">298</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-4">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-4">ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_310">310</a></td></tr> - -<tr><th colspan="3"><a href="#ALICE_DUGDALE">ALICE DUGDALE.</a></th></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-5">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I-5">THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_323">323</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-5">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II-5">MAJOR ROSSITER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_333">333</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-5">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III-5">LADY WANLESS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_342">342</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-5">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV-5">THE BEETHAMITES</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_352">352</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-5">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V-5">THE INVITATION</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_362">362</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-5">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI-5">THE ARCHERY MEETING</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_371">371</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-5">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII-5">AFTER THE PARTY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_381">381</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-5">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII-5">SIR WALTER UP IN LONDON</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_391">391</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX-5">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX-5">LADY DEEPBELL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_400">400</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt" valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X-5">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X-5">THE BIRD THAT PECKED AT THE WINDOW</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_409">409</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="WHY_FRAU_FROHMANN_RAISED_HER_PRICES" id="WHY_FRAU_FROHMANN_RAISED_HER_PRICES"></a>WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED<br /> -HER PRICES.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-1" id="CHAPTER_I-1"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BRUNNENTHAL PEACOCK.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>F ever there was a Tory upon earth, the Frau Frohmann was a Tory; for I -hold that landed possessions, gentle blood, a gray-haired butler behind -one’s chair, and adherence to the Church of England, are not necessarily -the distinguishing marks of Toryism. The Frau Frohmann was a woman who -loved power, but who loved to use it for the benefit of those around -her,—or at any rate to think that she so used it. She believed in the -principles of despotism and paternal government,—but always on the -understanding that she was to be the despot. In her heart of hearts she -disliked education, thinking that it unfitted the minds of her humbler -brethren for the duties of their lives. She hated, indeed, all -changes,—changes in costume, changes in hours, changes in cookery, and -changes in furniture; but of all changes she perhaps hated changes in -prices the most. Gradually there had come over her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> a melancholy -conviction that the world cannot go on altogether unaltered. There was, -she felt, a fate in things,—a necessity which, in some dark way within -her own mind, she connected with the fall of Adam and the general -imperfection of humanity,—which demanded changes, but they were always -changes for the worse; and therefore, though to those around her she was -mostly silent on this matter, she was afflicted by a general idea that -the world was going on towards ruin. That all things throve with herself -was not sufficient for her comfort; for, being a good woman with a large -heart, she was anxious for the welfare not only of herself and of her -children, but for that of all who might come after her, at any rate in -her own locality. Thus, when she found that there was a tendency to dine -at one instead of twelve, to wear the same clothes on week days as on -Sundays, to desire easy chairs, and linen that should be bleached -absolutely white, thoughts as to the failing condition of the world -would get the better of her and make her melancholy.</p> - -<p>These traits are perhaps the evidences of the weakness of Toryism;—but -then Frau Frohmann also had all its strength. She was thoroughly -pervaded by a determination that, in as far as in her lay, all that had -aught to do with herself should be “well-to-do” in the world. It was a -grand ambition in her mind that every creature connected with her -establishment, from the oldest and most time-honoured guest down to the -last stray cat that had taken refuge under her roof, should always have -enough to eat. Hunger, unsatisfied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> hunger, disagreeable hunger, on the -part of any dependent of hers, would have been a reproach to her. Her -own eating troubled her little or not at all, but the cooking of the -establishment generally was a great care to her mind. In bargaining she -was perhaps hard, but hard only in getting what she believed to be her -own right. Aristides was not more just. Of bonds, written bonds, her -neighbours knew not much; but her word for twenty miles round was as -good as any bond. And though she was perhaps a little apt to domineer in -her bargains,—to expect that she should fix the prices and to resent -opposition,—it was only to the strong that she was tyrannical. The poor -sick widow and the little orphan could generally deal with her at their -own rates; on which occasions she would endeavour to hide her dealings -from her own people, and would give injunctions to the favoured ones -that the details of the transaction should not be made public. And then, -though the Frau was, I regret to say, no better than a Papist, she was a -thoroughly religious woman, believing in real truth what she professed -to believe, and complying, as far as she knew how, with the ordinances -of her creed.</p> - -<p>Therefore I say that if ever there was a Tory, the Frau Frohmann was -one.</p> - -<p>And now it will be well that the reader should see the residence of the -Frau, and learn something of her condition in life. In one of the -districts of the Tyrol, lying some miles south of Innsbruck, between -that town and Brixen, there is a valley called the Brunnenthal,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> a most -charming spot, in which all the delights of scenery may be found without -the necessity of climbing up heart-rending mountains, or sitting in oily -steamboats, or paying for greedy guides, or riding upon ill-conditioned -ponies. In this valley Frau Frohmann kept an hotel called the Peacock, -which, however, though it was known as an inn, and was called by that -name, could hardly be regarded as a house of common public -entertainment. Its purpose was to afford recreation and comfort to a -certain class of customers during the summer months,—persons well -enough to do in the world to escape from their town work and their town -residences for a short holiday, and desirous during that time of -enjoying picturesque scenery, good living, moderate comfort, and some -amount of society. Such institutions have now become so common that -there is hardly any one who has not visited or at any rate seen such a -place. They are to be found in every country in Europe, and are very -common in America. Our own Scotland is full of them. But when the -Peacock was first opened in Brunnenthal they were not so general.</p> - -<p>Of the husband of the Frau there are not many records in the -neighbourhood. The widow has been a widow for the last twenty years at -least, and her children,—for she has a son and daughter,—have no vivid -memories of their father. The house and everything in it, and the -adjacent farm, and the right of cutting timber in the forests, and the -neighbouring quarry, are all the undoubted property of the Frau,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> who -has a reputation for great wealth. Though her son is perhaps nearly -thirty, and is very diligent in the affairs of the establishment, he has -no real authority. He is only, as it were, the out-of-doors right hand -of his mother, as his sister, who is perhaps five years younger, is an -in-doors right hand. But they are only hands. The brain, the -intelligence, the mind, the will by which the Brunnenthal Peacock is -conducted and managed, come all from the Frau Frohmann herself. To this -day she can hardly endure a suggestion either from Peter her son or from -her daughter Amalia, who is known among her friends as Malchen, but is -called “the fraulein” by the Brunnenthal world at large. A suggestion as -to the purchase of things new in their nature she will not stand at all, -though she is liberal enough in maintaining the appurtenances of the -house generally.</p> - -<p>But the Peacock is more than a house. It is almost a village; and yet -every shed, cottage, or barn at or near the place forms a part of the -Frau’s establishment. The centre or main building is a large ordinary -house of three stories,—to the lower of which there is an ascent by -some half-dozen stone steps,—covered with red tiles, and with gable -ends crowded with innumerable windows. The ground-floor is devoted to -kitchens, offices, the Frau’s own uses, and the needs of the servants. -On the first-story are the two living rooms of the guests, the greater -and by far the more important being devoted to eating and drinking. -Here, at certain hours, are collected all the forces of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> -establishment,—and especially at one o’clock, when, with many ringing -of bells and great struggles in the culinary department, the dinner is -served. For to the adoption of this hour has the Frau at last been -driven by the increasing infirmities of the world around her. The -scenery of the locality is lovely; the air is considered to be -peculiarly health-compelling; the gossipings during the untrammelled -idleness of the day are very grateful to those whose lives are generally -laborious; the love-makings are frequent, and no doubt sweet; skittles -and bowls and draughts and dominoes have their devotees; and the smoking -of many pipes fills up the vacant hours of the men.</p> - -<p>But, at the Brunnenthal, dinner is the great glory of the day. It would -be vain for any æsthetical guest, who might conceive himself to be -superior to the allurements of the table, to make little of the Frau’s -dinner. Such a one had better seek other quarters for his summer’s -holiday. At the Brunnenthal Peacock it is necessary that you should -believe in the paramount importance of dinner. Not to come to it at the -appointed time would create, first marvel, in the Frau’s mind, then -pity,—as to the state of your health,—and at last hot anger should it -be found that such neglect arose from contempt. What muse will assist me -to describe these dinners in a few words? They were commenced of course -by soup,—real soup, not barley broth with a strong prevalence of the -barley. Then would follow the boiled meats, from which the soup was -supposed to have been made,—but such boiled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> meat, so good, that the -supposition must have contained a falsehood. With this there would be -always potatoes and pickled cabbages and various relishes. Then there -would be two other kinds of meat, generally with accompaniment of stewed -fruit; after that fish,—trout from the neighbouring stream, for the -preservation of which great tanks had been made. Vegetables with unknown -sauces would follow,—and then would come the roast, which consisted -always of poultry, and was accompanied of course by salad. But it was -after this that were made the efforts on which the Frau’s fame most -depended. The puddings, I think, were the subject of her greatest -struggles and most complete success. Two puddings daily were, by the -rules of the house, required to be eaten; not two puddings brought -together so that you might choose with careless haste either one or the -other; but two separate courses of puddings, with an interval between -for appreciation, for thought, and for digestion. Either one or both -can, no doubt, be declined. No absolute punishment,—such as notice to -leave the house,—follows such abstention. But the Frau is displeased, -and when dressed in her best on Sundays does not smile on those who -abstain. After the puddings there is dessert, and there are little cakes -to nibble if you will. They are nibbled very freely. But the heat of the -battle is over with the second pudding.</p> - -<p>They have a great fame, these banquets; so that ladies and gentlemen -from Innsbruck have themselves driven out here to enjoy them. The -distance each way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> is from two to three hours, so that a pleasant -holiday is made by a visit to the Frau’s establishment. There is a -ramble up to the waterfall and a smoking of pipes among the rocks, and -pleasant opportunities for secret whispers among young people;—but the -Frau would not be well pleased if it were presumed that the great -inducement for the visit were not to be found in the dinner which she -provides. In this way, though the guests at the house may not exceed -perhaps thirty in number, it will sometimes be the case that nearly -twice as many are seated at the board. That the Frau has an eye to -profit cannot be doubted. Fond of money she is certainly;—fond of -prosperity generally. But, judging merely from what comes beneath his -eye, the observer will be led to suppose that her sole ambition on these -occasions is to see the food which she has provided devoured by her -guests. A weak stomach, a halting appetite, conscientious scruples as to -the over-enjoyment of victuals, restraint in reference to subsequent -excesses or subsequent eatings,—all these things are a scandal to her. -If you can’t, or won’t, or don’t eat your dinner when you get it, you -ought not to go to the Brunnenthal Peacock.</p> - -<p>This banqueting-hall, or Speise-Saal, occupies a great part of the -first-floor; but here also is the drawing-room, or reading-room, as it -is called, having over the door “Lese-Saal” painted, so that its purpose -may not be doubted. But the reading-room is not much, and the guests -generally spend their time chiefly out of doors or in their bedrooms -when they are not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> banqueting. There are two other banquets, breakfast -and supper, which need not be specially described;—but of the latter it -may be said that it is a curtailed dinner, having limited courses of hot -meat, and only one pudding.</p> - -<p>On this floor there is a bedroom or two, and a nest of others above; but -the accommodation is chiefly afforded in other buildings, of which the -one opposite is longer, though not so high, as the central house; and -there is another, a little down the road, near the mill, and another as -far up the stream, where the baths have been built,—an innovation to -which Frau Frohmann did not lend herself without much inward suffering. -And there are huge barns and many stables; for the Frau keeps a posting -establishment, and a diligence passes the door three times each way in -the course of the day and night, and the horses are changed at the -Peacock;—or it was so, at any rate, in the days of which I am speaking, -not very long ago. And there is the blacksmith’s forge, and the great -carpenter’s shed, in which not only are the carts and carriages mended, -but very much of the house furniture is made. And there is the mill, as -has been said before, in which the corn is ground, and three or four -cottages for married men, and a pretty little chapel, built by the Frau -herself, in which mass is performed by her favourite priest once a -month,—for the parish chapel is nearly three miles distant if you walk -by the mountain path, but is fully five if you have yourself carried -round by the coach road. It must, I think, be many years since the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> Frau -can have walked there, for she is a dame of portly dimensions.</p> - -<p>Whether the buildings are in themselves picturesque I will not pretend -to say. I doubt whether there has been an attempt that way in regard to -any one except the chapel. But chance has so grouped them, and nature -has so surrounded them, that you can hardly find anywhere a prettier -spot. Behind the house, so as to leave only space for a little meadow -which is always as green as irrigation can make it, a hill rises, not -high enough to be called a mountain, which is pine-clad from the foot to -the summit. In front and around the ground is broken, but immediately -before the door there is a way up to a lateral valley, down which comes -a nameless stream which, just below the house, makes its way into the -Ivil, the little river which runs from the mountain to the inn, taking -its course through that meadow which lies between the hill and the -house. It is here, a quarter of a mile perhaps up this little stream, at -a spot which is hidden by many turnings from the road, that visitors -come upon the waterfall,—the waterfall which at Innsbruck is so often -made to be the excuse of these outings which are in truth performed in -quest of Frau Frohmann’s dinners. Below the Peacock, where the mill is -placed, the valley is closely confined, as the sombre pine-forests rise -abruptly on each side; and here, or very little lower, is that gloomy or -ghost-like pass through the rocks, which is called the Höllenthor; a -name which I will not translate. But it is a narrow ravine, very dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> -in dark weather, and at night as black as pitch. Among the superstitious -people of the valley the spot is regarded with the awe which belonged to -it in past ages. To visitors of the present day it is simply picturesque -and sublime. Above the house the valley spreads itself, rising, however, -rapidly; and here modern engineering has carried the road in various -curves and turns round knolls of hills and spurs of mountains, till the -traveller as he ascends hardly knows which way he is going. From one or -two points among these curves the view down upon the Peacock with its -various appendages, with its dark-red roofs, and many windows glittering -in the sun, is so charming, that the tourist is almost led to think that -they must all have been placed as they are with a view to effect.</p> - -<p>The Frau herself is what used to be called a personable woman. To say -that she is handsome would hardly convey a proper idea. Let the reader -suppose a woman of about fifty, very tall and of large dimensions. It -would be unjust to call her fat, because though very large she is still -symmetrical. When she is dressed in her full Tyrolese costume,—which is -always the case at a certain hour on Sunday, and on other stated and by -no means unfrequent days as to which I was never quite able to learn the -exact rule,—when she is so dressed her arms are bare down from her -shoulders, and such arms I never saw on any human being. Her back is -very broad and her bust expansive. But her head stands erect upon it as -the head of some old Juno, and in all her motions,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span>though I doubt -whether she could climb by the mountain path to her parish church,—she -displays a certain stately alertness which forbids one to call her fat. -Her smile,—when she really means to smile and to show thereby her -good-will and to be gracious,—is as sweet as Hebe’s. Then it is that -you see that in her prime she must in truth have been a lovely woman. -There is at these moments a kindness in her eyes and a playfulness about -her mouth which is apt to make you think that you can do what you like -with the Frau. Who has not at times been charmed by the frolic -playfulness of the tiger? Not that Frau Frohmann has aught of the tiger -in her nature but its power. But the power is all there, and not -unfrequently the signs of power. If she be thwarted, contradicted, -counselled by unauthorised counsellors,—above all if she be -censured,—then the signs of power are shown. Then the Frau does not -smile. At such times she is wont to speak her mind very plainly, and to -make those who hear her understand that, within the precincts and -purlieus of the Brunnenthal Peacock, she is an irresponsible despot. -There have been guests there rash enough to find some trifling faults -with the comforts provided for them,—whose beds perhaps have been too -hard, or their towels too limited, or perhaps their hours not agreeably -arranged for them. Few, however, have ever done so twice, and they who -have so sinned,—and have then been told that the next diligence would -take them quickly to Innsbruck if they were discontented,—have rarely -stuck to their complaints<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> and gone. The comforts of the house, and the -prices charged, and the general charms of the place have generally -prevailed,—so that the complainants, sometimes with spoken apologies, -have in most cases sought permission to remain. In late years the Frau’s -certainty of victory has created a feeling that nothing is to be said -against the arrangements of the Peacock. A displeased guest can exercise -his displeasure best by taking himself away in silence.</p> - -<p>The Frau of late years has had two counsellors; for though she is but -ill inclined to admit advice from those who have received no authority -to give it, she is not therefore so self-confident as to feel that she -can live and thrive without listening to the wisdom of others. And those -two counsellors may be regarded as representing—the first or elder her -conscience, and the second and younger her worldly prudence. And in the -matter of her conscience very much more is concerned than simple -honesty. It is not against cheating or extortion that her counsellor is -sharp to her; but rather in regard to those innovations which he and she -think to be prejudicial to the manner and life of Brunnenthal, of -Innsbruck, of the Tyrol, of the Austrian empire generally, and, indeed, -of the world at large. To be as her father had been before her,—for her -father, too, had kept the Peacock; to let life be cheap and simple, but -yet very plentiful as it had been in his days, this was the counsel -given by Father Conolin the old priest, who always spent two nights in -each month at the establishment, and was not unfrequently to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> seen -there on other occasions. He had been opposed to many things which had -been effected,—that alteration of the hour of dinner, the erection of -the bathhouse, the changing of plates at each course, and especially -certain, notifications and advertisements by which foreigners may have -been induced to come to the Brunnenthal. The kaplan, or chaplain, as he -was called, was particularly averse to strangers, seeming to think that -the advantages of the place should be reserved, if not altogether for -the Tyrolese, at any rate for the Germans of Southern Germany, and was -probably of opinion that no real good could be obtained by harbouring -Lutherans. But, of late, English also had come, to whom, though he was -personally very courteous, he was much averse in his heart of hearts. -Such had ever been the tendency of his advice, and it had always been -received with willing, nay, with loving ears. But the fate of the kaplan -had been as is the fate of all such counsellors. Let the toryism of the -Tory be ever so strong, it is his destiny to carry out the purposes of -his opponents. So it had been, and was, with the Frau. Though she was -always in spirit antagonistic to the other counsellor, it was the other -counsellor who prevailed with her.</p> - -<p>At Innsbruck for many years there had lived a lawyer, or rather a family -of lawyers, men always of good repute and moderate means, named -Schlessen; and in their hands had been reposed by the Frau that -confidence as to business matters which almost every one in business -must have in some lawyer. The first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> Schlessen whom the Frau had known -in her youth, and who was then a very old man, had been almost as -Conservative as the priest. Then had come his son, who had been less so, -but still lived and died without much either of the light of progress or -contamination of revolutionary ideas from the outer world. But about -three years before the date of our tale he also had passed away, and now -young Fritz Schlessen sat in the chair of his forefathers. It was the -opinion of Innsbruck generally that the young lawyer was certainly -equal, probably superior, in attainments and intellect to any of his -predecessors. He had learned his business both at Munich and Vienna, and -though he was only twenty-six when he was left to manage his clients -himself, most of them adhered to him. Among others so did our Frau, and -this she did knowing the nature of the man and of the counsel she might -expect to receive from him. For though she loved the priest, and loved -her old ways, and loved to be told that she could live and thrive on the -rules by which her father had lived and thriven before her,—still, -there was always present to her mind the fact that she was engaged in -trade, and that the first object of a tradesman must be to make money. -No shoemaker can set himself to work to make shoes having as his first -intention an ambition to make the feet of his customers comfortable. -That may come second, and to him, as a conscientious man, may be -essentially necessary. But he sets himself to work to make shoes in -order that he may earn a living. That law,—almost of nature we may -say,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span>had become so recognised by the Frau that she felt that it must -be followed, even in spite of the priest if need were, and that, in -order that it might be followed, it would be well that she should listen -to the advice of Herr Schlessen. She heard, therefore, all that her -kaplan would say to her with gracious smiles, and something of what her -lawyer would say to her, not always very graciously; but in the long-run -she would take her lawyer’s advice.</p> - -<p>It will have to be told in a following chapter how it was that Fritz -Schlessen had a preponderating influence in the Brunnenthal, arising -from other causes than his professional soundness and general prudence. -It may, however, be as well to explain here that Peter Frohmann the son -sided always with the priest, and attached himself altogether to the -conservative interest. But he, though he was honest, diligent, and -dutiful to his mother, was lumpy, uncouth, and slow both of speech and -action. He understood the cutting of timber and the making of -hay,—something perhaps of the care of horses and of the nourishment of -pigs; but in money matters he was not efficient. Amalia, or Malchen, the -daughter, who was four or five years her brother’s junior, was much -brighter, and she was strong on the reforming side. British money was to -her thinking as good as Austrian, or even Tyrolese. To thrive even -better than her forefathers had thriven seemed to her to be desirable. -She therefore, though by her brightness and feminine ways she was very -dear to the priest, was generally opposed to him in the family -conclaves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> It was chiefly in consequence of her persistency that the -table napkins at the Peacock were now changed twice a week.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-1" id="CHAPTER_II-1"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Of</span> late days, and up to the time of which we are speaking, the chief -contest between the Frau, with the kaplan and Peter on one side, and -Malchen with Fritz Schlessen on the other, was on that most important -question whether the whole rate of charges should not be raised at the -establishment. The prices had been raised, no doubt, within the last -twenty years, or the Frau could not have kept her house open;—but this -had been done indirectly. That the matter may not be complicated for our -readers, we will assume that all charges are made at the Peacock in -zwansigers and kreutzers, and that the zwansiger, containing twenty -kreutzers, is worth eightpence of English money. Now it must be -understood that the guests at the Peacock were entertained at the rate -of six zwansigers, or four shillings, a day, and that this included -everything necessary,—a bed, breakfast, dinner, a cup of coffee after -dinner, supper, as much fresh milk as anybody chose to drink when the -cows were milked, and the use of everything in and about the -establishment. Guests who required wine or beer, of course, were charged -for what they had. Those who were rich enough to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> taken about in -carriages paid so much per job,—each separate jaunt having been -inserted in a tariff. No doubt there were other possible and probable -extras; but an ordinary guest might live for his six zwansigers a -day;—and the bulk of them did so live, with the addition of whatever -allowance of beer each might think appropriate. From time to time a -little had been added to the cost of luxuries. Wine had become dearer, -and perhaps the carriages. A bath was an addition to the bill, and -certain larger and more commodious rooms were supposed to be entitled to -an extra zwansiger per week;—but the main charge had always remained -fixed. In the time of the Frau’s father guests had been entertained at, -let us say, four shillings a head, and guests were so entertained now. -All the world,—at any rate all the Tyrolese world south of -Innsbruck,—knew that six zwansigers was the charge in the Brunnenthal. -It would be like adding a new difficulty to the path of life to make a -change. The Frau had always held her head high,—had never been ashamed -of looking her neighbour in the face, but when she was advised to rush -at once up to seven zwansigers and a half (or five shillings a day), she -felt that, should she do so, she would be overwhelmed with shame. Would -not her customers then have cause of complaint? Would not they have such -cause that they would in truth desert her? Did she not know that Herr -Weiss, the magistrate from Brixen, with his wife, and his wife’s sister, -and the children, who came yearly to the Peacock, could not afford to -bring his family at this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> increased rate of expenses? And the Fraulein -Tendel with her sister would never come from Innsbruck if such an -announcement was made to her. It was the pride of this woman’s heart to -give all that was necessary for good living, to those who would come and -submit themselves to her, for four shillings a day. Among the “extras” -she could endure some alteration. She did not like extras, and if people -would have luxuries they must be made to pay for them. But the Peacock -had always been kept open for six zwansigers, and though Fritz Schlessen -was very eloquent, she would not give way to him.</p> - -<p>Fritz Schlessen simply told her that the good things which she provided -for her guests cost at present more than six zwansigers, and could not -therefore be sold by her at that price without a loss. She was rich, -Fritz remarked, shrugging his shoulders, and having amassed property -could if she pleased dispose of it gradually by entertaining her guests -at a loss to herself;—only let her know what she was doing. That might -be charity, might be generosity, might be friendliness; but it was not -trade. Everything else in the world had become dearer, and therefore -living at the Peacock should be dearer. As to the Weisses and the -Tendels, no doubt they might be shocked, and perhaps hindered from -coming. But their places would surely be filled by others. Was not the -house always full from the 1st of June till the end of September? Were -not strangers refused admittance week after week from want of -accommodation? If the new prices were found to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> too high for the -Tyrolese and Bavarians, they would not offend the Germans from the -Rhine, or the Belgians, or the English. Was it not plain to every one -that people now came from greater distances than heretofore?</p> - -<p>These were the arguments which Herr Schlessen used; and, though they -were very disagreeable, they were not easily answered. The Frau -repudiated altogether the idea of keeping open her house on other than -true trade principles. When the young lawyer talked to her about -generosity she waxed angry, and accused him of laughing at her. “Dearest -Frau Frohmann,” he said, “it is so necessary you should know the truth! -Of course you intend to make a profit;—but if you cannot do so at your -present prices, and yet will not raise them, at any rate understand what -it is that you are doing.” Now the last year had been a bad year, and -she knew that she had not increased her store. This all took place in -the month of April, when a proposition was being made as to the prices -for the coming season. The lawyer had suggested that a circular should -be issued, giving notice of an altered tariff.</p> - -<p>Malchen was clearly in favour of the new idea. She could not see that -the Weisses and Tendels, and other neighbours, should be entertained at -a manifest loss; and, indeed, she had prepossessions in favour of -foreigners, especially of the English, which, when expressed, brought -down upon her head sundry hard words from her mother, who called her a -“pert hussey,” and implied that if Fritz Schlessen wanted to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> pull the -house down she, Malchen, would be willing that it should be done. -“Better do that, mother, than keep the roof on at a loss,” said Malchen; -who upon that was turned at once out of the little inner room in which -the conference was being held.</p> - -<p>Peter, who was present on the occasion, was decidedly opposed to all -innovations, partly because his conservative nature so prompted him, and -partly because he did not regard Herr Schlessen with a friendship so -warm as that entertained by his sister. He was, perhaps, a little -jealous of the lawyer. And then he had an idea that as things were -prosperous to the eye, they would certainly come right at last. The -fortunes of the house had been made at the rate of six zwansigers a day, -and there was, he thought, no wisdom more clear than that of adhering to -a line of conduct which had proved itself to be advantageous.</p> - -<p>The kaplan was clear against any change of prices; but then he burdened -his advice on the question with a suggestion which was peculiarly -disagreeable to the Frau. He acknowledged the truth of much that the -lawyer had said. It appeared to him that the good things provided could -not in truth be sold at the terms as they were now fixed. He was quite -alive to the fact that it behoved the Frau as a wise woman to make a -profit. Charity is one thing, and business is another. The Frau did her -charities like a Christian, generally using Father Conolin as her -almoner in such matters. But, as a keeper of a house of public -entertainment, it was necessary that she should live. The kaplan was as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> -wide awake to this as was the Frau herself, or the lawyer. But he -thought that the changes should not be in the direction indicated by -Schlessen. The condition of the Weisses and of the Tendels should be -considered. How would it be if one of the “meats” and one of the -puddings were discontinued, and if the cup of coffee after dinner were -made an extra? Would not that so reduce the expenditure as to leave a -profit? And in that case the Weisses and the Tendels need not -necessarily incur any increased charges.</p> - -<p>When the kaplan had spoken the lawyer looked closely into the Frau’s -face. The proposition might no doubt for the present meet the -difficulty, but he knew that it would be disagreeable. There came a -cloud upon the old woman’s brow, and she frowned even upon the priest.</p> - -<p>“They’d want to be helped twice out of the one pudding, and you’d gain -nothing,” said Peter.</p> - -<p>“According to that,” said the lawyer, “if there were only one course the -dinner would cost the same. The fewer the dishes, the less the cost, no -doubt.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe you know anything about it,” said the Frau.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not,” said the lawyer. “On those little details no doubt you -are the best judge. But I think I have shown that something should be -done.”</p> - -<p>“You might try the coffee, Frau Frohmann,” said the priest.</p> - -<p>“They would not take any. You’d only save the coffee,” said the lawyer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<p>“And the sugar,” said the priest.</p> - -<p>“But then they’d never ask for brandy,” suggested Peter.</p> - -<p>The Frau on that occasion said not a word further, but after a little -while got up from her chair and stood silent among them; which was known -to be a sign that the conference was dismissed.</p> - -<p>All this had taken place immediately after dinner, which at this period -of the year was eaten at noon. It had simply been a family meal, at -which the Frau had sat with her two children and her two friends. The -kaplan on such occasions was always free. Nothing that he had in that -house ever cost him a kreutzer. But the attorney paid his way like any -one else. When called on for absolute work done,—not exactly for advice -given in conference,—he made his charges. It might be that a time was -coming in which no money would pass on either side, but that time had -not arrived as yet. As soon as the Frau was left alone, she reseated -herself in her accustomed arm-chair, and set herself to work in sober -and almost solemn sadness to think over it all. It was a most perplexing -question. There could be no doubt that all the wealth which she at -present owned had been made by a business carried on at the present -prices and after the existing fashion. Why should there be any change? -She was told that she must make her customers pay more because she -herself was made to pay more. But why should she pay more? She could -understand that in the general prosperity of the Brunnenthal those about -her should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> have somewhat higher wages. As she had prospered, why should -not they also prosper? The servants of the poor must, she thought, be -poorer than the servants of the rich. But why should poultry be dearer, -and meat? Some things she knew were cheaper, as tea and sugar and -coffee. She had bought three horses during the winter, and they -certainly had been costly. Her father had not given such prices, nor, -before this, had she. But that probably had been Peter’s fault, who had -too rashly acceded to the demands made upon him. And now she remembered -with regret that, on the 1st of January, she had acceded to a petition -from the carpenter for an addition of six zwansigers to his monthly -wages. He had made the request on the plea of a sixth child, adding -also, that journeymen carpenters both at Brixen and at Innsbruck were -getting what he asked. She had granted to the coming of the additional -baby that which she would probably have denied to the other argument; -but it had never occurred to her that she was really paying the -additional four shillings a month because carpenters were becoming -dearer throughout the world. Malchen’s clothes were certainly much more -costly than her own had been, when she was young; but then Malchen was a -foolish girl, fond of fashion from Munich, and just at this moment was -in love. It could hardly be right that those poor Tendel females, with -their small and fixed means, should be made to pay more for their -necessary summer excursions because Malchen would dress herself in -so-called French<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> finery, instead of adhering, as she ought, to Tyrolese -customs.</p> - -<p>The Frau on this occasion spent an hour in solitude, thinking over it -all. She had dismissed the conference, but that could not be regarded as -an end to the matter. Herr Schlessen had come out from Innsbruck with a -written document in his pocket, which he was proposing to have printed -and circulated, and which, if printed and circulated, would intimate to -the world at large that the Frau Frohmann had raised her prices. Therein -the new rates, seven zwansigers and a half a head, were inserted -unblushingly at full length, as though such a disruption of old laws was -the most natural thing in the world. There was a flippancy about it -which disgusted the old woman. Malchen seemed to regard an act which -would banish from the Peacock the old friends and well-known customers -of the house as though it were an easy trifle; and almost desirable with -that very object. The Frau’s heart warmed to the well-known faces as she -thought of this. Would she not have infinitely greater satisfaction in -cooking good dinners for her simple Tyrolese neighbours, than for rich -foreigners who, after all, were too often indifferent to what was done -for them? By those Tendel ladies her puddings were recognised as real -works of art. They thought of them, talked of them, ate them, and no -doubt dreamed of them. And Herr Weiss—how he enjoyed her dinners, and -how proud he always was as he encouraged his children around him to help -themselves to every dish in succession! And the Frau<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> Weiss—with all -her cares and her narrow means—was she to be deprived of that cheap -month’s holiday which was so necessary for her, in order that the -Peacock and the charms of the Brunnenthal generally might be devoted to -Jews from Frankfort, or rich shopkeepers from Hamburg, or, worse still, -to proud and thankless Englishmen? At the end of the hour the Frau had -determined that she would not raise her prices.</p> - -<p>But yet something must be done. Had she resolved, even silently -resolved, that she would carry on her business at a loss, she would have -felt that she was worthy of restraint as a lunatic. To keep a house of -public entertainment and to lose by it was, to her mind, a very sad -idea! To work and be out of pocket by working! To her who knew little or -nothing of modern speculation, such a catastrophe was most melancholy. -But to work with the intention of losing could be the condition only of -a lunatic. And Schlessen had made good his point as to the last season. -The money spent had been absolutely more than the money received. -Something must be done. And yet she would not raise her prices.</p> - -<p>Then she considered the priest’s proposition. Peter, she knew, had shown -himself to be a fool. Though his feelings were good, he always was a -fool. The expenses of the house no doubt might be much diminished in the -manner suggested by Herr Conolin. Salt butter could be given instead of -fresh at breakfast. Cheaper coffee could be procured. The courses at -dinner might be reduced. The second pudding might be discontinued<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> with -economical results. But had not her success in these things been the -pride of her life; and of what good would her life be to her if its -pride were crushed? The Weisses no doubt would come all the same, but -how would they whisper and talk of her among themselves when they found -these parsimonious changes! The Tendel ladies would not complain. It was -not likely that a breath of complaint would ever pass their humble lips; -but she herself, she, Frau Frohmann, who was perhaps somewhat unduly -proud of her character for wealth, would have to explain to them why it -was that that second pudding had been abolished. She would be forced to -declare that she could no longer afford to supply it, a declaration -which to her would have in it something of meanness, something of -degradation. No! she could not abandon the glory of her dinner. It was -as though you should ask a Royal Academician to cease to exhibit his -pictures, or an actor to consent to have his name withdrawn from the -bills. Thus at last she came to that further resolve. The kaplan’s -advice must be rejected, as must that of the lawyer.</p> - -<p>But something must be done. For a moment there came upon her a sad idea -that she would leave the whole thing to others, and retire into -obscurity at Schwatz, the village from whence the Frohmanns had -originally come. There would be ample means for private comfort. But -then who would carry on the Peacock, who would look after the farm, and -the timber, and the posting, and the mill? Peter was certainly not -efficient for all that. And Malchen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span>’s ambition lay elsewhere. There -was, too, a cowardice in this idea of running away which was very -displeasing to her.</p> - -<p>Why need there be any raising of prices at all,—either in one direction -or in the other?—Had she herself never been persuaded into paying more -to others, then she would not have been driven to demand more from -others. And those higher payments on her part had, she thought, not been -obligatory on her. She had been soft and good-natured, and therefore it -was that she was now called upon to be exorbitant. There was something -abominable to her in this general greed of the world for more money. At -the moment she felt almost a hatred for poor Seppel the carpenter, and -regarded that new baby of his as an impertinent intrusion. She would -fall back upon the old wages, the old prices for everything. There would -be a difficulty with that Innsbruck butcher; but unless he would give -way she would try the man at Brixen. In that matter of fowls she would -not yield a kreutzer to the entreaties of her poor neighbours who -brought them to her for sale.</p> - -<p>Then she walked forth from the house to a little arbour or summer-house -which was close to the chapel opposite, in which she found Schlessen -smoking his pipe with a cup of coffee before him, and Malchen by his -side. “I have made up my mind. Herr Schlessen,” she said. It was only -when she was very angry with him that she called him Herr Schlessen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<p>“And what shall I do?” asked the lawyer.</p> - -<p>“Do nothing at all; but just destroy that bit of paper.” So saying, the -Frau walked back to the house, and Fritz Schlessen, looking round at -Malchen, did destroy that bit of paper.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-1" id="CHAPTER_III-1"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>THE QUESTION OF THE MITGIFT.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">About</span> two months after the events described in the last chapter, Malchen -and Fritz Schlessen were sitting in the same little arbour, and he was -again smoking his pipe, and again drinking his coffee. And they were -again alone. When these two were seated together in the arbour, at this -early period of the season, they were usually left alone, as they were -known to be lovers by the guests who would then be assembled at the -Peacock. When the summer had grown into autumn, and the strangers from a -distance had come, and the place was crowded, then the ordinary -coffee-drinkers and smokers would crowd round the arbour, regardless of -the loves of Amalia and Fritz.</p> - -<p>The whole family of the Weisses were now at the Peacock, and the two -Tendel ladies and three or four others, men with their wives and -daughters, from Botzen, Brunecken, and places around at no great -distance. It was now the end of June; but it is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> till July that the -house becomes full, and it is in August that the real crowd is gathered -at Frau Frohmann’s board. It is then that folk from a distance cannot -find beds, and the whole culinary resources of the establishment are put -to their greatest stress. It was now Monday, and the lawyer had been -making a holiday, having come to the Brunnenthal on the previous -Saturday. On the Sunday there had been perhaps a dozen visitors from -Innsbruck who had been driven out after early mass for their dinner and -Sunday holiday. Everything had been done at the Peacock on the old -style. There had been no diminution either in the number or in the -excellence of the dishes, nor had there been any increase in the tariff. -It had been the first day of the season at which there had been a full -table, and the Frau had done her best. Everybody had known that the -sojourners in the house were to be entertained at the old rates; but it -had been hoped by the lawyer and the priest, and by Malchen,—even by -Peter himself—that a zwansiger would be added to the charge for dinner -demanded from the townspeople. But at the last moment word had gone -forth that there should be no increase. All the morning the old lady had -been very gloomy. She had heard mass in her own chapel, and had then -made herself very busy in the kitchen. She had spoken no word to any one -till, at the moment before dinner, she gave her instructions to Malchen, -who always made out the bills, and saw that the money was duly received. -There was to be no increase. Then, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> the last pudding had been sent -in, she went, according to her custom, to her room and decorated herself -in her grand costume. When the guests had left the dining-room and were -clustering about in the passages and on the seats in front of the house, -waiting for their coffee, she had come forth, very fine, with her grand -cap on her head, with her gold and silver ornaments, with her arms bare, -and radiant with smiles. She shook Madame Weiss very graciously by the -hand and stooped down and kissed the youngest child. To one fraulein -after another she said a civil word. And when, as it happened, Seppel -the carpenter went by, dressed in his Sunday best, with a child in each -hand, she stopped him and asked kindly after the baby. She had made up -her mind that, at any rate for a time, she would not submit to the -humiliation of acknowledging that she was driven to the necessity of -asking increased prices.</p> - -<p>That had taken place on the Sunday, and it was on the following day that -the two lovers were in the arbour together. Now it must be understood -that all the world knew that these lovers were lovers, and that all the -world presumed that they were to become husband and wife. There was not -and never had been the least secrecy about it. Malchen was four or five -and twenty, and he was perhaps thirty. They knew their own minds, and -were, neither of them, likely to be persuaded by others either to marry -or not to marry. The Frau had given her consent,—not with that ecstacy -of joy with which sons-in-law are sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> welcomed,—but still -without reserve. The kaplan had given in his adhesion. The young lawyer -was not quite the man he liked,—entertained some of the new ideas about -religion, and was given to innovations; but he was respectable and -well-to-do. He was a lover against whom he, as a friend of the family, -could not lift up his voice. Peter did not like the man, and Peter, in -his way, was fond of his sister. But he had not objected. Had he done -so, it would not have mattered much. Malchen was stronger at the -Brunnenthal than Peter. Thus it may be said that things generally smiled -upon the lovers. But yet no one had ever heard that a day was fixed for -their marriage. Madame Weiss had once asked Malchen, and Malchen had -told her—not exactly to mind her own business; but that had been very -nearly the meaning of what she had said.</p> - -<p>There was, indeed, a difficulty; and this was the difficulty. The Frau -had assented—in a gradual fashion, rather by not dissenting as the -thing had gone on, so that it had come to be understood that the thing -was to be. But she had never said a word as to the young lady’s -fortune—as to that “mitgift” which in such a case would certainly be -necessary. Such a woman as the Frau in giving her daughter would surely -have to give something with her. But the Frau was a woman who did not -like parting with her money; and was such a woman that even the lawyer -did not like asking the question. The fraulein had once inquired, but -the mother had merely raised her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> eyebrows and remained silent. Then the -lawyer had told the priest that in the performance of her moral duties -the Frau ought to settle something in her own mind. The priest had -assented, but had seemed to imply that in the performance of such a duty -an old lady ought not to be hurried. A year or two, he seemed to think, -would not be too much for consideration. And so the matter stood at the -present moment.</p> - -<p>Perhaps it is that the Germans are a slow people. It may be that the -Tyrolese are especially so. Be that as it may, Herr Schlessen did not -seem to be driven into any agony of despair by these delays. He was -fondly attached to his Malchen; but as to offering to take her without -any mitgift,—quite empty-handed, just as she stood,—that was out of -the question. No young man who had anything, ever among his -acquaintances, did that kind of thing. Scales should be somewhat equally -balanced. He had a good income, and was entitled to some substantial -mitgift. He was quite ready to marry her to-morrow, if only this -important question could get itself settled.</p> - -<p>Malchen was quite as well aware as was he that her mother should be -brought to do her duty in this matter; but, perhaps of the two, she was -a little the more impatient. If there should at last be a slip between -the cup and the lip, the effect to her would be so much more disastrous -than to him! He could very easily get another wife. Young women were as -plenty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> as blackberries. So the fraulein told herself. But she might -find it difficult to suit herself, if at last this affair were to be -broken off. She knew herself to be a fair, upstanding, good-looking -lass, with personal attractions sufficient to make such a young man as -Fritz Schlessen like her society; but she knew also that her good looks, -such as they were, would not be improved by fretting. It might be -possible that Fritz should change his mind some day, if he were kept -waiting till he saw her becoming day by day more commonplace under his -eyes. Malchen had good sense enough not to overrate her own charms, and -she knew the world well enough to be aware that she would be wise to -secure, if possible, a comfortable home while she was at her best. It -was not that she suspected Fritz; but she did not think that she would -be justified in supposing him to be more angelic than other young men -simply because he was her lover. Therefore, Malchen was impatient, and -for the last month or two had been making up her mind to be very “round” -with her mother on the subject.</p> - -<p>At the present moment, however, the lovers, as they were sitting in the -arbour, were discussing rather the Frau’s affairs in regard to the -establishment than their own. Schlessen had, in truth, come to the -Brunnenthal on this present occasion to see what would be done, thinking -that if the thin edge of the wedge could have been got in,—if those -people from the town could have been made to pay an extra zwansiger each -for their Sunday dinner,—then, even yet, the old lady might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> be induced -to raise her prices in regard to the autumn and more fashionable -visitors. But she had been obstinate, and had gloried in her obstinacy, -dressing herself up in her grandest ornaments and smiling her best -smiles, as in triumph at her own victory.</p> - -<p>“The fact is, you know, it won’t do,” said the lawyer to his love. “I -don’t know how I am to say any more, but anybody can see with half an -eye that she will simply go on losing money year after year. It is all -very fine for the Weisses and Tendels, and very fine for old -Trauss,”—old Trauss was a retired linen-draper from Vienna, who lived -at Innsbruck, and was accustomed to eat many dinners at the Peacock; a -man who could afford to pay a proper price, but who was well pleased to -get a good dinner at a cheap rate,—“and very well for old Trauss,” -continued the lawyer, becoming more energetic as he went on, “to regale -themselves at your mother’s expense;—but that’s what it comes to. -Everybody knows that everybody has raised the price of everything. Look -at the Golden Lion.” The Golden Lion was the grand hotel in the town. -“Do you think they haven’t raised their prices during the last twenty -years?”</p> - -<p>“Why is it, Fritz?”</p> - -<p>“Everything goes up together, of course. If you’ll look into old -accounts you’ll see that three hundred years ago you could buy a sheep -at Salzburg for two florins and a half. I saw, it somewhere in a book. -If a lawyer’s clerk then had eighty florins a year he was well off. That -would not surprise her. She can understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> that there should be an -enormous change in three hundred years; but she can’t make out why there -should be a little change in thirty years.”</p> - -<p>“But many things have got cheaper, Fritz.”</p> - -<p>“Living altogether hasn’t got cheaper. Look at wages!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why we should pay more. Everybody says that bread is lower -than it used to be.”</p> - -<p>“What sort of bread do the people eat now? Look at that man.” The man -was Seppel, who was dragging a cart which he had just mended out of the -shed which was close by,—in which cart were seated his three eldest -children, so that he might help their mother as assistant nurse even -while he was at his work. “Don’t you think he gets more wheaten flour -into his house in a week than his grandfather did in a year? His -grandfather never saw white bread.”</p> - -<p>“Why should he have it?”</p> - -<p>“Because he likes it, and because he can get it. Do you think he’d have -stayed here if his wages had not been raised?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Seppel ever would have moved out of the Brunnenthal, -Fritz.”</p> - -<p>“Then Seppel would have been more stupid than the cow, which knows very -well on which side of the field it can find the best grass. Everything -gets dearer;—and if one wants to live one has to swim with the stream. -You might as well try to fight with bows and arrows, or with the -old-fashioned flint rifles, as to live at the same rate as your -grandfather.” The young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> lawyer, as he said this, rapped his pipe on the -table to knock out the ashes, and threw himself back on his seat with a -full conviction that he had spoken words of wisdom.</p> - -<p>“What will it all come to, Fritz?” This Malchen asked with real anxiety -in her voice. She was not slow to join two things together. It might -well be that her mother should be induced by her pride to carry on the -business for a while, so as to lose some of her money, but that she -should, at last, be induced to see the error of her ways before serious -damage had been done. Her financial position was too good to be brought -to ruin by small losses. But during the period of her discomfiture she -certainly would not be got to open her hand in that matter of the -mitgift. Malchen’s own little affair would never get itself settled till -this other question should have arranged itself satisfactorily. There -could be no mitgift from a failing business. And if the business were to -continue to fail for the next year or two, where would Malchen be then? -It was not, therefore, wonderful that she should be in earnest.</p> - -<p>“Your mother is a very clever woman,” said the lover.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me that she is very foolish about this,” said Malchen, -whose feeling of filial reverence was not at the moment very strong.</p> - -<p>“She is a clever woman, and has done uncommonly well in the world. The -place is worth double as much as when she married your father. But it is -that very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> success which makes her obstinate. She thinks that she can -see her way. She fancies that she can compel people to work for her and -deal with her at the old prices. It will take her, perhaps, a couple of -years to find out that this is wrong. When she has lost three or four -thousand florins she’ll come round.”</p> - -<p>Fritz, as he said this, seemed to be almost contented with this view of -the case,—as though it made no difference to him. But with the fraulein -the matter was so essentially personal that she could not allow it to -rest there. She had made up her mind to be round with her mother; but it -seemed to her to be necessary, also, that something should be said to -her lover. “Won’t all that be very bad for you, Fritz?”</p> - -<p>“Her business with me will go on just the same.”</p> - -<p>This was felt to be unkind and very unloverlike. But she could not -afford at the present moment to quarrel with him. “I mean about our -settling,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It ought not to make a difference.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about ought;—but won’t it? You don’t see her as I do, -but, of course, it puts her into a bad temper.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose she means to give you some fixed sum. I don’t doubt but she -has it all arranged in her own mind.”</p> - -<p>“Why doesn’t she name it, then?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear,—mein schatz,—there is nobody who likes too well to part -with his money.”</p> - -<p>“But when is there to be an end of it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span>”</p> - -<p>“You should find that out. You are her child, and she has only two. That -she should hang back is a matter of course. When one has the money of -his own one can do anything. It is all in her own hand. See what I bear. -When I tell her this or that she turns upon me as if I were nobody. Do -you think I should suffer it if she were only just a client? You must -persuade her, and be gentle with her; but if she would name the sum it -would be a comfort, of course.”</p> - -<p>The fraulein herself did not in the least know what the sum ought to be; -but she thought she did know that it was a matter which should be -arranged between her lover and her parent. What she would have liked to -have told him was this,—that as there were only two children, and as -her mother was at any rate an honest woman, he might be sure that a -proper dowry would come at last. But she was well aware that he would -think that a mitgift should be a mitgift. The bride should come with it -in her hand, so that she might be a comfort to her husband’s household. -Schlessen would not be at all willing to wait patiently for the Frau’s -death, or even for some final settlement of her affairs when she might -make up her mind to leave the Peacock and betake herself to Schwatz. -“You would not like to ask her yourself?” she said.</p> - -<p>He was silent for a while, and then he answered her by another question. -“Are you afraid of her?”</p> - -<p>“Not afraid. But she would just tell me I was impertinent. I am not a -bit afraid, but it would do no good. It would be so reasonable for you -to do it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span>”</p> - -<p>“There is just the difference, Malchen. I am afraid of her.”</p> - -<p>“She could not bite you.”</p> - -<p>“No;—but she might say something sharp, and then I might answer her -sharply. And then there might be a quarrel. If she were to tell me that -she did not want to see me any more in the Brunnenthal, where should we -be then? Mein schatz, if you will take my advice, you will just say a -word yourself, in your softest, sweetest way.” Then he got up and made -his way across to the stable, where was the horse which was to take him -back to Innsbruck. Malchen was not altogether well pleased with her -lover, but she perceived that on the present occasion she must, -perforce, follow his advice.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-1" id="CHAPTER_IV-1"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE FRAU RETURNS TO THE SIMPLICITY OF THE OLD DAYS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Two</span> or three weeks went by in the Brunnenthal without any special -occurrence, and Malchen had not as yet spoken to her mother about her -fortune. The Frau had during this time been in more than ordinary good -humour with her own household. July had opened with lovely weather, and -the house had become full earlier than usual. The Frau liked to have the -house full, even though there might be no profit, and therefore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> she was -in a good humour. But she had been exceptionally busy, and was trying -experiments in her housekeeping, as to which she was still in hope that -they would carry her through all her difficulties. She had been both to -Brixen on one side of the mountain and to Innsbruck on the other, and -had changed her butcher. Her old friend Hoff, at the latter place, had -altogether declined to make any reduction in his prices. Of course they -had been raised within the last five or six years. Who did not know that -that had been the case with butchers’ meat all the world over? As it -was, he charged the Frau less than he charged the people at the Golden -Lion. So at least he swore; and when she told him that unless an -alteration was made she must take her custom elsewhere—he bade her go -elsewhere. Therefore she did make a contract with the butcher at Brixen -on lower terms, and seemed to think that she had got over her -difficulty. But Brixen was further than Innsbruck, and the carriage was -more costly. It was whispered also about the house that the meat was not -equally good. Nobody, however, had as yet dared to say a word on that -subject to the Frau. And she, though in the midst of her new efforts she -was good-humoured herself,—as is the case with many people while they -have faith in the efforts they are making,—had become the cause of much -unhappiness among others. Butter, eggs, poultry, honey, fruit, and -vegetables, she was in the habit of buying from her neighbours, and had -been so excellent a customer that she was as good as a market to the -valley in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> general. There had usually been some haggling; but that, I -think, by such vendors is considered a necessary and almost an agreeable -part of the operation. The produce had been bought and sold, and the -Frau had, upon the whole, been regarded as a kind of providence to the -Brunnenthal. But now there were sad tales told at many a cottage and -small farmstead around. The Frau had declared that she would give no -more than three zwansigers a pair for chickens, and had insisted on -having both butter and eggs at a lower price than she had paid last -year. And she had succeeded, after infinite clamours. She had been their -one market, their providence, and they had no other immediate customers -to whom to betake themselves. The eggs and the butter, the raspberries -and the currants, must be sold. She had been imperious and had -succeeded, for a while. But there were deep murmurs, and already a -feeling was growing up in favour of Innsbruck and a market cart. It was -very dreadful. How were they to pay their taxes, how were they to pay -anything, if they were to be crimped and curtailed in this way? One poor -woman had already walked to Innsbruck with three dozen eggs, and had got -nearly twice the money which the Frau had offered. The labour of the -walk had been very hard upon her, and the economy of the proceeding -generally may have been doubtful; but it had been proved that the thing -could be done.</p> - -<p>Early in July there had come a letter, addressed to Peter, from an -English gentleman who, with his wife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> and daughter, had been at the -Brunnenthal on the preceding year. Mr. Cartwright had now written to -say, that the same party would be glad to come again early in August, -and had asked what were the present prices. Now the very question seemed -to imply a conviction on the gentleman’s mind that the prices would be -raised. Even Peter, when he took the letter to his mother, thought that -this would be a good opportunity for taking a step in advance. These -were English people, and entitled to no loving forbearance. The -Cartwrights need know nothing as to the demands made on the Weisses and -Tendels. Peter who had always been on his mother’s side, Peter who hated -changes, even he suggested that he might write back word that seven -zwansigers and a half was now the tariff. “Don’t you know I have settled -all that?” said the old woman, turning upon him fiercely. Then he wrote -to Mr. Cartwright to say that the charge would be six zwansigers a day, -as heretofore. It was certainly a throwing away of money. Mr. Cartwright -was a Briton, and would, therefore, almost have preferred to pay another -zwansiger or two. So at least Peter thought. And he, even an Englishman, -with his wife and daughter, was to be taken in and entertained at a -loss! At a loss!—unless, indeed, the Frau could be successful in her -new mode of keeping her house. Father Conolin in these days kept away. -The complaints made by the neighbours around reached his ears,—very sad -complaints,—and he hardly knew how to speak of them to the Frau. It was -becoming very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> serious with him. He had counselled her against any rise -in her own prices, but had certainly not intended that she should make -others lower. That had not been his plan; and now he did not know what -advice to give.</p> - -<p>But the Frau, resolute in her attempt, and proud of her success as far -as it had gone, constantly adducing the conduct of these two rival -butchers as evidence of her own wisdom, kept her ground like a Trojan. -All the old courses were served, and the puddings and the fruit were at -first as copious as ever. If the meat was inferior in quality,—and it -could not be so without her knowledge, for she had not reigned so long -in the kitchen of the Peacock without having become a judge in such -matters,—she was willing to pass the fault over for a time. She tried -to think that there was not much difference. She almost tried to believe -that second-rate meat would do as well as first-rate. There should at -least be no lack of anything in the cookery. And so she toiled and -struggled, and was hopeful that she might have her own way and prove to -all her advisers that she knew how to manage the house better than any -of them.</p> - -<p>There was great apparent good humour. Though she had frowned upon Peter -when he had shown a disposition to spoil those Egyptians the -Cartwrights, she had only done so in defence of her own resolute -purpose, and soon returned to her kind looks. She was, too, very civil -to Malchen, omitting for the time her usual gibes and jeers as to her -daughter’s taste for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> French finery and general rejection of Tyrolese -customs. And she said nothing of the prolonged absence of her two -counsellors, the priest and the lawyer. A great struggle was going on -within her own bosom, as to which she in these days said not a word to -anybody. One counsellor had told her to raise her prices; another had -advised her to lessen the luxuries supplied. As both the one proposition -and the other had gone against her spirit, she had looked about her to -find some third way out of her embarrassments. She had found it, and the -way was one which recommended itself to her own sense of abstract -justice. The old prices should prevail in the valley everywhere. She -would extort nothing from Mr. Cartwright, but then neither should her -neighbours extort anything from her. Seppel’s wife was ill, and she had -told him that in consequence of that misfortune the increased wages -should be continued for three months, but that after that she must -return to the old rate. In the softness of her heart she would have -preferred to say six months, but that in doing so she would have seemed -to herself to have departed from the necessary rigour of her new -doctrine. But when Seppel stood before her, scratching his head, a -picture of wretchedness and doubt, she was not comfortable in her mind. -Seppel had a dim idea of his own rights, and did not like to be told -that his extra zwansigers came to him from the Frau’s charity. To go -away from the Brunnenthal at the end of the summer, to go away at all, -would be terrible to him; but to work for less than fair wages, would -that not be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> more terrible? Of all which the Frau, as she looked at him, -understood much.</p> - -<p>And she understood much also of the discontent and almost despair which -was filling the minds of the poor women all around her. All those poor -women were dear to her. It was in her nature to love those around her, -and especially those who were dependent on her. She knew the story of -every household,—what children each mother had reared and what she had -lost, when each had been brought to affliction by a husband’s illness or -a son’s misconduct. She had never been deaf to their troubles; and -though she might have been heard in violent discussions, now with one -and now with another, as to the selling value of this or that article, -she had always been held by them to be a just woman and a constant -friend. Now they were up in arms against her, to the extreme grief of -her heart.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was necessary that she should support herself by an -outward appearance of tranquillity, so that the world around her might -know that she was not troubled by doubts as to her own conduct. She had -heard somewhere that no return can be made from evil to good courses -without temporary disruptions, and that all lovers of justice are -subject to unreasonable odium. Things had gone astray because there had -been unintentional lapses from justice. She herself had been the -delinquent when she had allowed herself to be talked into higher -payments than those which had been common in the valley in her young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> -days. She had not understood, when she made these lapses gradually, how -fatal would be their result. Now she understood, and was determined to -plant her foot firmly down on the old figures. All this evil had come -from a departure from the old ways. There must be sorrow and trouble, -and perhaps some ill blood, in this return. That going back to -simplicity is always so difficult! But it should be done. So she smiled, -and refused to give more than three zwansigers a pair for her chickens.</p> - -<p>One old woman came to her with the express purpose of arguing it all -out. Suse Krapp was the wife of an old woodman who lived high up above -the Peacock, among the pines, in a spot which could only be reached by a -long and very steep ascent, and who being old, and having a daughter and -granddaughters whom she could send down with her eggs and wild fruit, -did not very often make her appearance in the valley. But she had known -the Frau well for many years, having been one of those to welcome her -when she had arrived there as a bride, and had always been treated with -exceptional courtesy. Suse Krapp was a woman who had brought up a large -family, and had known troubles; but she had always been able to speak -her own mind; and when she arrived at the house, empty-handed, with -nothing to sell, declaring at once her purpose of remonstrating with the -Frau, the Frau regarded her as a delegate from the commercial females of -the valley generally; and she took the coming in good part, asking Suse -into her own inner room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>After sundry inquiries on each side, respecting the children and the -guests, and the state of things in the world at large, the real question -was asked, “Ah, meine liebe Frau Frohmann,—my very dear Mrs. Frohmann, -as one might say here,—why are you dealing with us all in the -Brunnenthal after this hard fashion?”</p> - -<p>“What do you call a hard fashion, Suse?”</p> - -<p>“Only giving half price for everything that you buy. Why should anything -be cheaper this year than it was last? Ah, alas! does not everybody know -that everything is dearer?”</p> - -<p>“Why should anything be dearer, Suse? The people who come here are not -charged more than they were twenty years ago.”</p> - -<p>“Who can tell? How can an old woman say? It is all very bad. The world, -I suppose, is getting worse. But it is so. Look at the taxes.”</p> - -<p>The taxes, whether imperial or municipal, was a matter on which Frau did -not want to speak. She felt that they were altogether beyond her reach. -No doubt there had been a very great increase in such demands during her -time, and it was an increase against which nobody could make any stand -at all. But, if that was all, there had been a rise in prices quite -sufficient to answer that. She was willing to pay three zwansigers a -pair for chickens, and yet she could remember when they were to be -bought for a zwansiger each.</p> - -<p>“Yes, taxes,” she said; “they are an evil which we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> must all endure. It -is no good grumbling at them. But we have had the roads made for us.”</p> - -<p>This was an unfortunate admission, for it immediately gave Suse Krapp an -easy way to her great argument. “Roads, yes! and they are all saying -that they must make use of them to send the things into market. -Josephine Bull took her eggs into the city and got two kreutzers apiece -for them.”</p> - -<p>The Frau had already heard of that journey, and had also heard that poor -Josephine Bull had been very much fatigued by her labours. It had -afflicted her much, both that the poor woman should have been driven to -such a task, and that such an innovation should have been attempted. She -had never loved Innsbruck dearly, and now she was beginning to hate the -place. “What good did she get by that, Suse? None, I fear. She had -better have given her eggs away in the valley.”</p> - -<p>“But they will have a cart.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think a cart won’t cost money? There must be somebody to drive -the cart, I suppose.” On this point the Frau spoke feelingly, as she was -beginning to appreciate the inconvenience of sending twice a week all -the way to Brixen for her meat. There was a diligence, but though the -horses were kept in her own stables, she had not as yet been able to -come to terms with the proprietor.</p> - -<p>“There is all that to think of certainly,” said Suse. “But——. Wouldn’t -you come back, meine liebe Frau, to the prices you were paying last -year? Do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> you not know that they would sooner sell to you than to any -other human being in all the world, and they must live by their little -earnings?”</p> - -<p>But the Frau could not be persuaded. Indeed had she allowed herself to -be persuaded, all her purpose would have been brought to an end. Of -course there must be trouble, and her refusal of such a prayer as this -was a part of her trouble. She sent for a glass of kirsch-wasser to -mitigate the rigour of her denial, and as Suse drank the cordial she -endeavoured to explain her system. There could be no happiness, no real -prosperity in the valley, till they had returned to their old ways. “It -makes me unhappy,” said the Frau, shaking her head, “when I see the -girls making for themselves long petticoats.” Suse quite agreed with the -Frau as to the long petticoats; but, as she went, she declared that the -butter and eggs must be taken into Innsbruck, and another allusion to -the cart was the last word upon her tongue.</p> - -<p>It was on the evening of that same day that Malchen, unaware that her -mother’s feelings had just then been peculiarly stirred up by an appeal -from the women of the valley, came at last to the determination of -asking that something might be settled as to the “mitgift.” “Mother,” -she said, “Fritz Schlessen thinks that something should be arranged.”</p> - -<p>“Arranged as how?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he wants—to be married.”</p> - -<p>“If he don’t, I suppose somebody else does,” said the mother smiling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, mother! Of course it is not pleasant to be as we are now. You -must feel that yourself. Fritz is a good young man, and there is nothing -about him that I have a right to complain of. But of course, like all -the rest of ’em, he expects some money when he takes a wife. Couldn’t -you tell him what you mean to give?”</p> - -<p>“Not at present, Malchen.”</p> - -<p>“And why not now? It has been going on two years.”</p> - -<p>“Nina Cobard at Schwatz was ten years before her people would let it -come off. Just at present I am trying a great experiment, and I can say -nothing about money till the season is over.” With this answer Malchen -was obliged to be content, and was not slow in perceiving that it almost -contained a promise that the affairs should be settled when the season -was over.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-1" id="CHAPTER_V-1"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>A ZWANSIGER IS A ZWANSIGER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the beginning of August, the Weisses and the Tendels and Herr Trauss -had all left the Brunnenthal, and our friend Frau Frohmann was left with -a house full of guests who were less intimately known to her, but who -not the less demanded and received all her care. But, as those departed -whom she had taught herself to regard as neighbours and who were -therefore entitled to something warmer and more generous than mere -tavern<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> hospitality, she began to feel the hardness of her case in -having to provide so sumptuously for all these strangers at a loss. -There was a party of Americans in the house who had absolutely made no -inquiry whatsoever as to prices till they had shown themselves at her -door. Peter had been very urgent with her to mulct the Americans, who -were likely, he thought, to despise the house merely because it was -cheap. But she would not give way. If the American gentleman should find -out the fact and turn upon her, and ask her why he was charged more than -others, how would she be able to answer him? She had never yet been so -placed as not to be able to answer any complaints, boldly and even -indignantly. It was hard upon her; but if the prices were to be raised -to any, they must be raised to all.</p> - -<p>The whole valley now was in a hubbub. In the matter of butter there had -been so great a commotion that the Frau had absolutely gone back to the -making of her own, a system which had been abandoned at the Peacock a -few years since, with the express object of befriending the neighbours. -There had been a dairy with all its appurtenances; but it had come to -pass that the women around had got cows, and that the Frau had found -that without damage to herself she could buy their supplies. And in this -way her own dairy had gone out of use. She had kept her cows because -there had grown into use a great drinking of milk at the Peacock, and as -the establishment had gradually increased, the demand for cream, -custards, and such luxuries had of course increased also. Now, when,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> -remembering this, she conceived that she had a peculiar right to receive -submission as to the price of butter, and yet found more strong -rebellion here than on any other point, she at once took the bull by the -horns, and threw not only her energies, but herself bodily into the -dairy. It was repaired and whitewashed, and scoured and supplied with -all necessary furniture in so marvellously short a time, that the owners -of cows around could hardly believe their ears and their eyes. Of course -there was a spending of money, but there had never been any slackness as -to capital at the Peacock when good results might be expected from its -expenditure. So the dairy was set agoing.</p> - -<p>But there was annoyance, even shame, and to the old woman’s feeling -almost disgrace, arising from this. As you cannot eat your cake and have -it, so neither can you make your butter and have your cream. The supply -of new milk to the milk-drinkers was at first curtailed, and then -altogether stopped. The guests were not entitled to the luxury by any -contract, and were simply told that as the butter was now made at home, -the milk was wanted for that purpose. And then there certainly was a -deterioration in the puddings. There had hitherto been a rich plenty -which was now wanting. No one complained; but the Frau herself felt the -falling off. The puddings now were such as might be seen at other -places,—at the Golden Lion for instance. Hitherto her puddings had been -unrivalled in the Tyrol.</p> - -<p>Then there had suddenly appeared a huckster, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> pedlar, an itinerant -dealer in the valley who absolutely went round to the old women’s houses -and bought the butter at the prices which she had refused to give. And -this was a man who had been in her own employment, had been brought to -the valley by herself, and had once driven her own horses! And it was -reported to her that this man was simply an agent for a certain -tradesman in Innsbruck. There was an ingratitude in all this which -nearly broke her heart. It seemed to her that those to whom in their -difficulties she had been most kind were now turning upon her in her -difficulty. And she thought that there was no longer left among the -people any faith, any feeling of decent economy, any principle. -Disregarding right or wrong, they would all go where they could get half -a zwansiger more! They knew what it was she was attempting to do; for -had she not explained it all to Suse Krapp? And yet they turned against -her.</p> - -<p>The poor Frau knew nothing of that great principle of selling in the -dearest market, however much the other lesson as to buying in the -cheapest had been brought home to her. When a fixed price had become -fixed, that, she thought, should not be altered. She was demanding no -more than she had been used to demand, though to do so would have been -so easy! But her neighbours, those to whom she had even been most -friendly, refused to assist her in her efforts to re-establish the old -and salutary simplicity. Of course when the butter was taken into -Innsbruck, the chickens and the eggs went with the butter. When she -learned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> how all this was she sent for Suse Krapp, and Suse Krapp again -came down to her.</p> - -<p>“They mean then to quarrel with me utterly?” said the Frau with her -sternest frown.</p> - -<p>“Meine liebe Frau Frohmann!” said the old woman, embracing the arm of -her ancient friend.</p> - -<p>“But they do mean it?”</p> - -<p>“What can we do, poor wretches? We must live.”</p> - -<p>“You lived well enough before,” said the Frau, raising her fist in the -unpremeditated eloquence of her indignation. “Will it be better for you -now to deal with strangers who will rob you at every turn? Will Karl -Muntz, the blackguard that he is, advance money to any of you at your -need? Well; let it be so. I too can deal with strangers. But when once I -have made arrangements in the town, I will not come back to the people -of the valley. If we are to be severed, we will be severed. It goes -sadly against the grain with me, as I have a heart in my bosom.”</p> - -<p>“You have, you have, my dearest Frau Frohmann.”</p> - -<p>“As for the cranberries, we can do without them.” Now it had been the -case that Suse Krapp with her grandchildren had supplied the Peacock -with wild fruits in plentiful abundance, which wild fruits, stewed as -the Frau knew how to stew them, had been in great request among the -guests at the Brunnenthal. Great bowls of cranberries and bilberries had -always at this period of the year turned the Frau’s modest suppers into -luxurious banquets. But there must be an end to that now; not in any way -because the price paid for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> fruit was grudged, but because the -quarrel, if quarrel there must be, should be internecine at all points. -She had loved them all; but, if they turned against her, not the less -because of her love would she punish them. Poor old Suse wiped her eyes -and took her departure, without any kirsch-wasser on this occasion.</p> - -<p>It all went on from bad to worse. Seppel the carpenter gave her notice -that he would leave her service at the end of August. “Why at the end of -August?” she asked, remembering that she had promised to give him the -higher rate of wages up to a later date than that. Then Seppel -explained, that as he must do something for himself,—that is, find -another place,—the sooner he did that the better. Now Seppel the -carpenter was brother to that Anton who had most wickedly undertaken the -huckstering business, on the part of Karl Muntz the dealer in Innsbruck, -and it turned out that Seppel was to join him. There was an ingratitude -in this which almost drove the old woman frantic. If any one in the -valley was more bound to her by kindly ties than another, it was Seppel, -with his wife and six children. Wages! There had been no question of -wages when Babette, Seppel’s wife, had been ill; and Babette had always -been ill. And when he had chopped his own foot with his own axe, and had -gone into the hospital for six weeks, they had wanted nothing! That he -should leave her for a matter of six zwansigers a month, and not only -leave her, but become her active enemy, was dreadful to her. Nor was her -anger at all modified when he explained it all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> to her. As a man, and as -a carpenter who was bound to keep up his own respect among carpenters, -he could not allow himself to work for less than the ordinary wages. The -Frau had been very kind to him, and he and his wife and children were -all grateful. But she would not therefore wish him,—this was his -argument,—she would not on that account require him to work for less -than his due. Seppel put his hand on his heart, and declared that his -honour was concerned. As for his brother’s cart and his huckstery trade -and Karl Muntz, he was simply lending a hand to that till he could get a -settled place as carpenter. He was doing the Frau no harm. If he did not -look after the cart, somebody else would. He was very submissive and -most anxious to avoid her anger; but yet would not admit that he was -doing wrong. But she towered in her wrath, and would listen to no -reason. It was to her all wrong. It was innovation, a spirit of change -coming from the source of all evil, bringing with it unkindness, absence -of charity, ingratitude! It was flat mutiny, and rebellion against their -betters. For some weeks it seemed to the Frau that all the world was -going to pieces.</p> - -<p>Her position was the more painful because at the time she was without -counsellors. The kaplan came indeed as usual, and was as attentive and -flattering to her as of yore; but he said nothing to her about her own -affairs unless he was asked; and she did not ask him, knowing that he -would not give her palatable counsel. The kaplan himself was not well -versed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> political economy or questions of money generally; but he had -a vague idea that the price of a chicken ought to be higher now than it -was thirty years ago. Then why not also the price of living to the -guests at the Peacock? On that matter he argued with himself that the -higher prices for the chickens had prevailed for some time, and that it -was at any rate impossible to go back. And perhaps the lawyer had been -right in recommending the Frau to rush at once to seven zwansigers and a -half. His mind was vacillating and his ideas misty; but he did agree -with Suse Krapp when she declared that the poor people must live. He -could not, therefore, do the Frau any good by his advice.</p> - -<p>As for Schlessen he had not been at the Brunnenthal for a month, and had -told Malchen in Innsbruck that unless he were specially wanted, he would -not go to the Peacock until something had been settled as to the -mitgift. “Of course she is going to lose a lot of money,” said -Schlessen. “Anybody can see that with half an eye. Everybody in the town -is talking about it. But when I tell her so, she is only angry with me.”</p> - -<p>Malchen of course could give no advice. Every step which her mother took -seemed to her to be unwise. Of course the old women would do the best -they could with their eggs. The idea that any one out of gratitude -should sell cheaper to a friend than to an enemy was to her monstrous. -But when she found that her mother was determined to swim against the -stream, to wound herself by kicking against the pricks, to set at -defiance all the common laws of trade, and that in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> way money was -to be lost, just at that very epoch of her own life in which it was so -necessary that money should be forthcoming for her own advantage,—then -she became moody, unhappy, and silent. What a pity it was that all this -power should be vested in her mother’s hands.</p> - -<p>As for Peter, he had been altogether converted. When he found that a -cart had to be sent twice a week to Brixen, and that the very poultry -which had been carried from the valley to the town had to be brought -back from the town to the valley, then his spirit of conservatism -deserted him. He went so far as to advise his mother to give way. “I -don’t see that you do any good by ruining yourself,” he said.</p> - -<p>But she turned at him very fiercely. “I suppose I may do as I like with -my own,” she replied.</p> - -<p>Yes; she could do what she liked with her own. But now it was declared -by all those around her, by her neighbours in the valley, and by those -in Innsbruck who knew anything about her, that it was a sad thing and a -bad thing that an old woman should be left with the power of ruining all -those who belonged to her, and that there should be none to restrain -her! And yet for the last twenty-five years previous to this it had been -the general opinion in these parts that nobody had ever managed such a -house as well as the Frau Frohmann. As for being ruined,—Schlessen, who -was really acquainted with her affairs, knew better than that. She might -lose a large sum of money, but there was no fear of ruin. Schlessen was -inclined to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> think that all this trouble would end in the Frau retiring -to Schwatz, and that the settlement of the mitgift might thus be -accelerated. Perhaps he and the Frau herself were the only two persons -who really knew how well she had thriven. He was not afraid, and, being -naturally patient, was quite willing to let things take their course.</p> - -<p>The worst of it to the Frau herself was that she knew so well what -people were saying of her. She had enjoyed for many years all that -delight which comes from success and domination. It had not been merely, -nor even chiefly, the feeling that money was being made. It is not that -which mainly produces the comfortable condition of mind which attends -success. It is the sense of respect which it engenders. The Frau had -held her head high, and felt herself inferior to none, because she had -enjoyed to the full this conviction. Things had gone pleasantly with -her. Nothing is so enfeebling as failure; but she, hitherto, had never -failed. Now a new sensation had fallen upon her, by which at certain -periods she was almost prostrated. The woman was so brave that at her -worst moments she would betake herself to solitude and shed her tears -where no one could see her. Then she would come out and so carry herself -that none should guess how she suffered. To no ears did she utter a word -of complaint, unless her indignation to Seppel, to Suse, and the others -might be called complaining. She asked for no sympathy. Even to the -kaplan she was silent, feeling that the kaplan, too, was against her. It -was natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> that he should take part with the poor. She was now for the -first time in her life, driven, alas, to feel that the poor were against -her.</p> - -<p>The house was still full, but there had of late been a great falling off -in the midday visitors. It had, indeed, almost come to pass that that -custom had died away. She told herself, with bitter regret, that this -was the natural consequence of her deteriorated dinners. The Brixen meat -was not good. Sometimes she was absolutely without poultry. And in those -matters of puddings, cream, and custards, we know what a falling off -there had been. I doubt, however, whether her old friends had been -stopped by that cause. It may have been so with Herr Trauss, who in -going to Brunnenthal, or elsewhere, cared for little else but what he -might get to eat and drink. But with most of those concerned the feeling -had been that things were generally going wrong in the valley, and that -in existing circumstances the Peacock could not be pleasant. She at any -rate felt herself to be deserted, and this feeling greatly aggravated -her trouble.</p> - -<p>“You are having beautiful weather,” Mr. Cartwright said to her one day -when in her full costume she came out among the coffee-drinkers in the -front of the house. Mr. Cartwright spoke German, and was on friendly -terms with the old lady. She was perhaps a little in awe of him as being -a rich man, an Englishman, and one with a white beard and a general -deportment of dignity.</p> - -<p>“The weather is well enough, sir,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span></p> - -<p>“I never saw the place all round look more lovely. I was up at -Sustermann’s saw-mills this morning, and I and my daughter agreed that -it is the most lovely spot we know.”</p> - -<p>“The saw-mill is a pretty spot, sir, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me that the house becomes fuller and fuller every year, -Frau Frohmann.”</p> - -<p>“The house is full enough, sir; perhaps too full.” Then she hesitated as -though she would say something further. But the words were wanting to -her in which to explain her difficulties with sufficient clearness for -the foreigner, and she retreated, therefore, back into her own domains. -He, of course, had heard something of the Frau’s troubles, and had been -willing enough to say a word to her about things in general if the -occasion arose. But he had felt that the subject must be introduced by -herself. She was too great a potentate to have advice thrust upon her -uninvited.</p> - -<p>A few days after this she asked Malchen whether Schlessen was ever -coming out to the Brunnenthal again. This was almost tantamount to an -order for his presence. “He will come directly, mother, if you want to -see him,” said Malchen. The Frau would do no more than grunt in answer -to this. It was too much to expect that she should say positively that -he must come. But Malchen understood her, and sent the necessary word to -Innsbruck.</p> - -<p>On the following day Schlessen was at the Peacock, and took a walk up to -the waterfall with Malchen before he saw the Frau. “She won’t ruin -herself,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> Fritz. “It would take a great deal to ruin her. What she -is losing in the house she is making up in the forests and in the land.”</p> - -<p>“Then it won’t matter if it does go on like this?”</p> - -<p>“It does matter because it makes her so fierce and unhappy, and because -the more she is knocked about the more obstinate she will get. She has -only to say the word, and all would be right to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“What word?” asked Malchen.</p> - -<p>“Just to acknowledge that everything has got to be twenty-five per cent. -dearer than it was twenty-five years ago.”</p> - -<p>“But she does not like paying more, Fritz. That’s just the thing.”</p> - -<p>“What does it matter what she pays?”</p> - -<p>“I should think it mattered a great deal.”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least. What does matter is whether she makes a profit out of -the money she spends. Florins and zwansigers are but names. What you can -manage to eat, and drink, and wear, and what sort of a house you can -live in, and whether you can get other people to do for you what you -don’t like to do yourself,—that is what you have got to look after.”</p> - -<p>“But, Fritz;—money is money.”</p> - -<p>“Just so; but it is no more than money. If she could find out suddenly -that what she has been thinking was a zwansiger was in truth only half a -zwansiger, then she would not mind paying two where she had hitherto -paid one, and would charge two where she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> now charges one,—as a matter -of course. That’s about the truth.”</p> - -<p>“But a zwansiger is a zwansiger.”</p> - -<p>“No;—not in her sense. A zwansiger now is not much more than half what -it used to be. If the change had come all at once she could have -understood it better.”</p> - -<p>“But why is it changed?”</p> - -<p>Here Schlessen scratched his head. He was not quite sure that he knew, -and felt himself unable to explain clearly what he himself only -conjectured dimly. “At any rate it is so. That’s what she has got to be -made to understand, or else she must give it up and go and live quietly -in private. It’ll come to that, that she won’t have a servant about the -place if she goes on like this. Her own grandfather and grandmother were -very good sort of people, but it is useless to try and live like them. -You might just as well go back further, and give up knives and forks and -cups and saucers.”</p> - -<p>Such was the wisdom of Herr Schlessen; and when he had spoken it he was -ready to go back from the waterfall, near which they were seated, to the -house. But Malchen thought that there was another subject as to which he -ought to have something to say to her. “It is all very bad for -us;—isn’t it, Fritz?”</p> - -<p>“It will come right in time, my darling.”</p> - -<p>“Your darling! I don’t think you care for me a bit.” As she spoke she -moved herself a little further<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> away from him. “If you did, you would -not take it all so easily.”</p> - -<p>“What can I do, Malchen?” She did not quite know what he could do, but -she was sure that when her lover, after a month’s absence, got an -opportunity of sitting with her by a waterfall, he should not confine -his conversation to a discussion on the value of zwansigers.</p> - -<p>“You never seem to think about anything except money now.”</p> - -<p>“That is very unfair, Malchen. It was you asked me, and so I endeavoured -to explain it.”</p> - -<p>“If you have said all that you’ve got to say, I suppose we may go back -again.”</p> - -<p>“Of course, Malchen, I wish she’d settle what she means to do about you. -We have been engaged long enough.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you’d like to break it off.”</p> - -<p>“You never knew me break off anything yet.” That was true. She did know -him to be a man of a constant, if not of an enthusiastic temperament. -And now, as he helped her up from off the rock, and contrived to snatch -a kiss in the process, she was restored to her good humour.</p> - -<p>“What’s the good of that?” she said, thumping him, but not with much -violence. “I did speak to mother a little while ago, and asked her what -she meant to do.”</p> - -<p>“Was she angry?”</p> - -<p>“No;—not angry; but she said that everything must remain as it is till -after the season. Oh, Fritz!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> I hope it won’t go on for another winter. -I suppose she has got the money.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; she has got it; but, as I’ve told you before, people who have -got money do not like to part with it.” Then they returned to the house; -and Malchen, thinking of it all, felt reassured as to her lover’s -constancy, but was more than ever certain that, though it might be for -five years, he would never marry her till the mitgift had been arranged.</p> - -<p>Shortly afterwards he was summoned into the Frau’s private room, and -there had an interview with her alone. But it was very short; and, as he -afterwards explained to Malchen, she gave him no opportunity of -proffering any advice. She had asked him nothing about prices, and had -made no allusion whatever to her troubles with her neighbours. She said -not a word about the butcher, either at Innsbruck or at Brixen, although -they were both at this moment very much on her mind. Nor did she tell -him anything of the wickedness of Anton, nor of the ingratitude of -Seppel. She had simply wanted so many hundred florins,—for a purpose, -as she said,—and had asked him how she might get them with the least -inconvenience. Hitherto the money coming in, which had always gone into -her own hands, had sufficed for her expenditure, unless when some new -building was required. But now a considerable sum was necessary. She -simply communicated her desire, and said nothing of the purpose for -which it was wanted. The lawyer told her that she could have the money -very easily,—at a day<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span>’s notice, and without any peculiar damage to her -circumstances. With that the interview was over, and Schlessen was -allowed to return to his lady love,—or to the amusements of the Peacock -generally.</p> - -<p>“What did she want of you?” asked Peter.</p> - -<p>“Only a question about business.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it was about business. But what is she going to do?”</p> - -<p>“You ought to know that, I should think. At any rate, she told me -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“It is getting very bad here,” said Peter, with a peculiarly gloomy -countenance. “I don’t know where we are to get anything soon. We have -not milk enough, and half the time the visitors can’t have eggs if they -want them. And as for fowls, they have to be bought for double what we -used to give. I wonder the folk here put up with it without grumbling.”</p> - -<p>“It’ll come right after this season.”</p> - -<p>“Such a name as the place is getting!” said Peter. “And then I sometimes -think it will drive her distracted. I told her yesterday we must buy -more cows,—and, oh, she did look at me!”</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI-1" id="CHAPTER_VI-1"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>HOFF THE BUTCHER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> lawyer returned to town, and on the next day the money was sent out -to the Brunnenthal. Frau<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> Frohmann had not winced when she demanded the -sum needed, nor had she shown by any contorted line in her countenance -that she was suffering when she asked for it; but, in truth, the thing -had not been done without great pain. Year by year she had always added -something to her store, either by investing money, or by increasing her -property in the valley, and it would generally be at this time of the -year that some deposit was made; but now the stream, which had always -run so easily and so prosperously in one direction, had begun to flow -backwards. It was to her as though she were shedding her blood. But, as -other heroes have shed their blood in causes that have been dear to -them, so would she shed hers in this. If it were necessary that these -veins of her heart should be opened, she would give them to the knife. -She had scowled when Peter had told her that more cows must be bought; -but before the week was over the cows were there. And she had given a -large order at Innsbruck for poultry to be sent out to her, almost -irrespective of price. All idea of profit was gone. It was pride now for -which she was fighting. She would not give way, at any rate till the end -of this season. Then—then—then! There had come upon her mind an idea -that some deluge was about to flow over her; but also an idea that even -among the roar of the waters she would hold her head high, and carry -herself with dignity.</p> - -<p>But there had come to her now a very trouble of troubles, a crushing -blow, a misfortune which could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> not be got over, which could not even be -endured, without the knowledge of all those around her. It was not only -that she must suffer, but that her sufferings must be exposed to all the -valley,—to all Innsbruck. When Schlessen was closeted with her, at that -very moment, she had in her pocket a letter from that traitorous butcher -at Brixen, saying that after such and such a date he could not continue -to supply her with meat at the prices fixed. And this was the answer -which the man had sent to a remonstrance from her as to the quality of -the article! After submitting for weeks to inferior meat she had told -him that there must be some improvement, and he had replied by throwing -her over altogether!</p> - -<p>What was she to do? Of all the blows which had come to her this was the -worst. She must have meat. She could, when driven to it by necessity, -make her own butter; but she could not kill her own beef and mutton. She -could send into the town for ducks and chickens, and feel that in doing -so she was carrying out her own project,—that, at any rate, she was -encountering no public disgrace. But now she must own herself beaten, -and must go back to Innsbruck.</p> - -<p>And there came upon her dimly a conviction that she was bound, both by -prudence and justice, to go back to her old friend Hoff. She had clearly -been wrong in this matter of meat. Hoff had plainly told her that she -was wrong, explaining to her that he had to give much more for his -beasts and sheep than he did twenty years ago, to pay more wages to the -men<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> who killed them and cut them up, and also to make a greater profit -himself, so as to satisfy the increased needs of his wife and daughters. -Hoff had been outspoken, and had never wavered for a moment. But he had -seemed to the Frau to be almost insolent; she would have said, too -independent. When she had threatened to take away her custom he had -shrugged his shoulders, and had simply remarked that he would endeavour -to live without it. The words had been spoken with, perhaps, something -of a jeer, and the Frau had left the shop in wrath. She had since -repented herself of this, because Hoff had been an old friend, and had -attended to all her wishes with friendly care. But there had been the -quarrel, and her custom had been transferred to that wretch at Brixen. -If it had been simply a matter of forgiving and forgetting she could -have made it up with Hoff, easily enough, an hour after her anger had -shown itself. But now she must own herself to have been beaten. She must -confess that she had been wrong. It was in that matter of meat, from -that fallacious undertaking made by the traitor at Brixen, that she, in -the first instance, had been led to think that she could triumph. Had -she not been convinced of the truth of her own theory by that success, -she would not have been led on to quarrel with all her neighbours, and -to attempt to reduce Seppel’s wages. But now, when this, her great -foundation, was taken away from her, she had no ground on which to -stand. She had the misery of failure all around her, and, added to that, -the growing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> feeling that, in some step of her argument, she must have -been wrong. One should be very sure of all the steps before one allows -oneself to be guided in important matters by one’s own theories!</p> - -<p>But after some ten days’ time the supply of meat from Brixen would -cease, and something therefore must be done. The Brixen traitor demanded -now exactly the price which Hoff had heretofore charged. And then there -was the carriage! That was not to be thought of. She would not conceal -her failure from the world by submission so disgraceful as that. With -the Brixen man she certainly would deal no more. She took twenty-four -hours to think of it, and then she made up her mind that she would -herself go into the town and acknowledge her mistake to Hoff. As to the -actual difference of price, she did not now care very much about it. -When a deluge is coming, one does not fret oneself as to small details -of cost; but even when a deluge is coming one’s heart and pride, and -perhaps one’s courage, may remain unchanged.</p> - -<p>On a certain morning it was known throughout the Peacock at an early -hour that the Frau was going into town that day. But breakfast was over -before any one was told when and how she was to go. Such journeyings, -which were not made very often, had always about them something of -ceremony. On such occasions her dress would be, not magnificent as when -she was arrayed for festive occasions at home, but yet very carefully -arranged and equally unlike her ordinary habiliments. When she was first -seen on this day,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span>after her early visit to the kitchen, which was not -a full-dress affair,—she was clad in what may be called the beginnings -or substratum of her travelling gear. She wore a very full, -rich-looking, dark-coloured merino gown, which came much lower to the -ground than her usual dress, and which covered her up high round the -throat. Whenever this was seen it was known as a certainty that the Frau -was going to travel. Then there was the question of the carriage and the -horses. It was generally Peter’s duty and high privilege to drive her in -to town; and as Peter seldom allowed himself a holiday, the occasion was -to him always a welcome one. It was her custom to let him know what was -to befall him at any rate the night before; but now not a word had been -said. After breakfast, however, a message went out that the carriage and -horses would be needed, and Peter prepared himself accordingly. “I don’t -think I need take you,” said the Frau.</p> - -<p>“Why not me? There is no one else to drive them. The men are all -employed.” Then she remembered that when last she had dispensed with -Peter’s services Anton had driven her,—that Anton who was now carrying -the butter and eggs into market. She shook her head, and was silent for -a while in her misery. Then she asked whether the boy, Jacob, could not -take her. “He would not be safe with those horses down the mountains,” -said Peter. At last it was decided that Peter should go;—but she -yielded unwillingly, being very anxious that no one in the valley should -be informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> that she was about to visit Hoff. Of course it would be -known at last. Everybody about the place would learn whence the meat -came. But she could not bear to think that those around her should talk -of her as having been beaten in the matter.</p> - -<p>About ten they started, and on the whole road to Innsbruck hardly a word -was spoken between the mother and son. She was quite resolved that she -would not tell him whither she was going, and resolved also that she -would pay the visit alone. But, of course, his curiosity would be -excited. If he chose to follow her about and watch her, there could be -no help for that. Only he had better not speak to her on the subject, or -she would pour out upon him all the vials of her wrath! In the town -there was a little hostel called the Black Eagle, kept by a cousin of -her late husband, which on these journeys she always frequented: there -she and Peter ate their dinner. At table they sat, of course, close to -each other; but still not a word was spoken as to her business. He made -no inquiry, and when she rose from the table simply asked her whether -there was anything for him to do. “I am going—alone—to see a friend,” -she said. No doubt he was curious, probably suspecting that Hoff the -butcher might be the friend; but he asked no further question. She -declared that she would be ready to start on the return journey at four, -and then she went forth alone.</p> - -<p>So great was her perturbation of spirit that she did not take the -directest way to the butcher’s house, which was not, indeed, above two -hundred yards from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> the Black Eagle, but walked round slowly by the -river, studying as she went the words with which she would announce her -purpose to the man,—studying, also, by what wiles and subtlety she -might get the man all to herself,—so that no other ears should hear her -disgrace. When she entered the shop Hoff himself was there, conspicuous -with the huge sharpening-steel which hung from his capacious girdle, as -though it were the sword of his knighthood. But with him there was a -crowd either of loungers or customers, in the midst of whom he stood, -tall above all the others, laughing and talking. To our poor Frau it was -terrible to be seen by so many eyes in that shop;—for had not her -quarrel with Hoff and her dealings at Brixen been so public that all -would know why she had come? “Ah, my friend, Frau Frohmann,” said the -butcher, coming up to her with hand extended, “this is good for sore -eyes. I am delighted to see thee in the old town.” This was all very -well, and she gave him her hand. As long as no public reference was made -to that last visit of hers, she would still hold up her head. But she -said nothing. She did not know how to speak as long as all those eyes -were looking at her.</p> - -<p>The butcher understood it all, being a tender-hearted man, and -intelligent also. From the first moment of her entrance he knew that -there was something to be said intended only for his own ears. “Come in, -come in, Frau Frohmann,” he said; “we will sit down within, out of the -noise of the street and the smell of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> the carcases.” With that he led -the way into an inner room, and the Frau followed him. There were -congregated three or four of his children, but he sent them away, -bidding them join their mother in the kitchen. “And now, my friend,” he -said, again taking her hand, “I am glad to see thee. Thirty years of -good fellowship is not to be broken by a word.” By this time the Frau -was endeavouring to hide with her handkerchief the tears which were -running down her face. “I was thinking I would go out to the valley one -of these days, because my heart misgave me that there should be anything -like a quarrel between me and thee. I should have gone, but that, day -after day, there comes always something to be done. And now thou art -come thyself. What, shall the price of a side of beef stand betwixt thee -and me?”</p> - -<p>Then she told her tale,—quite otherwise than as she had intended to -tell it. She had meant to be dignified and very short. She had meant to -confess that the Brixen arrangement had broken down, and that she would -resort to the old plan and the old prices. To the saying of this she had -looked forward with an agony of apprehension, fearing that the man would -be unable to abstain from some killing expression of triumph,—fearing -that, perhaps, he might decline her offer. For the butcher was a wealthy -man, who could afford himself the luxury of nursing his enmity. But his -manner with her had been so gracious that she was altogether unable to -be either dignified or reticent. Before half an hour was over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> she had -poured out to him, with many tears, all her troubles;—how she had -refused to raise her rate of charges, first out of consideration for her -poorer customers, and then because she did not like to demand from one -class more than from another. And she explained how she had endeavoured -to reduce her expenditure, and how she had failed. She told him of -Seppel and Anton, of Suse Krapp and Josephine Bull,—and, above all, of -that traitor at Brixen. With respect to the valley folk Hoff expressed -himself with magnanimity and kindness; but in regard to the rival -tradesman at Brixen his scorn was so great that he could not restrain -himself from expressing wonder that a woman of such experience should -have trusted to so poor a reed for support. In all other respects he -heard her with excellent patience, putting in a little word here and -there to encourage her, running his great steel all the while through -his fingers, as he sat opposite to her on a side of the table.</p> - -<p>“Thou must pay them for their ducks and chickens as before,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And you?”</p> - -<p>“I will make all that straight. Do not trouble thyself about me. Thy -guests at the Peacock shall once again have a joint of meat fit for the -stomach of a Christian. But, my friend——!”</p> - -<p>“My friend!” echoed the Frau, waiting to hear what further the butcher -would say to her.</p> - -<p>“Let a man who has brought up five sons and five daughters, and who has -never owed a florin which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> could not pay, tell thee something that -shall be useful. Swim with the stream.” She looked up into his face, -feeling rather than understanding the truth of what he was saying. “Swim -with the stream. It is the easiest and the most useful.”</p> - -<p>“You think I should raise my prices.”</p> - -<p>“Is not everybody doing so? The Tendel ladies are very good, but I -cannot sell them meat at a loss. That is not selling; it is giving. Swim -with the stream. When other things are dearer, let the Peacock be dearer -also.”</p> - -<p>“But why are other things dearer?”</p> - -<p>“Nay;—who shall say that? Young Schlessen is a clear-headed lad, and he -was right when he told thee of the price of sheep in the old days. But -why——? There I can say nothing. Nor is there reason why I should -trouble my head about it. There is a man who has brought me sheep from -the Achensee these thirty years,—he and his father before him. I have -to pay him now,—ay, more than a third above his first prices.”</p> - -<p>“Do you give always what he asks?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not that, or there would be no end to his asking. But we can -generally come to terms without hard words. When I pay him more for -sheep, then I charge more for mutton; and if people will not pay it, -then they must go without. But I do sell my meat, and I live at any rate -as well now as I did when the prices were lower.” Then he repeated his -great advice, “Swim with the stream, my friend; swim with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> stream. -If you turn your head the other way, the chances are you will go -backwards. At any rate you will make no progress.”</p> - -<p>Exactly at four o’clock she started on her return with her son, who, -with admirable discretion, asked no question as to her employment during -the day. The journey back took much longer than that coming, as the road -was up hill all the way, so that she had ample time to think over the -advice which had been given her as she leaned back in the carriage. She -certainly was happier in her mind than she had been in the morning. She -had made no step towards success in her system,—had rather been made to -feel that no such step was possible. But, nevertheless, she had been -comforted. The immediate trouble as to the meat had been got over -without offence to her feelings. Of course she must pay the old -prices,—but she had come to understand that the world around her was, -in that matter, too strong for her. She knew now that she must give up -the business, or else raise her own terms at the end of the season. She -almost thought that she would retire to Schwatz and devote the remainder -of her days to tranquillity and religion. But her immediate anxiety had -reference to the next six weeks, so that when she should have gone to -Schwatz it might be said of her that the house had not lost its -reputation for good living up to the very last. At any rate, within a -very few days, she would again have the pleasure of seeing good meat -roasting in her oven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span></p> - -<p>Peter, as was his custom, had walked half the hill, and then, while the -horses were slowly advancing, climbed up to his seat on the box. -“Peter,” she said, calling to him from the open carriage behind. Then -Peter looked back. “Peter, the meat is to come from Hoff again after -next Thursday.”</p> - -<p>He turned round quick on hearing the words. “That’s a good thing, -mother.”</p> - -<p>“It is a good thing. We were nearly poisoned by that scoundrel at -Brixen.”</p> - -<p>“Hoff is a good butcher,” said Peter.</p> - -<p>“Hoff is a good man,” said the Frau. Then Peter pricked up, because he -knew that his mother was happy in her mind, and became eloquent about -the woods, and the quarry, and the farm.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII-1" id="CHAPTER_VII-1"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>AND GOLD BECOMES CHEAP.</small></h3> - -<p>“But if there is more money, sir, that ought to make us all more -comfortable.” This was said by the Frau to Mr. Cartwright a few days -after her return from Innsbruck, and was a reply to a statement made by -him. She had listened to advice from Hoff the butcher, and now she was -listening to advice from her guest. He had told her that these troubles -of hers had come from the fact that gold had become more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> plentiful in -the world than heretofore, or rather from that other fact that she had -refused to accommodate herself to this increased plenty of gold. Then -had come her very natural suggestion, “If there is more money that ought -to make us all more comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all, Frau Frohmann.”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir!” Then she paused, not wishing to express an unrestrained -praise of wealth, and so to appear too worldly-minded, but yet feeling -that he certainly was wrong according to the clearly expressed opinion -of the world.</p> - -<p>“Not at all. Though you had your barn and your stores filled with gold, -you could not make your guests comfortable with that. They could not eat -it, nor drink it, nor sleep upon it, nor delight themselves with looking -at it as we do at the waterfall, or at the mill up yonder.”</p> - -<p>“But I could buy all those things for them.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, if you could buy them! That’s just the question. But if everybody -had gold so common, if all the barns were full of it, then people would -not care to take it for their meat and wine.”</p> - -<p>“It never can be like that, surely.”</p> - -<p>“There is no knowing; probably not. But it is a question of degree. When -you have your hay-crop here very plentiful, don’t you find that hay -becomes cheap?”</p> - -<p>“That’s of course.”</p> - -<p>“And gold becomes cheap. You just think it over, and you’ll find how it -is. When hay is plentiful, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> can’t get so much for a load because it -becomes cheap. But you can feed more cows, and altogether you know that -such plenty is a blessing. So it is with gold. When it is plentiful, you -can’t get so much meat for it as you used to do; but, as you can get the -gold much easier, it will come to the same thing,—if you will swim with -the stream, as your friend in Innsbruck counselled you.”</p> - -<p>Then the Frau again considered, and again found that she could not -accept this doctrine as bearing upon her own case. “I don’t think it can -be like that here, sir,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Why not here as well as elsewhere?”</p> - -<p>“Because we never see a bit of gold from one year’s end to the other. -Barns full of it! Why, it’s so precious that you English people, and the -French, and the Americans always change it for paper before you come -here. If you mean that it is because bank-notes are so common——”</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Cartwright scratched his head, feeling that there would be a -difficulty in making the Frau understand the increased use of an article -which, common as it had become in the great marts of the world, had not -as yet made its way into her valley. “It is because bank-notes are less -common.” The Frau gazed at him steadfastly, trying to understand -something about it. “You still use bank-notes at Innsbruck?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing else,” she said. “There is a little silver among the shops, but -you never see a bit of gold.”</p> - -<p>“And at Munich?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span>”</p> - -<p>“At Munich they tell me the French pieces have become—well, not common, -but not so very scarce.”</p> - -<p>“And at Dresden?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know. Perhaps Dresden is the same.”</p> - -<p>“And at Paris?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Paris! Do they have gold there?”</p> - -<p>“When I was young it was all silver at Paris. Gold is now as plentiful -as blackberries. And at Berlin it is nearly the same. Just here in -Austria, you have not quite got through your difficulties.”</p> - -<p>“I think we are doing very well in Austria;—at any rate, in the Tyrol.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, Frau Frohmann; very well indeed. Pray do not suppose that I -mean anything to the contrary. But though you haven’t got into the way -of using gold money yourself, the world all around you has done so; and, -of course, if meat is dear at Munich because gold won’t buy so much -there as it used to do, meat will be dearer also at Innsbruck, even -though you continue to pay for it with bank-notes.”</p> - -<p>“It is dearer, sir, no doubt,” said the Frau, shaking her head. She had -endeavoured to contest that point gallantly, but had been beaten by the -conduct of the two butchers. The higher prices of Hoff at Innsbruck had -become at any rate better than the lower prices of that deceitful enemy -at Brixen.</p> - -<p>“It is dearer. For the world generally that may suffice. Your friend’s -doctrine is quite enough for the world at large. Swim with the stream. -In buying and selling,—what we call trade,—things arrange themselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> -so subtly, that we are often driven to accept them without quite knowing -why they are so. Then we can only swim with the stream. But, in this -matter, if you want to find out the cause, if you cannot satisfy your -mind without knowing why it is that you must pay more for everything, -and must, therefore, charge more to other people, it is because the gold -which your notes represent has become more common in the world during -the last thirty years.”</p> - -<p>She did want to know. She was not satisfied to swim with the stream as -Hoff had done, not caring to inquire, but simply feeling sure that as -things were so, so they must be. That such changes should take place had -gone much against the grain of her conservative nature. She, in her own -mind, had attributed these pestilently increased expenses to elongated -petticoats, French bonnets, swallow-tailed coats, and a taste for sour -wine. She had imagined that Josephine Bull might have been contented -with the old price for her eggs if she would also be contented with the -old raiment and the old food. Grounding her resolutions on that belief, -she had endeavoured not only to resist further changes, but even to go -back to the good old times. But she now was quite aware that in doing so -she had endeavoured to swim against the stream. Whether it ought to be -so or not, she was not as yet quite sure, but she was becoming sure that -such was the fact, and that the fact was too strong for her to combat.</p> - -<p>She did not at all like swimming with the stream.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> There was something -conveyed by the idea which was repugnant to her sense of honour. Did it -not mean that she was to increase her prices because other people -increased theirs, whether it was wrong or right? She hated the doing of -anything because other people did it. Was not that base propensity to -imitation the cause of the long petticoats which all the girls were -wearing? Was it not thus that all those vile changes were effected which -she saw around her on every side? Had it not been her glory, her great -resolve, to stand as fast as possible on the old ways? And now in her -great attempt to do so, was she to be foiled thus easily?</p> - -<p>It was clear to her that she must be foiled, if not in one way, then in -another. She must either raise her prices, or else retire to Schwatz. -She had been thoroughly beaten in her endeavour to make others carry on -their trade in accordance with her theories. On every side she had been -beaten. There was not a poor woman in the valley, not one of those who -had wont to be so submissive and gracious to her, who had not deserted -her. A proposed reduction of two kreutzers on a dozen of eggs had -changed the most constant of humble friends into the bitterest foes. -Seppel would have gone through fire and water for her. Anything that a -man’s strength or courage could do, he would have done. But a threat of -going back to the old wages had conquered even Seppel’s gratitude. -Concurrent testimony had convinced her that she must either yield—or -go. But, when she came to think of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> in her solitude, she did not wish -to go. Schwatz! oh yes; it would be very well to have a quiet place -ready chosen for retirement when retirement should be necessary. But -what did retirement mean? Would it not be to her simply a beginning of -dying? A man, or a woman, should retire when no longer able to do the -work of the world. But who in all the world could keep the Brunnenthal -Peacock as well as she? Was she fatigued with her kitchen, or worn out -with the charge of her guests, or worried inwardly by the anxieties of -her position? Not in the least, not at all, but for this later -misfortune which had come upon her, a misfortune which she knew how to -remedy at once if only she could bring herself to apply the remedy. The -kaplan had indiscreetly suggested to her that as Malchen was about to -marry and be taken away into the town, it would be a good thing that -Peter should take a wife, so that there might be a future mistress of -the establishment in readiness. The idea caused her to arm herself -instantly with renewed self-assertion. So;—they were already preparing -for her departure to Schwatz! It was thus she communed with herself. -They had already made up their minds that she must succumb to these -difficulties and go! The idea had come simply from the kaplan without -consultation with any one, but to the Frau it seemed as though the whole -valley were already preparing for her departure. No, she would not go! -With her strength and her energy, why should she shut herself up as -ready for death? She would not go to Schwatz yet awhile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<p>But if not, then she must raise her prices. To waste her substance, to -expend the success of her life in entertaining folk gratis who, after -all, would believe that they were paying for their entertainment, would -be worse even than going to Schwatz. “I have been thinking over what you -were telling me,” she said to Mr. Cartwright about a week after their -last interview, on the day before his departure from the valley.</p> - -<p>“I hope you do not find I was wrong, Frau Frohmann.”</p> - -<p>“As for wrong and right, that is very difficult to get at in this wicked -world.”</p> - -<p>“But one can acknowledge a necessity.”</p> - -<p>“That is where it is, sir. One can see what is necessary; but if one -could only see that it were right also, one would be so much more -comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“There are things so hard to be seen, my friend, that let us do what we -will we cannot see clearly into the middle of them. Perhaps I could have -explained to you better all this about the depreciation of money, and -the nominal rise in the value of everything else, if I had understood it -better myself.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you understand all about it,—which a poor woman can’t ever -do.”</p> - -<p>“But this at any rate ought to give you confidence, that that which you -purpose to do is being done by everybody around you. You were talking to -me about the Weisses. Herr Weiss, I hear, had his salary raised last -spring.”</p> - -<p>“Had he?” asked the Frau with energy and a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> start. For this piece -of news had not reached her before.</p> - -<p>“Somebody was saying so the other day. No doubt it was found that he -must be paid more because he had to pay more for everything he wanted. -Therefore he ought to expect to have to pay you more.”</p> - -<p>This piece of information gave the Frau more comfort than anything she -had yet heard. That gold should be common, what people call a drug in -the market, did not come quite within the scope of her comprehension. -Gold to her was gold, and a zwansiger a zwansiger. But if Herr Weiss got -more for his services from the community, she ought to get more from him -for her services. That did seem plain to her. But then her triumph in -that direction was immediately diminished by a tender feeling as to -other customers. “But what of those poor Fraulein Tendels?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Cartwright. “There you come to fixed incomes.”</p> - -<p>“To what?”</p> - -<p>“To people with fixed incomes. They must suffer, Frau Frohmann. There is -an old saying that in making laws you cannot look after all the little -things. The people who work and earn their living are the multitude, and -to them these matters adjust themselves. The few who live upon what they -have saved or others have saved for them must go to the wall.” Neither -did the Frau understand this; but she at once made up her mind that, -however necessary it might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> to raise her prices against the Weisses -and the rest of the world, she would never raise them against those two -poor desolate frauleins.</p> - -<p>So Herr Weiss had had his salary raised, and had said nothing to her -about it, no doubt prudently wishing to conceal the matter! He had said -nothing to her about it, although he had talked to her about her own -affairs, and had applauded her courage and her old conservatism in that -she would not demand that extra zwansiger and a half! This hardened her -heart so much that she felt she would have a pleasure in sending a -circular to him as to the new tariff. He might come or let it alone, as -he pleased,—certainly he ought to have told her that his own salary had -been increased!</p> - -<p>But there was more to do than sending out the new circular to her -customers. How was she to send a circular round the valley to the old -women and the others concerned? How was she to make Seppel, and Anton, -and Josephine Bull understand that they should be forgiven, and have -their old prices and their increased wages if they would come back to -their allegiance, and never say a word again as to the sad affairs of -the past summer? This circular must be of a nature very different from -that which would serve for her customers. Thinking over it, she came to -the opinion that Suse Krapp would be the best circular. A day or two -after the Cartwrights were gone, she sent for Suse.</p> - -<p>Suse was by no means a bad diplomate. When gaining her point she had no -desire to triumph outwardly. When feeling herself a conqueror, she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> -quite ready to flatter the conquered one. She had never been more -gracious, more submissive, or more ready to declare that in all matters -the Frau’s will was the law of the valley than now, when she was given -to understand that everything should be bought on the same terms as -heretofore, that the dairy should be discontinued during the next -season, and that the wild fruits of the woods and mountains should be -made welcome at the Peacock as had heretofore always been the case.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow will be the happiest day that ever was in the valley,” said -Suse in her enthusiasm. “And as for Seppel, he was telling me only -yesterday that he would never be a happy man again till he could find -himself once more at work in the old shed behind the chapel.”</p> - -<p>Then Suse was told that Seppel might come as soon as he pleased.</p> - -<p>“He’ll be there the morning after next if I’m a living woman,” continued -Suse energetically; and then she said another word, “Oh, meine liebe -Frau Frohmann, it broke my heart when they told me you were going away.”</p> - -<p>“Going away!” said the Frau, as though she had been stung. “Who said -that I was going away?”</p> - -<p>“I did hear it.”</p> - -<p>“Psha! it was that stupid priest.” She had never before been heard to -say a word against the kaplan; but now she could hardly restrain -herself. “Why should I go away?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span>”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed!”</p> - -<p>“I am not thinking of going away. It would be a bad thing if I were to -be driven out of my house by a little trouble as to the price of eggs -and butter! No, Suse Krapp, I am not going away.”</p> - -<p>“It will be the best word we have all of us heard this many a day, Frau -Frohmann. When it came to that, we were all as though we would have -broken our hearts.” Then she was sent away upon her mission, not, upon -this occasion, without a full glass of kirsch-wasser.</p> - -<p>On the very day following Seppel was back. There was nothing said -between him and his mistress, but he waited about the front of the house -till he had an opportunity of putting his hand up to his cap and smiling -at her as she stood upon the doorstep. And then, before the week was -over, all the old women and all the young girls were crowding round the -place with little presents which, on this their first return to their -allegiance, they brought to the Frau as peace-offerings.</p> - -<p>The season was nearly over when she signified to Malchen her desire that -Fritz Schlessen should come out to the valley. This she did with much -good humour, explaining frankly that Fritz would have to prepare the new -circulars, and that she must discuss with him the nature of the altered -propositions which were to be made to the public. Fritz of course came, -and was closeted with her for a full hour, during which he absolutely -prepared the document for the Innsbruck printer. It was a simple -announcement that for the future the charge made at the Brunnenthal -Peacock<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> would be seven and a half zwansigers per head per day. It then -went on to declare that, as heretofore, the Frau Frohmann would -endeavour to give satisfaction to all those who would do her the honour -of visiting her establishment. And instructions were given to Schlessen -as to sending the circulars out to the public. “But whatever you do,” -said the Frau, “don’t send one to those Tendel ladies.”</p> - -<p>And something else was settled at this conference. As soon as it was -over Fritz Schlessen was encountered by Malchen, who on such occasions -would never be far away. Though the spot on which they met was one which -might not have been altogether secure from intrusive eyes, he took her -fondly by the waist and whispered a word in her ear.</p> - -<p>“And will that do?” asked Malchen anxiously; to which question his reply -was made by a kiss. In that whisper he had conveyed to her the amount -now fixed for the mitgift.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII-1" id="CHAPTER_VIII-1"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE TO ANY OF THEM.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">And</span> so Frau Frohmann had raised her prices, and had acknowledged herself -to all the world to have been beaten in her enterprise. There are, -however, certain misfortunes which are infinitely worse in their -anticipation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> than in their reality; and this, which had been looked -forward to as a terrible humiliation, was soon found to be one of them. -No note of triumph was sounded; none at least reached her ear. Indeed, -it so fell out that those with whom she had quarrelled for awhile seemed -now to be more friendly with her than ever. Between her and Hoff things -were so sweet that no mention was ever made of money. The meat was sent -and the bills were paid with a reticence which almost implied that it -was not trade, but an amiable giving and taking of the good things of -the world. There had never been a word of explanation with Seppel; but -he was late and early about the carts and the furniture, and innumerable -little acts of kindnesses made their way up to the mother and her many -children. Suse and Josephine had never been so brisk, and the eggs had -never been so fresh or the vegetables so good. Except from the working -of her own mind, she received no wounds.</p> - -<p>But the real commencement of the matter did not take place till the -following summer,—the commencement as regarded the public. The -circulars were sent out, but to such letters no answers are returned; -and up to the following June the Frau was ignorant what effect the -charge would have upon the coming of her customers. There were times at -which she thought that her house would be left desolate, that the extra -charge would turn away from her the hearts of her visitors, and that in -this way she would be compelled to retire to Schwatz.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<p>“Suppose they don’t come at all,” she said to Peter one day.</p> - -<p>“That would be very bad,” said Peter, who also had his fears in the same -direction.</p> - -<p>“Fritz Schlessen thinks it won’t make any difference,” said the Frau.</p> - -<p>“A zwansiger and a half a day does make a difference to most men,” -replied Peter uncomfortably.</p> - -<p>This was uncomfortable; but when Schlessen came out he raised her -spirits.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps old Weiss won’t come,” he said, “but then there will be plenty -in his place. There are houses like the Peacock all over the country -now, in the Engadine, and the Bregenz, and the Salzkammergut; and it -seems to me the more they charge the fuller they are.”</p> - -<p>“But they are for the grand folk.”</p> - -<p>“For anybody that chooses. It has come to that, that the more money -people are charged the better they like it. Money has become so -plentiful with the rich, that they don’t know what to do with it.”</p> - -<p>This was a repetition of Mr. Cartwright’s barn full of gold. There was -something in the assertion that money could be plentiful, in the idea -that gold could be a drug, which savoured to her of innovation, and was -therefore unpleasant. She still felt that the old times were good, and -that no other times could be so good as the old times. But if the people -would come and fill her house, and pay her the zwansiger and a half -extra without grumbling, there would be some consolation in it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span></p> - -<p>Early in June Malchen made a call at the house of the Frauleins Tendel. -Malchen at this time was known to all Innsbruck as the handsome Frau -Schlessen who had been brought home in the winter to her husband’s house -with so very comfortable a mitgift in her hand. That was now quite an -old story, and there were people in the town who said that the young -wife already knew quite as much about her husband’s business as she had -ever done about her mother’s. But at this moment she was obeying one of -her mother’s commands.</p> - -<p>“Mother hopes you are both coming out to the Brunnenthal this year,” -said Malchen. The elder fraulein shook her head sadly. “Because——” -Then Malchen paused, and the younger of the two ladies shook her head. -“Because you always have been there.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we have.”</p> - -<p>“Mother means this. The change in the price won’t have anything to do -with you if you will come.”</p> - -<p>“We couldn’t think of that, Malchen.”</p> - -<p>“Then mother will be very unhappy;—that’s all. The new circular was not -sent to you.”</p> - -<p>“Of course we heard of it.”</p> - -<p>“If you don’t come mother will take it very bad.” Then of course the -ladies said they would come, and so that little difficulty was overcome.</p> - -<p>This took place in June. But at that time the young wife was staying out -in the valley with her mother, and had only gone into Innsbruck on a -visit. She was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> with her mother preparing for the guests; but perhaps, -as the Frau too often thought, preparing for guests who would never -arrive. From day to day, however, there came letters bespeaking rooms as -usual, and when the 21st of June came there was Herr Weiss with all his -family.</p> - -<p>She had taught herself to regard the coming of the Weisses as a kind of -touchstone by which she might judge of the success of what she had done. -If he remained away it would be because, in spite of the increase in his -salary, he could not encounter the higher cost of this recreation for -his wife and family. He was himself too fond of the good living of the -Peacock not to come if he could afford it. But if he could not pay so -much, then neither could others in his rank of life; and it would be sad -indeed to the Frau if her house were to be closed to her neighbour -Germans, even though she might succeed in filling it with foreigners -from a distance. But now the Weisses had come, not having given their -usual notice, but having sent a message for rooms only two days before -their arrival. And at once there was a little sparring match between -Herr Weiss and the Frau.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t suppose that there would be much trouble as to finding rooms,” -said Herr Weiss.</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t there be as much trouble as usual?” asked the Frau in -return. She had felt that there was some slight in this arrival of the -whole family without the usual preliminary inquiries,—as though there -would never again be competition for rooms at the Peacock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, my friend, I suppose that that little letter which was sent about -the country will make a difference.”</p> - -<p>“That’s as people like to take it. It hasn’t made any difference with -you, it seems.”</p> - -<p>“I had to think a good deal about it, Frau Frohmann; and I suppose we -shall have to make our stay shorter. I own I am a little surprised to -see the Tendel women here. A zwansiger and a half a day comes to a deal -of money at the end of a month, when there are two or three.”</p> - -<p>“I am happy to think it won’t hurt you, Herr Weiss, as you have had your -salary raised.”</p> - -<p>“That is neither here nor there, Frau Frohmann,” said the magistrate, -almost with a touch of anger. All the world knew, or ought to know, how -very insufficient was his stipend when compared with the invaluable -public services which he rendered. Such at least was the light in which -he looked at the question.</p> - -<p>“At any rate,” said the Frau as he stalked away, “the house is like to -be as full as ever.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad to hear it. I am glad to hear it.” These were his last words -on the occasion. But before the day was over he told his wife that he -thought the place was not as comfortable as usual, and that the Frau -with her high prices was more upsetting than ever.</p> - -<p>His wife, who took delight in being called Madame Weiss at Brixen, and -who considered herself to be in some degree a lady of fashion, had -nevertheless been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> very much disturbed in her mind by the increased -prices, and had suggested that the place should be abandoned. A raising -of prices was in her eyes extortion;—though a small raising of salary -was simply justice, and, as she thought, inadequate justice. But the -living at the Peacock was good. Nobody could deny that. And when a -middle-aged man is taken away from the comforts of his home, how is he -to console himself in the midst of his idleness unless he has a good -dinner? Herr Weiss had therefore determined to endure the injury, and as -usual to pass his holiday in the Brunnenthal. But when Madame Weiss saw -those two frauleins from Innsbruck in the house, whose means she knew -down to the last kreutzer, and who certainly could not afford the -increased demand, she thought that there must be something not apparent -to view. Could it be possible that the Frau should be so unjust, so -dishonest, so extortious as to have different prices for different -neighbours! That an Englishman, or even a German from Berlin, should be -charged something extra, might not perhaps be unjust or extortious. But -among friends of the same district, to put a zwansiger and a half on to -one and not to another seemed to Madame Weiss to be a sin for which -there should be no pardon. “I am so glad to see you here,” she said to -the younger fraulein.</p> - -<p>“That is so kind of you. But we always are here, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes;—yes. But I feared that perhaps——. I know that with us we had to -think more than once<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> about it before we could make up our minds to pay -the increased charges. The ‘Magistrat’ felt a little hurt about it.” To -this the fraulein at first answered nothing, thinking that perhaps she -ought not to make public the special benevolence shown by the Frau to -herself and her sister. “A zwansiger and a half each is a great deal of -money to add on,” said Madame Weiss.</p> - -<p>“It is, indeed.”</p> - -<p>“We might have got it cheaper elsewhere. And then I thought that perhaps -you might have done so too.”</p> - -<p>“She has made no increase to us,” said the poor lady, who at last was -forced to tell the truth, as by not doing so she would have been guilty -of a direct falsehood in allowing it to be supposed that she and her -sister paid the increased price.</p> - -<p>“Soh—oh—oh!” exclaimed Madame Weiss, clasping her hands together and -bobbing her head up and down. “Soh—oh—oh!” She had found it all out.</p> - -<p>Then, shortly after that,—the next day,—there was an uncomfortable -perturbation of affairs at the Peacock, which was not indeed known to -all the guests, but which to those who heard it, or heard of it, seemed -for the time to be very terrible. Madame Weiss and the Frau had,—what -is commonly called,—a few words together.</p> - -<p>“Frau Frohmann,” said Madame Weiss, “I was quite astonished to hear from -Agatha Tendel that you were only charging them the old prices.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t I charge them just what I please,—or nothing at all, if -I pleased?” asked the Frau sharply.</p> - -<p>“Of course you can. But I do think, among neighbours, there shouldn’t be -one price to one and one to another.”</p> - -<p>“Would it do you any good, Frau Weiss, if I were to charge those ladies -more than they can pay? Does it do you any harm if they live here at a -cheap rate?”</p> - -<p>“Surely there should be one price—among neighbours!”</p> - -<p>“Herr Weiss got my circular, no doubt. He knew. I don’t suppose he wants -to live here at a rate less than it costs me to keep him. You and he can -do what you like about coming. And you and he can do what you like about -staying away. You knew my prices. I have not made any secret about the -change. But as for interference between me and my other customers, it is -what I won’t put up with. So now you know all about it.”</p> - -<p>By the end of her speech the Frau had worked herself up into a grand -passion, and spoke aloud, so that all near her heard her. Then there was -a great commotion in the Peacock, and it was thought that the Weisses -would go away. But they remained for their allotted time.</p> - -<p>This was the only disturbance which took place, and it passed off -altogether to the credit of the Frau. Something in a vague way came to -be understood about fixed incomes;—so that Peter and Malchen, with the -kaplan, even down to Seppel and Suse Krapp, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> aware that the two -frauleins ought not to be made to pay as much as the prosperous -magistrate who had had his salary raised. And then it was quite -understood that the difference made in favour of those two poor ladies -was a kindness shown to them, and could not therefore be an injury to -any one else.</p> - -<p>Later in the year, when the establishment was full and everything was -going on briskly, when the two puddings were at the very height of their -glory, and the wild fruits were brought up on the supper-table in huge -bowls, when the Brunnenthal was at its loveliest, and the Frau was -appearing on holidays in her gayest costume, the Cartwrights returned to -the valley. Of course they had ordered their rooms much beforehand; and -the Frau, trusting altogether to the wisdom of those counsels which she -did not even yet quite understand, had kept her very best apartments for -them. The greeting between them was most friendly,—the Frau -condescending to put on something of her holiday costume to add honour -to their arrival;—a thing which she had never been known to do before -on behalf of any guests. Of course there was not then time for -conversation; but a day or two had not passed before she made known to -Mr. Cartwright her later experience. “The people have come, sir, just -the same,” she said.</p> - -<p>“So I perceive.”</p> - -<p>“It don’t seem to make any difference to any of them.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t think it would. And I don’t suppose anybody has complained.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Well;—there was a little said by one lady, Mr. Cartwright. But that -was not because I charged her more, but because another old friend was -allowed to pay less.”</p> - -<p>“She didn’t do you any harm, I dare say.”</p> - -<p>“Harm;—oh dear no! She couldn’t do me any harm if she tried. But I -thought I’d tell you, sir, because you said it would be so. The people -don’t seem to think any more of seven zwansigers and a half than they do -of six! It’s very odd,—very odd, indeed. I suppose it’s all right, -sir?” This she asked, still thinking that there must be something wrong -in the world when so monstrous a condition of things seemed to prevail.</p> - -<p>“They’d think a great deal of it if you charged them more than they -believed sufficient to give you a fair profit for your outlay and -trouble.”</p> - -<p>“How can they know anything about it, Mr. Cartwright?”</p> - -<p>“Ah,—indeed. How do they? But they do. You and I, Frau Frohmann, must -study these matters very closely before we can find out how they adjust -themselves. But we may be sure of this, that the world will never -complain of fair prices, will never long endure unfair prices, and will -give no thanks at all to those who sell their goods at a loss.”</p> - -<p>The Frau curtseyed and retired,—quite satisfied that she had done the -right thing in raising her prices; but still feeling that she had many a -struggle to make before she could understand the matter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> <br /> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="THE_LADY_OF_LAUNAY" id="THE_LADY_OF_LAUNAY"></a>THE LADY OF LAUNAY.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-2" id="CHAPTER_I-2"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR BECAME A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span>OW great is the difference between doing our duty and desiring to do -it; between doing our duty and a conscientious struggle to do it; -between duty really done and that satisfactory state of mind which comes -from a conviction that it has been performed. Mrs. Miles was a lady who -through her whole life had thought of little else than duty. Though she -was possessed of wealth and social position, though she had been a -beautiful woman, though all phases of self-indulgent life had been open -to her, she had always adhered to her own idea of duty. Many delights -had tempted her. She would fain have travelled, so as to see the -loveliness of the world; but she had always remained at home. She could -have enjoyed the society of intelligent sojourners in capitals; but she -had confined herself to that of her country neighbours. In early youth -she had felt herself to be influenced by a taste for dress; she had -consequently compelled herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> to use raiment of extreme simplicity. -She would buy no pictures, no gems, no china, because when young she -found that she liked such things too well. She would not leave the -parish church to hear a good sermon elsewhere, because even a sermon -might be a snare. In the early days of her widowed life it became, she -thought, her duty to adopt one of two little motherless, fatherless -girls, who had been left altogether unprovided for in the world; and -having the choice between the two, she took the plain one, who had weak -eyes and a downcast, unhappy look, because it was her duty to deny -herself. It was not her fault that the child, who was so unattractive at -six, had become beautiful at sixteen, with sweet soft eyes, still -downcast occasionally, as though ashamed of their own loveliness; nor -was it her fault that Bessy Pryor had so ministered to her in her -advancing years as almost to force upon her the delights of -self-indulgence. Mrs. Miles had struggled manfully against these wiles, -and, in the performance of her duty, had fought with them, even to an -attempt to make herself generally disagreeable to the young child. The -child, however, had conquered, having wound herself into the old woman’s -heart of hearts. When Bessy at fifteen was like to die, Mrs. Miles for -awhile broke down altogether. She lingered by the bedside, caressed the -thin hands, stroked the soft locks, and prayed to the Lord to stay his -hand, and to alter his purpose. But when Bessy was strong again she -strove to return to her wonted duties. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> Bessy, through it all, was -quite aware that she was loved.</p> - -<p>Looking back at her own past life, and looking also at her days as they -were passing, Mrs. Miles thought that she did her duty as well as it is -given to frail man or frail woman to perform it. There had been lapses, -but still she was conscious of great strength. She did believe of -herself that should a great temptation come in her way she would stand -strong against it. A great temptation did come in her way, and it is the -purport of this little story to tell how far she stood and how far she -fell.</p> - -<p>Something must be communicated to the reader of her condition in life, -and of Bessy’s; something, but not much. Mrs. Miles had been a Miss -Launay, and, by the death of four brothers almost in their infancy, had -become heiress to a large property in Somersetshire. At twenty-five she -was married to Mr. Miles, who had a property of his own in the next -county, and who at the time of their marriage represented that county in -Parliament. When she had been married a dozen years she was left a -widow, with two sons, the younger of whom was then about three years -old. Her own property, which was much the larger of the two, was -absolutely her own; but was intended for Philip, who was her younger -boy. Frank Miles, who was eight years older, inherited the other. -Circumstances took him much away from his mother’s wings. There were -troubles among trustees and executors; and the father’s heir, after he -came of age, saw but little of his mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> She did her duty, but what -she suffered in doing it may be imagined.</p> - -<p>Philip was brought up by his mother, who, perhaps, had some consolation -in remembering that the younger boy, who was always good to her, would -become a man of higher standing in the world than his brother. He was -called Philip Launay, the family name having passed on through the -mother to the intended heir of the Launay property. He was thirteen when -Bessy Pryor was brought home to Launay Park, and, as a school-boy, had -been good to the poor little creature, who for the first year or two had -hardly dared to think her life her own amidst the strange huge spaces of -the great house. He had despised her, of course; but had not been -boyishly cruel to her, and had given her his old playthings. Everybody -at Launay had at first despised Bessy Pryor; though the mistress of the -house had been thoroughly good to her. There was no real link between -her and Launay. Mrs. Pryor had, as a humble friend, been under great -obligations to Mrs. Launay, and these obligations, as is their wont, had -produced deep love in the heart of the person conferring them. Then both -Mr. and Mrs. Pryor had died, and Mrs. Miles had declared that she would -take one of the children. She fully intended to bring the girl up -sternly and well, with hard belongings, such as might suit her -condition. But there had been lapses, occasioned by those unfortunate -female prettinesses, and by that equally unfortunate sickness. Bessy -never rebelled, and gave, therefore, no scope to an exhibition of -extreme<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> duty; and she had a way of kissing her adopted mamma which Mrs. -Miles knew to be dangerous. She struggled not to be kissed, but -ineffectually. She preached to herself, in the solitude of her own room, -sharp sermons against the sweet softness of the girl’s caresses; but she -could not put a stop to them. “Yes; I will,” the girl would say, so -softly, but so persistently! Then there would be a great embrace, which -Mrs. Miles felt to be as dangerous as a diamond, as bad as a box at the -opera.</p> - -<p>Bessy had been despised at first all around Launay. Unattractive -children are despised, especially when, as in this case, they are -nobodies. Bessy Pryor was quite nobody. And certainly there had never -been a child more powerless to assert herself. She was for a year or two -inferior to the parson’s children, and was not thought much of by the -farmers’ wives. The servants called her Miss Bessy, of course; but it -was not till after that illness that there existed among them any of -that reverence which is generally felt in the servants’ hall for the -young ladies of the house. It was then, too, that the parson’s daughters -found that Bessy was nice to walk with, and that the tenants began to -make much of her when she called. The old lady’s secret manifestations -in the sick bedroom had, perhaps, been seen. The respect paid to Mrs. -Miles in that and the next parish was of the most reverential kind. Had -she chosen that a dog should be treated as one of the Launays, the dog -would have received all the family honours. It must be acknowledged of -her that in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> performance of her duty she had become a rural tyrant. -She gave away many petticoats; but they all had to be stitched according -to her idea of stitching a petticoat. She administered physic gratis to -the entire estate; but the estate had to take the doses as she chose to -have them mixed. It was because she had fallen something short of her -acknowledged duty in regard to Bessy Pryor that the parson’s daughters -were soon even proud of an intimacy with the girl, and that the old -butler, when she once went away for a week in the winter, was so careful -to wrap her feet up warm in the carriage.</p> - -<p>In this way, during the two years subsequent to Bessy’s illness, there -had gradually come up an altered condition of life at Launay. It could -not have been said before that Bessy, though she had been Miss Bessy, -was as a daughter in the house. But now a daughter’s privileges were -accorded to her. When the old squiress was driven out about the county, -Bessy was expected, but was asked rather than ordered to accompany her. -She always went; but went because she decided on going, not because she -was told. And she had a horse to ride; and she was allowed to arrange -flowers for the drawing-room; and the gardener did what she told him. -What daughter could have more extensive privileges? But poor Mrs. Miles -had her misgivings, often asking herself what would come of it all.</p> - -<p>When Bessy had been recovering from her illness, Philip, who was seven -years her senior, was making a grand tour about the world. He had -determined to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> see, not Paris, Vienna, and Rome, which used to make a -grand tour, but Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea Islands. He had gone -in such a way as to ensure the consent of his mother. Two other -well-minded young men of fortune had accompanied him, and they had been -intent on botany, the social condition of natives, and the progress of -the world generally. There had been no harum-scarum rushing about -without an object. Philip had been away for more than two years, and had -seen all there was to be seen in Japan, Patagonia, and the South Sea -Islands. Between them, the young men had written a book, and the critics -had been unanimous in observing how improved in those days were the -aspirations of young men. On his return he came to Launay for a week or -two, and then went up to London. When, after four months, he returned to -his mother’s house, he was twenty-seven years of age; and Bessy was just -twenty. Mrs. Miles knew that there was cause for fear; but she had -already taken steps to prevent the danger which she had foreseen.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-2" id="CHAPTER_II-2"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR WOULDN’T MARRY THE PARSON.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Of</span> course there would be danger. Mrs. Miles had been aware of that from -the commencement of things. There had been to her a sort of pleasure in -feeling that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> she had undertaken a duty which might possibly lead to -circumstances which would be altogether heart-breaking. The duty of -mothering Bessy was so much more a duty because, even when the little -girl was blear-eyed and thin, there was present to her mind all the -horror of a love affair between her son and the little girl. The Mileses -had always been much, and the Launays very much in the west of England. -Bessy had not a single belonging that was anything. Then she had become -beautiful and attractive, and worse than that, so much of a person about -the house that Philip himself might be tempted to think that she was fit -to be his wife!</p> - -<p>Among the duties prescribed to herself by Mrs. Miles was none stronger -than that of maintaining the family position of the Launays. She was one -of those who not only think that blue blood should remain blue, but that -blood not blue should be allowed no azure mixture. The proper severance -of classes was a religion to her. Bessy was a gentlewoman, so much had -been admitted, and therefore she had been brought into the drawing-room -instead of being relegated among the servants, and had thus grown up to -be, oh, so dangerous! She was a gentlewoman, and fit to be a gentleman’s -wife, but not fit to be the wife of the heir of the Launays. The reader -will understand, perhaps, that I, the writer of this little history, -think her to have been fit to become the wife of any man who might have -been happy enough to win her young heart, however blue his blood. But -Mrs. Miles had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> felt that precautions and remedies and arrangements were -necessary.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Miles had altogether approved of the journey to Japan. That had -been a preventive, and might probably afford time for an arrangement. -She had even used her influence to prolong the travelling till the -arrangements should be complete; but in this she had failed. She had -written to her son, saying that, as his sojourn in strange lands would -so certainly tend to the amelioration of the human races generally—for -she had heard of the philanthropic inquiries, of the book, and the -botany—she would by no means press upon him her own natural longings. -If another year was required, the necessary remittances should be made -with a liberal hand. But Philip, who had chosen to go because he liked -it, came back when he liked it, and there he was at Launay before a -certain portion of the arrangements had been completed, as to which Mrs. -Miles had been urgent during the last six months of his absence.</p> - -<p>A good-looking young clergyman in the neighbourhood, with a living of -£400 a year, and a fortune of £6,000 of his own, had during the time -been proposed to Bessy by Mrs. Miles. Mr. Morrison, the Rev. Alexander -Morrison, was an excellent young man; but it may be doubted whether the -patronage by which he was put into the living of Budcombe at an early -age, over the head of many senior curates, had been exercised with sound -clerical motives. Mrs. Miles was herself the patroness, and, having for -the last six years<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> felt the necessity of providing a husband for Bessy, -had looked about for a young man who should have good gifts and might -probably make her happy. A couple of thousand pounds added had at first -suggested itself to Mrs. Miles. Then love had ensnared her, and Bessy -had become dear to every one, and money was plenty. The thing should be -made so beautiful to all concerned that there should be no doubt of its -acceptance. The young parson didn’t doubt. Why should he? The living had -been a wonderful stroke of luck for him! The portion proposed would put -him at once among the easy-living gentlemen of the county; and then the -girl herself! Bessy had loomed upon him as feminine perfection from the -first moment he had seen her. It was to him as though the heavens were -raining their choicest blessings on his head.</p> - -<p>Nor had Mrs. Miles any reason to find fault with Bessy. Had Bessy jumped -into the man’s arms directly he had been offered to her as a lover, Mrs. -Miles would herself have been shocked. She knew enough of Bessy to be -sure that there would be no such jumping. Bessy had at first been -startled, and, throwing herself into her old friend’s arms, had pleaded -her youth. Mrs. Miles had accepted the embrace, had acknowledged the -plea, and had expressed herself quite satisfied, simply saying that Mr. -Morrison would be allowed to come about the house, and use his own -efforts to make himself agreeable. The young parson had come about the -house, and had shown himself to be good-humoured and pleasant. Bessy -never said a word against him;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> did in truth try to persuade herself -that it would be nice to have him as a lover; but she failed. “I think -he is very good,” she said one day, when she was pressed by Mrs. Miles.</p> - -<p>“And he is a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Bessy.</p> - -<p>“And good-looking.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that that matters.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear, no; only he is handsome. And then he is very fond of you.” -But Bessy would not commit herself, and certainly had never given any -encouragement to the gentleman himself.</p> - -<p>This had taken place just before Philip’s return. At that time his stay -at Launay was to be short; and during his sojourn his hands were to be -very full. There would not be much danger during that fortnight, as -Bessy was not prone to put herself forward in any man’s way. She met him -as his little pet of former days, and treated him quite as though he -were a superior being. She ran about for him as he arranged his -botanical treasures, and took in all that he said about the races. Mrs. -Miles, as she watched them, still trusted that there might be no danger. -But she went on with her safeguards. “I hope you like Mr. Morrison,” she -said to her son.</p> - -<p>“Very much indeed, mother; but why do you ask?”</p> - -<p>“It is a secret; but I’ll tell you. I think he will become the husband -of our dear Bessy.”</p> - -<p>“Marry Bessy!”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” Then there was a pause. “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> know how dearly I love Bessy. I -hope you will not think me wrong when I tell you that I propose to give -what will be for her a large fortune, considering all things.”</p> - -<p>“You should treat her just as though she were a daughter and a sister,” -said Philip.</p> - -<p>“Not quite that! But you will not begrudge her six thousand pounds?”</p> - -<p>“It is not half enough.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well. Six thousand pounds is a large sum of money to give away. -However, I am sure we shall not differ about Bessy. Don’t you think Mr. -Morrison would make her a good husband?” Philip looked very serious, -knitted his brows, and left the room, saying that he would think about -it.</p> - -<p>To make him think that the marriage was all but arranged would be a -great protection. There was a protection to his mother also in hearing -him speak of Bessy as being almost a sister. But there was still a -further protection. Down away in Cornwall there was another Launay -heiress coming up, some third or fourth cousin, and it had long since -been settled among certain elders that the Launay properties should be -combined. To this Philip had given no absolute assent; had even run away -to Japan just when it had been intended that he should go to Cornwall. -The Launay heiress had then only been seventeen, and it had been felt to -be almost as well that there should be delay, so that the time was not -passed by the young man in dangerous neighbourhoods. The South Sea -Islands and Patagonia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> had been safe. And now when the idea of combining -the properties was again mooted, he at first said nothing against it. -Surely such precautions as these would suffice, especially as Bessy’s -retiring nature would not allow her to fall in love with any man within -the short compass of a fortnight.</p> - -<p>Not a word more was said between Mrs. Miles and her son as to the -prospects of Mr. Morrison; not a word more then. She was intelligent -enough to perceive that the match was not agreeable to him; but she -attributed this feeling on his part to an idea that Bessy ought to be -treated in all respects as though she were a daughter of the house of -Launay. The idea was absurd, but safe. The match, if it could be -managed, would of course go on, but should not be mentioned to him again -till it could be named as a thing absolutely arranged. But there was no -present danger. Mrs. Miles felt sure that there was no present danger. -Mrs. Miles had seen Bessy grow out of meagre thinness and early want of -ruddy health, into gradual proportions of perfect feminine loveliness; -but, having seen the gradual growth, she did not know how lovely the -girl was. A woman hardly ever does know how omnipotent may be the -attraction which some feminine natures, and some feminine forms, diffuse -unconsciously on the young men around them.</p> - -<p>But Philip knew, or rather felt. As he walked about the park he declared -to himself that Alexander Morrison was an insufferably impudent clerical -prig; for which assertion there was, in truth, no ground whatsoever.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> -Then he accused his mother of a sordid love of money and property, and -swore to himself that he would never stir a step towards Cornwall. If -they chose to have that red-haired Launay girl up from the far west, he -would go away to London, or perhaps back to Japan. But what shocked him -most was that such a girl as Bessy, a girl whom he treated always just -like his own sister, should give herself to such a man as that young -parson at the very first asking! He struck the trees among which he was -walking with his stick as he thought of the meanness of feminine nature. -And then such a greasy, ugly brute! But Mr. Morrison was not at all -greasy, and would have been acknowledged by the world at large to be -much better looking than Philip Launay.</p> - -<p>Then came the day of his departure. He was going up to London in March -to see his book through the press, make himself intimate at his club, -and introduce himself generally to the ways of that life which was to be -his hereafter. It had been understood that he was to pass the season in -London, and that then the combined-property question should come on in -earnest. Such was his mother’s understanding; but by this time, by the -day of his departure, he was quite determined that the combined-property -question should never receive any consideration at his hands.</p> - -<p>Early on that day he met Bessy somewhere about the house. She was very -sweet to him on this occasion, partly because she loved him dearly,—as -her adopted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> brother; partly because he was going; partly because it was -her nature to be sweet! “There is one question. I want to ask you,” he -said suddenly, turning round upon her with a frown. He had not meant to -frown, but it was his nature to do so when his heart frowned within him.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Philip?” She turned pale as she spoke, but looked him full -in the face.</p> - -<p>“Are you engaged to that parson?” She went on looking at him, but did -not answer a word. “Are you going to marry him? I have a right to ask.” -Then she shook her head. “You certainly are not?” Now as he spoke his -voice was changed, and the frown had vanished. Again she shook her head. -Then he got hold of her hand, and she left her hand with him, not -thinking of him as other than a brother. “I am so glad. I detest that -man.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Philip; he is very good!”</p> - -<p>“I do not care two-pence for his goodness. You are quite sure?” Now she -nodded her head. “It would have been most awful, and would have made me -miserable; miserable. Of course, my mother is the best woman in the -world; but why can’t she let people alone to find husbands and wives for -themselves?” There was a slight frown, and then with a visible effort he -completed his speech. “Bessy, you have grown to be the loveliest woman -that ever I looked upon.”</p> - -<p>She withdrew her hand very suddenly. “Philip, you should not say such a -thing as that.”</p> - -<p>“Why not, if I think it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span>”</p> - -<p>“People should never say anything to anybody about themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t they?”</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean. It is not nice. It’s the sort of stuff which -people who ain’t ladies and gentlemen put into books.”</p> - -<p>“I should have thought I might say anything.”</p> - -<p>“So you may; and of course you are different. But there are things that -are so disagreeable!”</p> - -<p>“And I am one of them?”</p> - -<p>“No, Philip, you are the truest and best of brothers.”</p> - -<p>“At any rate you won’t——” Then he paused.</p> - -<p>“No, I won’t.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a promise to your best and dearest brother?” She nodded her head -again, and he was satisfied.</p> - -<p>He went away, and when he returned to Launay at the end of four months -he found that things were not going on pleasantly at the Park. Mr. -Morrison had been refused, with a positive assurance from the young lady -that she would never change her mind, and Mrs. Miles had become more -stern than ever in the performance of her duty to her family.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-2" id="CHAPTER_III-2"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Matters</span> became very unpleasant at the Park soon after Philip went away. -There had been something in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> manner as he left, and a silence in -regard to him on Bessy’s part, which created, not at first surprise, but -uneasiness in the mind of Mrs. Miles. Bessy hardly mentioned his name, -and Mrs. Miles knew enough of the world to feel that such restraint must -have a cause. It would have been natural for a girl so circumstanced to -have been full of Philip and his botany. Feeling this she instigated the -parson to renewed attempts; but the parson had to tell her that there -was no chance for him. “What has she said?” asked Mrs. Miles.</p> - -<p>“That it can never be.”</p> - -<p>“But it shall be,” said Mrs. Miles, stirred on this occasion to an -assertion of the obstinacy which was in her nature. Then there was a -most unpleasant scene between the old lady and her dependent. “What is -it that you expect?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Expect, aunt!” Bessy had been instructed to call Mrs. Miles her aunt.</p> - -<p>“What do you think is to be done for you?”</p> - -<p>“Done for me! You have done everything. May I not stay with you?” Then -Mrs. Miles gave utterance to a very long lecture, in which many things -were explained to Bessy. Bessy’s position was said to be one very -peculiar in its nature. Were Mrs. Miles to die there would be no home -for her. She could not hope to find a home in Philip’s house as a real -sister might have done. Everybody loved her because she had been good -and gracious, but it was her duty to marry—especially her duty—so that -there might be no future difficulty. Mr. Morrison was exactly the man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> -that such, a girl as Bessy ought to want as a husband. Bessy through her -tears declared that she didn’t want any husband, and that she certainly -did not want Mr. Morrison.</p> - -<p>“Has Philip said anything?” asked the imprudent old woman. Then Bessy -was silent. “What has Philip said to you?”</p> - -<p>“I told him, when he asked, that I should never marry Mr. Morrison.” -Then it was—in that very moment—that Mrs. Miles in truth suspected the -blow that was to fall upon her; and in that same moment she resolved -that, let the pain be what it might to any or all of them, she would do -her duty by her family.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said to herself, as she sat alone in the unadorned, -unattractive sanctity of her own bedroom, “I will do my duty at any rate -now.” With deep remorse she acknowledged to herself that she had been -remiss. For a moment her anger was very bitter. She had warmed a reptile -in her bosom. The very words came to her thoughts, though they were not -pronounced. But the words were at once rejected. The girl had been no -reptile. The girl had been true. The girl had been as sweet a girl as -had ever brightened the hearth of an old woman. She acknowledged so much -to herself even in this moment of her agony. But not the less would she -do her duty by the family of the Launays. Let the girl do what she -might, she must be sent away—got rid of—sacrificed in any way rather -than that Philip should be allowed to make himself a fool.</p> - -<p>When for a couple of days she had turned it all in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> her mind she did not -believe that there was as yet any understanding between the girl and -Philip. But still she was sure that the danger existed. Not only had the -girl refused her destined husband—just such a man as such a girl as -Bessy ought to have loved—but she had communicated her purpose in that -respect to Philip. There had been more of confidence between them than -between her and the girl. How could they two have talked on such a -subject unless there had been between them something of stricter, closer -friendship even than that of brother and sister? There had been -something of a conspiracy between them against her—her who at Launay -was held to be omnipotent, against her who had in her hands all the -income, all the power, all the ownership—the mother of one of them, and -the protectress and only friend of the other! She would do her duty, let -Bessy be ever so sweet. The girl must be made to marry Mr. Morrison—or -must be made to go.</p> - -<p>But whither should she go, and if that “whither” should be found, how -should Philip be prevented from following her? Mrs. Miles, in her agony, -conceived an idea that it would be easier to deal with the girl herself -than with Philip. A woman, if she thinks it to be a duty, will more -readily sacrifice herself in the performance of it than will a man. So -at least thought Mrs. Miles, judging from her own feelings; and Bessy -was very good, very affectionate, very grateful, had always been -obedient. If possible she should be driven into the arms of Mr. -Morrison. Should she stand firm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> against such efforts as could be made -in that direction, then an appeal should be made to herself. After all -that had been done for her, would she ruin the family of the Launays for -the mere whim of her own heart?</p> - -<p>During the process of driving her into Mr. Morrison’s arms—a process -which from first to last was altogether hopeless—not a word had been -said about Philip. But Bessy understood the reticence. She had been -asked as to her promise to Philip, and never forgot that she had been -asked. Nor did she ever forget those words which at the moment so -displeased her—“You have grown to be the loveliest woman that I have -ever looked upon.” She remembered now that he had held her hand tightly -while he had spoken them, and that an effort had been necessary as she -withdrew it. She had been perfectly serious in decrying the personal -compliment; but still, still, there had been a flavour of love in the -words which now remained among her heartstrings. Of course he was not -her brother—not even her cousin. There was not a touch of blood between -them to warrant such a compliment as a joke. He, as a young man, had -told her that he thought her, as a young woman, to be lovely above all -others. She was quite sure of this—that no possible amount of driving -should drive her into the arms of Mr. Morrison.</p> - -<p>The old woman became more and more stern. “Dear aunt,” Bessy said to her -one day, with an air of firmness which had evidently been assumed -purposely for the occasion, “indeed, indeed, I cannot love<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> Mr. -Morrison.” Then Mrs. Miles had resolved that she must resort to the -other alternative. Bessy must go. She did believe that when everything -should be explained Bessy herself would raise no difficulty as to her -own going. Bessy had no more right to live at Launay than had any other -fatherless, motherless, penniless living creature. But how to explain -it? What reason should be given? And whither should the girl be sent?</p> - -<p>Then there came delay, caused by another great trouble. On a sudden Mrs. -Miles was very ill. This began about the end of May, when Philip was -still up in London inhaling the incense which came up from the success -of his book. At first she was very eager that her son should not be -recalled to Launay. “Why should a young man be brought into the house -with a sick old woman?” Of course she was eager. What evils might not -happen if they two were brought together during her illness? At the end -of three weeks, however, she was worse—so much worse that the people -around her were afraid; and it became manifest to all of them that the -truth must be told to Philip in spite of her injunctions. Bessy’s -position became one of great difficulty, because words fell from Mrs. -Miles which explained to her almost with accuracy the condition of her -aunt’s mind. “You should not be here,” she said over and over again. -Now, it had been the case, as a matter of course, that Bessy, during the -old lady’s illness, had never left her bedside day or night. Of course -she had been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> nurse, of course she had tended the invalid in -everything. It had been so much a matter of course that the poor lady -had been impotent to prevent it, in her ineffectual efforts to put an -end to Bessy’s influence. The servants, even the doctors, obeyed Bessy -in regard to the household matters. Mrs. Miles found herself quite -unable to repel Bessy from her bedside. And then, with her mind always -intent on the necessity of keeping the young people apart, and when it -was all but settled that Philip should be summoned, she said again and -again, “You should not be here, Bessy. You must not be here, Bessy.”</p> - -<p>But whither should she go? No place was even suggested to her. And were -she herself to consult some other friend as to a place—the clergyman of -their own parish for instance, who out of that house was her most -intimate friend—she would have to tell the whole story, a story which -could not be told by her lips. Philip had never said a word to her, -except that one word: “You have grown to be the loveliest woman that -ever I looked upon.” The word was very frequent in her thoughts, but she -could tell no one of that!</p> - -<p>If he did think her lovely, if he did love her, why should not things -run smoothly? She had found it to be quite out of the question that she -should be driven into the arms of Mr. Morrison, but she soon came to own -to herself that she might easily be enticed into those other arms. But -then perhaps he had meant nothing—so probably had meant nothing! But if -not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> why should she be driven away from Launay? As her aunt became -worse and worse, and when Philip came down from London, and with Philip -a London physician, nothing was settled about poor Bessy, and nothing -was done. When Philip and Bessy stood together at the sick woman’s -bedside she was nearly insensible, wandering in her mind, but still with -that care heavy at her heart. “No, Philip; no, no, no,” she said. “What -is it, mother?” asked Philip. Then Bessy escaped from the room and -resolved that she would always be absent when Philip was by his mother’s -bedside.</p> - -<p>There was a week in which the case was almost hopeless; and then a week -during which the mistress of Launay crept slowly back to life. It could -not but be that they two should see much of each other during such -weeks. At every meal they sat together. Bessy was still constant at the -bedside of her aunt, but now and again she was alone with Philip. At -first she struggled to avoid him, but she struggled altogether in vain. -He would not be avoided. And then of course he spoke. “Bessy, I am sure -you know that I love you.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure I hope you do,” she replied, purposely misinterpreting him.</p> - -<p>Then he frowned at her. “I am sure, Bessy, you are above all -subterfuges.”</p> - -<p>“What subterfuges? Why do you say that?”</p> - -<p>“You are no sister of mine; no cousin even. You know what I mean when I -say that I love you. Will you be my wife?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span>”</p> - -<p>Oh! if she might only have knelt at his feet and hidden her face among -her hands, and have gladly answered him with a little “Yes,” extracted -from amidst her happy blushes! But, in every way, there was no time for -such joys. “Philip, think how ill your mother is,” she said.</p> - -<p>“That cannot change it. I have to ask you whether you can love me. I am -bound to ask you whether you will love me.” She would not answer him -then; but during that second week in which Mrs. Miles was creeping back -to life she swore that she did love him, and would love him, and would -be true to him for ever and ever.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-2" id="CHAPTER_IV-2"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR OWNED THAT SHE WAS ENGAGED.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> these pretty oaths had been sworn, and while Mrs. Miles was too ill -to keep her eyes upon them or to separate them, of course the two lovers -were much together. For whispering words of love, for swearing oaths, -for sweet kisses and looking into each other’s eyes, a few minutes now -and again will give ample opportunities. The long hours of the day and -night were passed by Bessy with her aunt; but there were short moments, -heavenly moments, which sufficed to lift her off the earth into an -Elysium of joy. His love for her was so perfect, so assured! “In a -matter such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> as this,” he said in his fondly serious air, “my mother can -have no right to interfere with me.”</p> - -<p>“But with me she may,” said Bessy, foreseeing in the midst of her -Paradise the storm which would surely come.</p> - -<p>“Why should she wish to do so? Why should she not allow me to make -myself happy in the only way in which it is possible?” There was such an -ecstacy of bliss coming from such words as these, such a perfection of -the feeling of mutual love, that she could not but be exalted to the -heavens, although she knew that the storm would surely come. If her love -would make him happy, then, then, surely he should be happy. “Of course -she has given up her idea about that parson,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I fear she has not, Philip.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me too monstrous that any human being should go to work and -settle whom two other human beings are to marry.”</p> - -<p>“There was never a possibility of that.”</p> - -<p>“She told me it was to be so.”</p> - -<p>“It never could have been,” said Bessy with great emphasis. “Not even -for her, much as I love her—not even for her to whom I owe -everything—could I consent to marry a man I did not love. But——”</p> - -<p>“But what?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know how I shall answer her when she bids me give you up. Oh, -my love, how shall I answer her?”</p> - -<p>Then he told her at considerable length what was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> the answer which he -thought should in such circumstances be made to his mother. Bessy was to -declare that nothing could alter her intentions, that her own happiness -and that of her lover depended on her firmness, and that they two did, -in fact, intend to have their own way in this matter sooner or later. -Bessy, as she heard the lesson, made no direct reply, but she knew too -well that it could be of no service to her. All that it would be -possible for her to say, when the resolute old woman should declare her -purpose, would be that come what might she must always love Philip -Launay; that she never, never, never could become the wife of any other -man. So much she thought she would say. But as to asserting her right to -her lover, that she was sure would be beyond her.</p> - -<p>Everyone in the house except Mrs. Miles was aware that Philip and Bessy -were lovers, and from the dependents of the house the tidings spread -through the parish. There had been no special secrecy. A lover does not -usually pronounce his vows in public. Little half-lighted corners and -twilight hours are chosen, or banks beneath the trees supposed to be -safe from vulgar eyes, or lonely wanderings. Philip had followed the -usual way of the world in his love-making, but had sought his secret -moments with no special secrecy. Before the servants he would whisper to -Bessy with that look of thorough confidence in his eyes which servants -completely understand; and thus while the poor old woman was still in -her bed, while she was unaware both of the danger and of her own -immediate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> impotence, the secret—as far as it was a secret—became -known to all Launay. Mr. Morrison heard it over at Budcombe, and, with -his heart down in his boots, told himself that now certainly there could -be no chance for him. At Launay Mr. Gregory was the rector, and it was -with his daughters that Bessy had become intimate. Knowing much of the -mind of the first lady of the parish, he took upon himself to say a word -or two to Philip. “I am so glad to hear that your mother is much better -this morning.”</p> - -<p>“Very much better.”</p> - -<p>“It has been a most serious illness.”</p> - -<p>“Terribly serious, Mr. Gregory.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause, and sundry other faltering allusions were made -to the condition of things up at the house, from which Philip was aware -that words of counsel or perhaps reproach were coming. “I hope you will -excuse me, Philip, if I tell you something.”</p> - -<p>“I think I shall excuse anything from you.”</p> - -<p>“People are saying about the place that during your mother’s illness you -have engaged yourself to Bessy Pryor.”</p> - -<p>“That’s very odd,” said Philip.</p> - -<p>“Odd!” repeated the parson.</p> - -<p>“Very odd indeed, because what the people about the place say is always -supposed to be untrue. But this report is true.”</p> - -<p>“It is true?”</p> - -<p>“Quite true, and I am proud to be in a position to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> assure you that I -have been accepted. I am really sorry for Mr. Morrison, you know.”</p> - -<p>“But what will your mother say?”</p> - -<p>“I do not think that she or anyone can say that Bessy is not fit to be -the wife of the finest gentleman in the land.” This he said with an air -of pride which showed plainly enough that he did not intend to be talked -out of his purpose.</p> - -<p>“I should not have spoken, but that your dear mother is so ill,” -rejoined the parson.</p> - -<p>“I understand that. I must fight my own battle and Bessy’s as best I -may. But you may be quite sure, Mr. Gregory, that I mean to fight it.”</p> - -<p>Nor did Bessy deny the fact when her friend Mary Gregory interrogated -her. The question of Bessy’s marriage with Mr. Morrison had, somewhat -cruelly in regard to her and more cruelly still in regard to the -gentleman, become public property in the neighbourhood. Everybody had -known that Mrs. Miles intended to marry Bessy to the parson of Budcombe, -and everybody had thought that Bessy would, as a matter of course, -accept her destiny. Everybody now knew that Bessy had rebelled; and, as -Mrs. Miles’s autocratic disposition was well understood, everybody was -waiting to see what would come of it. The neighbourhood generally -thought that Bessy was unreasonable and ungrateful. Mr. Morrison was a -very nice man, and nothing could have been more appropriate. Now, when -the truth came out, everybody was very much interested indeed. That Mrs. -Miles should assent to a marriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> between the heir and Bessy Pryor was -quite out of the question. She was too well known to leave a doubt on -the mind of anyone either in Launay or Budcombe on that matter. Men and -women drew their breath and looked at each other. It was just when the -parishes thought that she was going to die that the parishioners first -heard that Bessy would not marry Mr. Morrison because of the young -squire. And now, when it was known that Mrs. Miles was not going to die, -it was known that the young squire was absolutely engaged to Bessy -Pryor. “There’ll be a deal o’ vat in the voir,” said the old head -ploughman of Launay, talking over the matter with the wife of Mr. -Gregory’s gardener. There was going to be “a deal of fat in the fire.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Miles was not like other mothers. Everything in respect to present -income was in her hands. And Bessy was not like other girls. She had -absolutely no “locus standi” in the world, except what came to her from -the bounty of the old lady. By favour of the Lady of Launay she held her -head among the girls of that part of the country as high as any girl -there. She was only Bessy Pryor; but, from love and kindness, she was -the recognised daughter of the house of Launay. Everybody knew it all. -Everybody was aware that she had done much towards reaching her present -position by her own special sweetness. But should Mrs. Miles once frown, -Bessy would be nobody. “Oh, Bessy, how is this all to be?” asked Mary -Gregory.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<p>“As God pleases,” said Bessy, very solemnly.</p> - -<p>“What does Mrs. Miles say?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want anybody to ask me about it,” said Bessy. “Of course I love -him. What is the good of denying it? But I cannot talk about it.” Then -Mary Gregory looked as though some terrible secret had been revealed to -her—some secret of which the burden might probably be too much for her -to bear.</p> - -<p>The first storm arose from an interview which took place between the -mother and son as soon as the mother found herself able to speak on a -subject which was near her heart. She sent for him and once again -besought him to take steps towards that combining of the properties -which was so essential to the Launay interests generally. Then he -declared his purpose very plainly. He did not intend to combine the -properties. He did not care for the red-haired Launay cousin. It was his -intention to marry—Bessy Pryor; yes—he had proposed to her and she had -accepted him. The poor sick mother was at first almost overwhelmed with -despair. “What can I do but tell you the truth when you ask me?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Do!” she screamed. “What could you do? You could have remembered your -honour! You could have remembered your blood! You could have remembered -your duty!” Then she bade him leave her, and after an hour passed in -thought she sent for Bessy. “I have had my son with me,” she said, -sitting bolt upright in her bed, looking awful in her wanness, speaking -with low, studied, harsh voice, with her two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> hands before her on the -counterpane. “I have had my son with me and he has told me.” Bessy felt -that she was trembling. She was hardly able to support herself. She had -not a word to say. The sick old woman was terrible in her severity. “Is -it true?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is true,” whispered Bessy.</p> - -<p>“And this is to be my return?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dearest, my darling, oh, my aunt, dear, dearest, dearest aunt! -Do not speak like that! Do not look at me like that! You know I love -you. Don’t you know I love you?” Then Bessy prostrated herself on the -bed, and getting hold of the old woman’s hand covered it with kisses. -Yes, her aunt did know that the girl loved her, and she knew that she -loved the girl perhaps better than any other human being in the world. -The eldest son had become estranged from her. Even Philip had not been -half so much to her as this girl. Bessy had wound herself round her very -heartstrings. It made her happy even to sit and look at Bessy. She had -denied herself all pretty things; but this prettiest of all things had -grown up beneath her eyes. She did not draw away her hand; but, while -her hand was being kissed, she made up her mind that she would do her -duty.</p> - -<p>“Of what service will be your love,” she said, “if this is to be my -return?” Bessy could only lie and sob and hide her face. “Say that you -will give it up.” Not to say that, not to give him up, was the only -resolution at which Bessy had arrived. “If you will not say so, you must -leave me, and I shall send you word<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> what you are to do. If you are my -enemy you shall not remain here.”</p> - -<p>“Pray—pray do not call me an enemy.”</p> - -<p>“You had better go.” The woman’s voice as she said this was dreadful in -its harshness. Then Bessy, slowly creeping down from the bed, slowly -slunk out of the room.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-2" id="CHAPTER_V-2"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR CEASED TO BE A YOUNG LADY OF IMPORTANCE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> the old woman was alone she at once went to work in her own mind -resolving what should be her course of proceeding. To yield in the -matter, and to confirm the happiness of the young people, never occurred -to her. Again and again she repeated to herself that she would do her -duty; and again and again she repeated to herself that in allowing -Philip and Bessy to come together she had neglected her duty. That her -duty required her to separate them, in spite of their love, in spite of -their engagement, though all the happiness of their lives might depend -upon it, she did not in the least doubt. Duty is duty. And it was her -duty to aggrandise the house of Launay, so that the old autocracy of the -land might, so far as in her lay, be preserved. That it would be a good -and pious thing to do,—to keep them apart, to force Philip<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> to marry -the girl in Cornwall, to drive Bessy into Mr. Morrison’s arms, was to -her so certain that it required no further thought. She had never -indulged herself. Her life had been so led as to maintain the power of -her own order, and relieve the wants of those below her. She had done -nothing for her own pleasure. How should it occur to her that it would -be well for her to change the whole course of her life in order that she -might administer to the joys of a young man and a young woman?</p> - -<p>It did not occur to her to do so. Lying thus all alone, white, sick, and -feeble, but very strong of heart, she made her resolutions. As Bessy -could not well be sent out of the house till a home should be provided -for her elsewhere, Philip should be made to go. As that was to be the -first step, she again sent for Philip that day. “No, mother; not while -you are so ill.” This he said in answer to her first command that he -should leave Launay at once. It had not occurred to him that the house -in which he had been born and bred, the house of his ancestors, the -house which he had always supposed was at some future day to be his own, -was not free to him. But, feeble as she was, she soon made him -understand her purpose. He must go,—because she ordered him, because -the house was hers and not his, because he was no longer welcome there -as a guest unless he would promise to abandon Bessy. “This is tyranny, -mother,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I do not mean to argue the question,” said Mrs. Miles, leaning back -among the pillows, gaunt, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> hollow cheeks, yellow with her long -sickness, seeming to be all eyes as she looked at him. “I tell you that -you must go.”</p> - -<p>“Mother!”</p> - -<p>Then, at considerable length, she explained her intended arrangements. -He must go, and live upon the very modest income which she proposed. At -any rate he must go, and go at once. The house was hers, and she would -not have him there. She would have no one in the house who disputed her -will. She had been an over-indulgent mother to him, and this had been -the return made to her! She had condescended to explain to him her -intention in regard to Bessy, and he had immediately resolved to thwart -her. When she was dead and gone it might perhaps be in his power to ruin -the family if he chose. As to that she would take further thought. But -she, as long as she lived, would do her duty. “I suppose I may -understand,” she said, “that you will leave Launay early after breakfast -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to turn me out of the house?”</p> - -<p>“I do,” she said, looking full at him, all eyes, with her grey hair -coming dishevelled from under the large frill of her nightcap, with -cheeks gaunt and yellow. Her extended hands were very thin. She had been -very near death, and seemed, as he gazed at her, to be very near it now. -If he went it might be her fate never to see him again.</p> - -<p>“I cannot leave you like this,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Then obey me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Why should we not be married, mother?”</p> - -<p>“I will not argue. You know as well as I do. Will you obey me?”</p> - -<p>“Not in this, mother. I could not do so without perjuring myself.”</p> - -<p>“Then go you out of this house at once.” She was sitting now bolt -upright on her bed, supporting herself on her hands behind her. The -whole thing was so dreadful that he could not endure to prolong the -interview, and he left the room.</p> - -<p>Then there came a message from the old housekeeper to Bessy, forbidding -her to leave her own room. It was thus that Bessy first understood that -her great sin was to be made public to all the household. Mrs. Knowl, -who was the head of the domestics, had been told, and now felt that a -sort of authority over Bessy had been confided to her. “No, Miss Bessy; -you are not to go into her room at all. She says that she will not see -you till you promise to be said by her.”</p> - -<p>“But why, Mrs. Knowl?”</p> - -<p>“Well, miss; I suppose it’s along of Mr. Philip. But you know that -better than me. Mr. Philip is to go to-morrow morning and never come -back any more.”</p> - -<p>“Never come back to Launay?”</p> - -<p>“Not while things is as they is, miss. But you are to stay here and not -go out at all. That’s what Madam says.” The servants about the place all -called Mrs. Miles Madam.</p> - -<p>There was a potency about Mrs. Miles which enabled her to have her will -carried out, although she was lying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> ill in bed,—to have her will -carried out as far as the immediate severance of the lovers was -concerned. When the command had been brought by the mouth of a servant, -Bessy determined that she would not see Philip again before he went. She -understood that she was bound by her position, bound by gratitude, bound -by a sense of propriety, to so much obedience as that. No earthly -authority could be sufficient to make her abandon her troth. In that she -could not allow even her aunt to sway her,—her aunt though she were -sick and suffering, even though she were dying! Both her love and her -vow were sacred to her. But obedience at the moment she did owe, and she -kept her room. Philip came to the door, but she sat mute and would not -speak to him. Mrs. Knowl, when she brought her some food, asked her -whether she intended to obey the order. “Your aunt wants a promise from -you, Miss Bessy?”</p> - -<p>“I am sure my aunt knows that I shall obey her,” said Bessy.</p> - -<p>On the following morning Philip left the house. He sent a message to his -mother, asking whether she would see him; but she refused. “I think you -had better not disturb her, Mr. Philip,” said Mrs. Knowl. Then he went, -and as the waggonette took him away from the door, Bessy sat and -listened to the sound of the wheels on the gravel.</p> - -<p>All that day and all the next passed on and she was not allowed to see -her aunt. Mrs. Knowl repeated that she could not take upon herself to -say that Madam<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> was better. No doubt the worry of the last day or two -had been a great trouble to her. Mrs. Knowl grew much in self-importance -at the time, and felt that she was overtopping Miss Bessy in the affairs -of Launay.</p> - -<p>It was no less true than singular that all the sympathies of the place -should be on the side of the old woman. Her illness probably had -something to do with it. And then she had been so autocratic, all Launay -and Budcombe had been so accustomed to bow down to her, that rebellion -on the part of anyone seemed to be shocking. And who was Bessy Pryor -that she should dare to think of marrying the heir? Who, even, was the -supposed heir that he should dare to think of marrying anyone in -opposition to the actual owner of the acres? Heir though he was called, -he was not necessarily the heir. She might do as she pleased with all -Launay and all Budcombe, and there were those who thought that if Philip -was still obstinate she would leave everything to her elder son. She did -not love her elder son. In these days she never saw him. He was a gay -man of the world, who had never been dutiful to her. But he might take -the name of Launay, and the family would be perpetuated as well that way -as the other. Philip was very foolish. And as for Bessy; Bessy was worse -than foolish. That was the verdict of the place generally.</p> - -<p>I think Launay liked it. The troubles of our neighbours are generally -endurable, and any subject for conversation is a blessing. Launay liked -the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span>excitement; but, nevertheless, felt itself to be compressed into -whispers and a solemn demeanour. The Gregory girls were solemn, -conscious of the iniquity of their friend, and deeply sensitive of the -danger to which poor Philip was exposed. When a rumour came to the -vicarage that a fly had been up at the great house, it was immediately -conceived that Mr. Jones, the lawyer from Taunton, had been sent for, -with a view to an alteration of the will. This suddenness, this anger, -this disruption of all things was dreadful! But when it was discovered -that the fly contained no one but the doctor there was disappointment.</p> - -<p>On the third day there came a message from Mrs. Miles to the rector. -Would Mr. Gregory step up and see Mrs. Miles? Then it was thought at the -rectory that the dear old lady was again worse, and that she had sent -for her clergyman that she might receive the last comforts of religion. -But this again was wrong. “Mr. Gregory,” she said very suddenly, “I want -to consult you as to a future home for Bessy Pryor.”</p> - -<p>“Must she go from this?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; she must go from this. You have heard, perhaps, about her and my -son.” Mr. Gregory acknowledged that he had heard. “Of course she must -go. I cannot have Philip banished from the house which is to be his own. -In this matter he probably has been the most to blame.”</p> - -<p>“They have both, perhaps, been foolish.”</p> - -<p>“It is wickedness rather than folly. But he has been the wickeder. It -should have been a duty to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> him, a great duty, and he should have been -the stronger. But he is my son, and I cannot banish him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!”</p> - -<p>“But they must not be brought together. I love Bessy Pryor dearly, Mr. -Gregory; oh, so dearly! Since she came to me, now so many years ago, she -has been like a gleam of sunlight in the house. She has always been -gentle with me. The very touch of her hand is sweet to me. But I must -not on that account sacrifice the honour of the family. I have a duty to -do; and I must do it, though I tear my heart in pieces. Where can I send -her?”</p> - -<p>“Permanently?”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes; permanently. If Philip were married, of course she might -come back. But I will still trust that she herself may be married first. -I do not mean to cast her off;—only she must go. Anything that may be -wanting in money shall be paid for her. She shall be provided for -comfortably. You know what I had hoped about Mr. Morrison. Perhaps he -may even yet be able to persuade her; but it must be away from here. -Where can I send her?”</p> - -<p>This was a question not very easy to answer, and Mr. Gregory said that -he must take time to think of it. Mrs. Miles, when she asked the -question, was aware that Mr. Gregory had a maiden sister, living at -Avranches in Normandy, who was not in opulent circumstances.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI-2" id="CHAPTER_VI-2"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS TO BE BANISHED.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> a man is asked by his friend if he knows of a horse to be sold he -does not like immediately to suggest a transfer of the animal which he -has in his own stable, though he may at the moment be in want of money -and anxious to sell his steed. So it was with Mr. Gregory. His sister -would be delighted to take as a boarder a young lady for whom liberal -payment would be made; but at the first moment he had hesitated to make -an offer by which his own sister would be benefited. On the next -morning, however, he wrote as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Miles</span>,—My sister Amelia is living at Avranches, where -she has a pleasant little house on the outskirts of the town, with -a garden. An old friend was living with her, but she died last -year, and my sister is now alone. If you think that Bessy would -like to sojourn for awhile in Normandy, I will write to Amelia and -make the proposition. Bessy will find my sister good-tempered and -kind-hearted.—Faithfully yours, <span class="smcap">Joshua Gregory</span>.”</p></div> - -<p>Mrs. Miles did not care much for the good temper and the kind heart. Had -she asked herself whether she wished Bessy to be happy she would no -doubt have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> answered herself in the affirmative. She would probably have -done so in regard to any human being or animal in the world. Of course, -she wanted them all to be happy. But happiness was to her thinking of -much less importance than duty; and at the present moment her duty and -Bessy’s duty and Philip’s duty were so momentous that no idea of -happiness ought to be considered in the matter at all. Had Mr. Gregory -written to say that his sister was a woman of severe morals, of stern -aspect, prone to repress all youthful ebullitions, and supposed to be -disagreeable because of her temper, all that would have been no -obstacle. In the present condition of things suffering would be better -than happiness; more in accord with the feelings and position of the -person concerned. It was quite intelligible to Mrs. Miles that Bessy -should really love Philip almost to the breaking of her heart, quite -intelligible that Philip should have set his mind upon the untoward -marriage with all the obstinacy of a proud man. When young men and young -women neglect their duty, hearts have to be broken. But it is not a soft -and silken operation, which can be made pleasant by good temper and -social kindness. It was necessary, for certain quite adequate reasons, -that Bessy should be put on the wheel, and be racked and tormented. To -talk to her of the good temper of the old woman who would have to turn -the wheel would be to lie to her. Mrs. Miles did not want her to think -that things could be made pleasant for her.</p> - -<p>Soon after the receipt of Mr. Gregory’s letter she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> sent for Bessy, who -was then brought into the room under the guard, as it were, of Mrs. -Knowl. Mrs. Knowl accompanied her along the corridor, which was surely -unnecessary, as Bessy’s door had not been locked upon her. Her -imprisonment had only come from obedience. But Mrs. Knowl felt that a -great trust had been confided to her, and was anxious to omit none of -her duties. She opened the door so that the invalid on the bed could see -that this duty had been done, and then Bessy crept into the room. She -crept in, but very quickly, and in a moment had her arms round the old -woman’s back and her lips pressed to the old woman’s forehead. “Why may -not I come and be with you?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Because you are disobedient.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I do all that you tell me. I have not stirred from my room, -though it was hard to think you were ill so near me, and that I could do -nothing. I did not try to say a word to him, or even to look at him; and -now that he has gone, why should I not be with you?”</p> - -<p>“It cannot be.”</p> - -<p>“But why not, aunt? Even though you would not speak to me I could be -with you. Who is there to read to you?”</p> - -<p>“There is no one. Of course it is dreary. But there are worse things -than dreariness.”</p> - -<p>“Why should not I come back, now that he has gone?” She still had her -arm round the old woman’s back, and had now succeeded in dragging -herself on to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> the bed and in crouching down by her aunt’s side. It was -her perseverance in this fashion that had so often forced Mrs. Miles out -of her own ordained method of life, and compelled her to leave for a -moment the strictness which was congenial to her. It was this that had -made her declare to Mr. Gregory, in the midst of her severity, that -Bessy had been like a gleam of sunshine in the house. Even now she knew -not how to escape from the softness of an embrace which was in truth so -grateful to her. It was a consciousness of this,—of the potency of -Bessy’s charm even over herself,—which had made her hasten to send her -away from her. Bessy would read to her all the day, would hold her hand -when she was half dozing, would assist in every movement with all the -patience and much more than the tenderness of a waiting-maid. There was -no voice so sweet, no hand so cool, no memory so mindful, no step so -soft as Bessy’s. And now Bessy was there, lying on her bed, caressing -her, more closely bound to her than had ever been any other being in the -world, and yet Bessy was an enemy from whom it was imperatively -necessary that she should be divided.</p> - -<p>“Get down, Bessy,” she said; “go off from me.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no,” said Bessy, still clinging to her and kissing her.</p> - -<p>“I have that to say to you which must be said calmly.”</p> - -<p>“I am calm,—quite calm. I will do whatever you tell me; only pray, -pray, do not send me away from you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span>”</p> - -<p>“You say that you will obey me.”</p> - -<p>“I will; I have. I always have obeyed you.”</p> - -<p>“Will you give up your love for Philip?”</p> - -<p>“Could I give up my love for you, if anybody told me? How can I do it? -Love comes of itself. I did not try to love him. Oh, if you could know -how I tried not to love him! If somebody came and said I was not to love -you, would it be possible?”</p> - -<p>“I am speaking of another love.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I know. One is a kind of love that is always welcome. The other -comes first as a shock, and one struggles to avoid it. But when it has -come, how can it be helped? I do love him, better than all the world.” -As she said this she raised herself upon the bed, so as to look round -upon her aunt’s face; but still she kept her arm upon the old woman’s -shoulder. “Is it not natural? How could I have helped it?”</p> - -<p>“You must have known that it was wrong.”</p> - -<p>“No!”</p> - -<p>“You did not know that it would displease me?”</p> - -<p>“I knew that it was unfortunate,—not wrong. What did I do that was -wrong? When he asked me, could I tell him anything but the truth?”</p> - -<p>“You should have told him nothing.” At this reply Bessy shook her head. -“It cannot be that you should think that in such a matter there should -be no restraint. Did you expect that I should give my consent to such a -marriage? I want to hear from yourself what you thought of my feelings.”</p> - -<p>“I knew you would be angry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“I knew you must think me unfit to be Philip’s wife.”</p> - -<p>“Well?”</p> - -<p>“I knew that you wanted something else for him, and something else also -for me.”</p> - -<p>“And did such knowledge go for nothing?”</p> - -<p>“It made me feel that my love was unfortunate,—but not that it was -wrong. I could not help it. He had come to me, and I loved him. The -other man came, and I could not love him. Why should I be shut up for -this in my own room? Why should I be sent away from you, to be miserable -because I know that you want things done? He is not here. If he were -here and you bade me not to go near him, I would not go. Though he were -in the next room I would not see him. I would obey you altogether, but I -must love him. And as I love him I cannot love another. You would not -wish me to marry a man when my heart has been given to another.”</p> - -<p>The old woman had not at all intended that there should be such -arguments as these. It had been her purpose simply to communicate her -plan, to tell Bessy that she would have to live probably for a few years -at Avranches, and then to send her back to her prison. But Bessy had -again got the best of her, and then had come caressing, talking, and -excuses. Bessy had been nearly an hour in her room before Mrs. Miles had -disclosed her purpose, and had hovered round her aunt, doing as had been -her wont when she was recognised as having all the powers of head nurse -in her hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> Then at last, in a manner very different from that which -had been planned, Mrs. Miles proposed the Normandy scheme. She had been, -involuntarily, so much softened that she condescended even to repeat -what Mr. Gregory had said as to the good temper and general kindness of -his maiden sister. “But why should I go?” asked Bessy, almost sobbing.</p> - -<p>“I wonder that you should ask.”</p> - -<p>“He is not here.”</p> - -<p>“But he may come.”</p> - -<p>“If he came ever so I would not see him if you bade me not. I think you -hardly understand me, aunt. I will obey you in everything. I am sure you -will not now ask me to marry Mr. Morrison.”</p> - -<p>She could not say that Philip would be more likely to become amenable -and marry the Cornish heiress if Bessy were away at Avranches than if -she still remained shut up at Launay. But that was her feeling. Philip, -she knew, would be less obedient than Bessy. But then, too, Philip might -be less obstinate of purpose. “You cannot live here, Bessy, unless you -will say that you will never become the wife of my son.”</p> - -<p>“Never?”</p> - -<p>“Never!”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say that.” There was a long pause before she found the courage -to pronounce these words, but she did pronounce them at last.</p> - -<p>“Then you must go.”</p> - -<p>“I may stay and nurse you till you are well. Let me do that. I will go -whenever you may bid me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span>”</p> - -<p>“No. There shall be no terms between us. We must be friends, Bessy, or -we must be enemies. We cannot be friends as long as you hold yourself to -be engaged to Philip Launay. While that is so I will not take a cup of -water from your hands. No, no,” for the girl was again trying to embrace -her. “I will not have your love, nor shall you have mine.”</p> - -<p>“My heart would break were I to say it.”</p> - -<p>“Then let it break! Is my heart not broken? What is it though our hearts -do break,—what is it though we die,—if we do our duty? You owe this -for what I have done for you.”</p> - -<p>“I owe you everything.”</p> - -<p>“Then say that you will give him up.”</p> - -<p>“I owe you everything, except this. I will not speak to him, I will not -write to him, I will not even look at him, but I will not give him up. -When one loves, one cannot give it up.” Then she was ordered to go back -to her room, and back to her room she went.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII-2" id="CHAPTER_VII-2"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BANISHED TO NORMANDY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was nothing for it but to go, after the interview described in the -last chapter. Mrs. Miles sent a message to the obstinate girl, informing -her that she need not any longer consider herself as a prisoner, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> -that she had better prepare her clothes so as to be ready to start -within a week. The necessary correspondence had taken place between -Launay and Avranches, and within ten days from the time at which Mr. -Gregory had made the proposition,—in less than a fortnight from the -departure of her lover,—Bessy came down from her room all equipped, and -took her place in the same waggonette which so short a time before had -taken her lover away from her. During the week she had had liberty to go -where she pleased, except into her aunt’s room. But she had, in truth, -been almost as much a prisoner as before. She did for a few minutes each -day go out into the garden, but she would not go beyond the garden into -the park, nor did she accept an invitation from the Gregory girls to -spend an evening at the rectory. It would be so necessary, one of them -wrote, that everything should be told to her as to the disposition and -ways of life of Aunt Amelia! But Bessy would not see the Gregory girls. -She was being sent away from home because of the wickedness of her love, -and all Launay knew it. In such a condition of things she could not go -out to eat sally-lunn and pound-cake, and to be told of the delights of -a small Norman town. She would not even see the Gregory girls when they -came up to the house, but wrote an affectionate note to the elder of -them explaining that her misery was too great to allow her to see any -friend.</p> - -<p>She was in truth very miserable. It was not only because of her love, -from which she had from the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> been aware that misery must -come,—undoubted misery, if not misery that would last through her whole -life. But now there was added to this the sorrow of absolute banishment -from her aunt. Mrs. Miles would not see her again before she started. -Bessy was well aware of all that she owed to the mistress of Launay; -and, being intelligent in the reading of character, was aware also that -through many years she had succeeded in obtaining from the old woman -more than the intended performance of an undertaken duty. She had forced -the old woman to love her, and was aware that by means of that love the -old woman’s life had been brightened. She had not only received, but had -conferred kindness,—and it is by conferring kindness that love is -created. It was an agony to her that she should be compelled to leave -this dearest friend, who was still sick and infirm, without seeing her. -But Mrs. Miles was inexorable. These four words written on a scrap of -paper were brought to her on that morning:—“Pray, pray, see me!” She -was still inexorable. There had been long pencil-written notes between -them on the previous day. If Bessy would pledge herself to give up her -lover all might yet be changed. The old woman at Avranches should be -compensated for her disappointment. Bessy should be restored to all her -privileges at Launay. “You shall be my own, own child,” said Mrs. Miles. -She condescended even to promise that not a word more should be said -about Mr. Morrison. But Bessy also could be inexorable. “I cannot say -that I will give him up,” she wrote. Thus it came to pass that she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> -to get into the waggonette without seeing her old friend. Mrs. Knowl -went with her, having received instructions to wait upon Miss Bessy all -the way to Avranches. Mrs. Knowl felt that she was sent as a guard -against the lover. Mrs. Miles had known Bessy too well to have fear of -that kind, and had sent Mrs. Knowl as general guardian against the wild -beasts which are supposed to be roaming about the world in quest of -unprotected young females.</p> - -<p>In the distribution of her anger Mrs. Miles had for the moment been very -severe towards Philip as to pecuniary matters. He had chosen to be -rebellious, and therefore he was not only turned out of the house, but -told that he must live on an uncomfortably small income. But to Bessy -Mrs. Miles was liberal. She had astounded Miss Gregory by the nobility -of the terms she had proposed, and on the evening before the journey had -sent ten five-pound notes in a blank envelope to Bessy. Then in a -subsequent note she had said that a similar sum would be paid to her -every half-year. In none of these notes was there any expression of -endearment. To none of them was there even a signature. But they all -conveyed evidence of the amount of thought which Mrs. Miles was giving -to Bessy and her affairs.</p> - -<p>Bessy’s journey was very comfortless. She had learned to hate Mrs. -Knowl, who assumed all the airs of a duenna. She would not leave Bessy -out of sight for a moment, as though Philip might have been hidden -behind every curtain or under every table. Once or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> twice the duenna -made a little attempt at persuasion herself: “It ain’t no good, miss, -and it had better be give up.” Then Bessy looked at her, and desired -that she might be left alone. This had been at the hotel at Dover. Then -again Mrs. Knowl spoke as the carriage was approaching Avranches: “If -you wish to come back, Miss Bessy, the way is open.” “Never mind my -wishes, Mrs. Knowl,” said Bessy. When, on her return to Launay, Mrs. -Knowl once attempted to intimate to her mistress that Miss Bessy was -very obstinate, she was silenced so sternly, so shortly, that the -housekeeper began to doubt whether she might not have made a mistake and -whether Bessy would not at last prevail. It was evident that Mrs. Miles -would not hear a word against Bessy.</p> - -<p>On her arrival at Avranches Miss Gregory was very kind to her. She found -that she was received not at all as a naughty girl who had been sent -away from home in order that she might be subjected to severe treatment. -Miss Gregory fulfilled all the promises which her brother had made on -her behalf, and was thoroughly kind and good-tempered. For nearly a -month not a word was said about Philip or the love affairs. It seemed to -be understood that Bessy had come to Avranches quite at her own desire. -She was introduced to the genteel society with which that place abounds, -and was conscious that a much freer life was vouchsafed to her than she -had ever known before. At Launay she had of course been subject to Mrs. -Miles. Now she was subject to no one. Miss Gregory exercised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> no -authority over her,—was indeed rather subject to Bessy, as being -recipient of the money paid for Bessy’s board and lodging.</p> - -<p>But by the end of the month there had grown up so much of friendship -between the elder and the younger lady, that something came to be said -about Philip. It was impossible that Bessy should be silent as to her -past life. By degrees she told all that Mrs. Miles had done for her; how -she herself had been a penniless orphan; how Mrs. Miles had taken her in -from simple charity; how love had grown up between them two,—the -warmest, truest love; and then how that other love had grown! The -telling of secrets begets the telling of secrets. Miss Gregory, though -she was now old, with the marks of little feeble crow’s-feet round her -gentle eyes, though she wore a false front and was much withered, had -also had her love affair. She took delight in pouring forth her little -tale; how she had loved an officer and had been beloved; how there had -been no money; how the officer’s parents had besought her to set the -officer free, so that he might marry money; how she had set the officer -free, and how, in consequence, the officer had married money and was now -a major-general, with a large family, a comfortable house, and the gout. -“And I have always thought it was right,” said the excellent spinster. -“What could I have done for him?”</p> - -<p>“It couldn’t be right if he loved you best,” said Bessy.</p> - -<p>“Why not, my dear? He has made an excellent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> husband. Perhaps he didn’t -love me best when he stood at the altar.”</p> - -<p>“I think love should be more holy.”</p> - -<p>“Mine has been very holy,—to me, myself. For a time I wept; but now I -think I am happier than if I had never seen him. It adds something to -one’s life to have been loved once.”</p> - -<p>Bessy, who was of a stronger temperament, told herself that happiness -such as that would not suffice for her. She wanted not only to be happy -herself, but also to make him so. In the simplicity of her heart she -wondered whether Philip would be different from that easy-changing -major-general; but in the strength of her heart she was sure he would be -very different. She would certainly not release him at the request of -any parent;—but he should be free as air at the slightest hint of a -request from himself. She did not believe for a moment that such a -request would come; but, if it did,—if it did,—then there should be no -difficulty. Then would she submit to banishment,—at Avranches or -elsewhere as it might be decided for her,—till it might please the Lord -to release her from her troubles.</p> - -<p>At the end of six weeks Miss Gregory knew the whole secret of Philip and -Bessy’s love, and knew also that Bessy was quite resolved to persevere. -There were many discussions about love, in which Bessy always clung to -the opinion that when it was once offered and taken, given and received, -it ought to be held as more sacred than any other bond. She owed much to -Mrs. Miles;—she acknowledged that;—but she thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> that she owed more -to Philip. Miss Gregory would never quite agree with her;—was strong in -her own opinion that women are born to yield and suffer and live -mutilated lives, like herself; but not the less did they become fast -friends. At the end of six weeks it was determined between them that -Bessy should write to Mrs. Miles. Mrs. Miles had signified her wish not -to be written to, and had not herself written. Messages as to the -improving state of her health had come from the Gregory girls, but no -letter had as yet passed. Then Bessy wrote as follows, in direct -disobedience to her aunt’s orders:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Dearest Aunt,—I cannot help writing a line because I am so -anxious about you. Mary Gregory says you have been up and out on -the lawn in the sunshine, but it would make me so happy if I could -see the words in your own dear handwriting. Do send me one little -word. And though I know what you told me, still I think you will be -glad to hear that your poor affectionate loving Bessy is well. I -will not say that I am quite happy. I cannot be quite happy away -from Launay and you. But Miss Gregory has been very, very kind to -me, and there are nice people here. We live almost as quietly as at -Launay, but sometimes we see the people. I am reading German and -making lace, and I try not to be idle.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, dear, dearest aunt. Try to think kindly of me. I pray -for you every morning and night. If you will send me a little note -from yourself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> it will fill me with joy.”—Your most affectionate -and devoted niece,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">Bessy Pryor</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This was brought up to Mrs. Miles when she was still in bed, for as yet -she had not returned to the early hours of her healthy life. When she -had read it she at first held it apart from her. Then she put it close -to her bosom, and wept bitterly as she thought how void of sunshine the -house had been since that gleam had been turned away from it.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII-2" id="CHAPTER_VIII-2"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED TWO LETTERS FROM LAUNAY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> same post brought Bessy two letters from England about the middle of -August, both of which the reader shall see;—but first shall be given -that which Bessy read the last. It was from Mrs. Miles, and had been -sent when she was beginning to think that her aunt was still resolved -not to write to her. The letter was as follows, and was written on -square paper, which in these days is only used even by the old-fashioned -when the letter to be sent is supposed to be one of great importance.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“My dear Bessy,—Though I had told you not to write to me, still I -am glad to hear that you are well, and that your new home has been -made as comfortable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> for you as circumstances will permit. Launay -has not been comfortable since you went. I miss you very much. You -have become so dear to me that my life is sad without you. My days -have never been bright, but now they are less so than ever. I -should scruple to admit so much as this to you, were it not that I -intend it as a prelude to that which will follow.</p> - -<p>“We have been sent into this world, my child, that we may do our -duties, independent of that fleeting feeling which we call -happiness. In the smaller affairs of life I am sure you would never -seek a pleasure at the cost of your conscience. If not in the -smaller things, then certainly should you not do so in the greater. -To deny yourself, to remember the welfare of others, when -temptation is urging you to do wrong, then do that which you know -to be right,—that is your duty as a Christian, and especially your -duty as a woman. To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which -a woman can achieve. Men who are called upon to work may gratify -their passions and still be heroes. A woman can soar only by -suffering.</p> - -<p>“You will understand why I tell you this. I and my son have been -born into a special degree of life which I think it to be my duty -and his to maintain. It is not that I or that he may enjoy any -special delights that I hold fast to this opinion, but that I may -do my part towards maintaining that order of things which has made -my country more blessed than others. It would take me long to -explain all this, but I know you will believe me when I say that -an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> imperative sense of duty is my guide. You have not been born -into that degree. That this does not affect my own personal feeling -to you, you must know. You have had many signs how dear you are to -me. At this moment my days are heavy to bear because I have not my -Bessy with me,—my Bessy who has been so good to me, so loving, -such an infinite blessing that to see the hem of her garments, to -hear the sound of her foot, has made things bright around me. Now, -there is nothing to see, nothing to hear, that is not unsightly and -harsh of sound. Oh, Bessy, if you could come back to me!</p> - -<p>“But I have to do that duty of which I have spoken, and I shall do -it. Though I were never to see you again I shall do it. I am used -to suffering, and sometimes think it wrong even to wish that you -were back with me. But I write to you thus that you may understand -everything. If you will say that you will give him up, you shall -return to me and be my own, own beloved child. I tell you that you -are not of the same degree. I am bound to tell you so. But you -shall be so near my heart that nothing shall separate us.</p> - -<p>“You two cannot marry while I am living. I do not think it possible -that you should be longing to be made happy by my death. And you -should remember that he cannot be the first to break away from this -foolish engagement without dishonour. As he is the wealthy one, and -the higher born, and as he is the man, he ought not to be the first -to say the word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> You may say it without falsehood and without -disgrace. You may say it, and all the world will know that you have -been actuated only by a sense of duty. It will be acknowledged that -you have sacrificed yourself,—as it becomes a woman to do.</p> - -<p>“One word from you will be enough to assure me. Since you came to -me you have never been false. One word, and you shall come back to -me and to Launay, my friend and my treasure! If it be that there -must be suffering, we will suffer together. If tears are necessary -there shall be joint tears. Though I am old still I can understand. -I will acknowledge the sacrifice. But, Bessy, my Bessy, dearest -Bessy, the sacrifice must be made.</p> - -<p>“Of course he must live away from Launay for awhile. The fault will -have been his, and what of inconvenience there may be he must -undergo. He shall not come here till you yourself shall say that -you can bear his presence without an added sorrow.</p> - -<p>“I know you will not let this letter be in vain. I know you will -think it over deeply, and that you will not keep me too long -waiting for an answer. I need hardly tell you that I am</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 4em;">“Your most loving friend,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">M. Miles.</span>”<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>When Bessy was reading this, when the strong words with which her aunt -had pleaded her cause were harrowing her heart, she had clasped in her -hand this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> other letter from her lover. This too was written from -Launay.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“My own dearest Bessy,—It is absolutely only now that I have found -out where you are, and have done so simply because the people at -the rectory could not keep the secret. Can anything be more absurd -than supposing that my mother can have her way by whisking you -away, and shutting you up in Normandy? It is too foolish! She has -sent for me, and I have come like a dutiful son. I have, indeed, -been rejoiced to see her looking again so much like herself. But I -have not extended my duty to obeying her in a matter in which my -own future happiness is altogether bound up; and in which, perhaps, -the happiness of another person may be slightly concerned. I have -told her that I would venture to say nothing of the happiness of -the other person. The other person might be indifferent, though I -did not believe it was so; but I was quite sure of my own. I have -assured her that I know what I want myself, and that I do not mean -to abandon my hope of achieving it. I know that she is writing to -you. She can of course say what she pleases.</p> - -<p>“The idea of separating two people who are as old as you and I, and -who completely know our own minds,—you see that I do not really -doubt as to yours,—is about as foolish as anything well can be. It -is as though we were going back half a dozen centuries into the -tyrannies of the middle ages. My object shall be to induce her to -let you come home and be married<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> properly from Launay. If she will -not consent by the end of this month I shall go over to you, and we -must contrive to be married at Avranches. When the thing has been -once done all this rubbish will be swept away. I do not believe for -a moment that my mother will punish us by any injustice as to -money.</p> - -<p>“Write and tell me that you agree with me, and be sure that I shall -remain, as I am, always altogether your own,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 4em;">“Truly and affectionately,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Philip Miles</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>When Bessy Pryor began to consider these two letters together, she felt -that the task was almost too much for her. Her lover’s letter had been -the first read. She had known his handwriting, and of course had read -his the first. And as she had read it everything seemed to be of rose -colour. Of course she had been filled with joy. Something had been done -by the warnings of Miss Gregory, something, but not much, to weaken her -strong faith in her lover. The major-general had been worldly and -untrue, and it had been possible that her Philip should be as had been -the major-general. There had been moments of doubt in which her heart -had fainted a little; but as she read her lover’s words she acknowledged -to herself how wrong she had been to faint at all. He declared it to be -“a matter in which his own future happiness was altogether bound up.” -And then there had been his playful allusion to her happiness, which was -not the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> less pleasant to her because he had pretended to think that the -“other person might be indifferent.” She pouted her lips at him, as -though he were present while she was reading, with a joyous affectation -of disdain. No, no; she could not consent to an immediate marriage at -Avranches. There must be some delay. But she would write to him and -explain all that. Then she read her aunt’s letter.</p> - -<p>It moved her very much. She had read it all twice before there came upon -her a feeling of doubt, an acknowledgment to herself that she must -reconsider the matter. But even when she was only reading it, before she -had begun to consider, her former joy was repressed and almost quenched. -So much of it was too true, terribly true. Of course her duty should be -paramount. If she could persuade herself that duty required her to -abandon Philip, she must abandon him, let the suffering to herself or to -others be what it might. But then, what was it that duty required of -her? “To sacrifice herself is the special heroism which a woman can -achieve.” Yes, she believed that. But then, how about sacrificing -Philip, who, no doubt, was telling the truth when he said that his own -happiness was altogether bound up in his love?</p> - -<p>She was moved too by all that which Mrs. Miles said as to the grandeur -of the Launay family. She had learned enough of the manners of Launay to -be quite alive to the aristocratic idiosyncrasies of the old woman. She, -Bessy Pryor, was nobody. It would have been well that Philip Launay -should have founded his happiness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> on some girl of higher birth. But he -had not done so. King Cophetua’s marriage had been recognised by the -world at large. Philip was no more than King Cophetua, nor was she less -than the beggar-girl. Like to like in marriages was no doubt -expedient,—but not indispensable. And though she was not Philip’s -equal, yet she was a lady. She would not disgrace him at his table, or -among his friends. She was sure that she could be a comfort to him in -his work.</p> - -<p>But the parts of the old woman’s letter which moved her most were those -in which she gave full play to her own heart, and spoke, without -reserve, of her own love for her dearest Bessy. “My days are heavy to -bear because I have not my Bessy with me.” It was impossible to read -this and not to have some desire to yield. How good this lady had been -to her! Was it not through her that she had known Philip? But for Mrs. -Miles, what would her own life have been? She thought that had she been -sure of Philip’s happiness, could she have satisfied herself that he -would bear the blow, she would have done as she was asked. She would -have achieved her heroism, and shown the strength of her gratitude, and -would have taken her delight in administering to the comforts of her old -friend,—only that Philip had her promise. All that she could possibly -owe to all the world beside must be less, so infinitely less, than what -she owed to him.</p> - -<p>She would have consulted Miss Gregory, but she knew so well what Miss -Gregory would have advised. Miss Gregory would only have mentioned the -major-general<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> and her own experiences. Bessy determined, therefore, to -lie awake and think of it, and to take no other counsellor beyond her -own heart.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX-2" id="CHAPTER_IX-2"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR ANSWERED THE TWO LETTERS, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> letters were read very often, and that from Mrs. Miles I think the -oftener. Philip’s love was plainly expressed, and what more is expected -from a lover’s letter than a strong, manly expression of love? It was -quite satisfactory, declaring the one important fact that his happiness -was bound up in hers. But Mrs. Miles’ was the stronger letter, and by -far the more suggestive. She had so mingled hardness and softness, had -enveloped her stern lesson of feminine duty in so sweet a frame of -personal love, that it was hardly possible that such a girl as Bessy -Pryor should not be shaken by her arguments. There were moments during -the night in which she had almost resolved to yield. “A woman can soar -only by suffering.” She was not sure that she wanted to soar, but she -certainly did want to do her duty, even though suffering should come of -it. But there was one word in her aunt’s letter which militated against -the writer’s purpose rather than assisted it. “Since you first came to -me, you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> never been false.” False! no; she hoped she had not been -false. Whatever might be the duty of a man or a woman, that duty should -be founded on truth. Was it not her special duty at this moment to be -true to Philip? I do not know that she was altogether logical. I do not -know but that in so supporting herself in her love there may have been a -bias of personal inclination. Bessy perhaps was a little prone to think -that her delight and her duty went together. But that flattering -assurance, that she had never yet been false, strengthened her -resolution to be true, now, to Philip.</p> - -<p>She took the whole of the next day to think, abstaining during the whole -day from a word of confidential conversation with Miss Gregory. Then on -the following morning she wrote her letters. That to Philip would be -easily written. Words come readily when one has to give a hearty assent -to an eager and welcome proposition. But to deny, to make denial to one -loved and respected, to make denial of that which the loved one has a -right to ask, must be difficult. Bessy, like a brave girl, went to the -hard task first, and she rushed instantly at her subject, as a brave -horseman rides at his fence without craning.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Dearest Aunt,—I cannot do as you bid me. My word to him is so -sacred to me that I do not dare to break it. I cannot say that I -won’t be his when I feel that I have already given myself to him.</p> - -<p>“Dear, dearest aunt, my heart is very sad as I write<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> this, because -I feel that I am separating myself from you almost for ever. You -know that I love you. You know that I am miserable because you have -banished me from your side. All the sweet kind words of your love -to me are like daggers to me, because I cannot show my gratitude by -doing as you would have me. It seems so hard! I know it is probable -that I may never see him again, and yet I am to be separated from -you, and you will be my enemy. In all the world there are but two -that I really love. Though I cannot and will not give him up, I -desire to be back at Launay now only that I might be with you. My -love for him would be contented with a simple permission that it -should exist. My love for you cannot be satisfied unless I am -allowed to be close to you once again. You say that a woman’s duty -consists in suffering. I am striving to do my duty, but I know how -great is my suffering in doing it. However angry you may be with -your Bessy, you will not think that she can appear even to be -ungrateful without a pang.</p> - -<p>“Though I will not give him up, you need not fear that I shall do -anything. Should he come here I could not, I suppose, avoid seeing -him, but I should ask him to go at once; and I should beg Miss -Gregory to tell him that she could not make him welcome to her -house. In all things I will do as though I were your -daughter—though I know so well how far I am from any right to make -use of so dear a name!</p> - -<p>“But dear, dear aunt, no daughter could love you better, nor strive -more faithfully to be obedient.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>“I shall always be, even when you are most angry with me, your own, -poor, loving, most affectionate</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Bessy</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>The other letter need perhaps be not given in its entirety. Even in such -a chronicle as this there seems to be something of treachery, something -of a want of that forbearance to which young ladies are entitled, in -making public the words of love which such a one may write to her lover. -Bessy’s letter was no doubt full of love, but it was full of prudence -also. She begged him not to come to Avranches. As to such a marriage as -that of which he had spoken, it was, she assured him, quite impossible. -She would never give him up, and so she had told Mrs. Miles. In that -respect her duty to him was above her duty to her aunt. But she was so -subject to her aunt that she would not in any other matter disobey her. -For his sake—for Philip’s sake—only for Philip’s sake, she grieved -that there should be more delay. Of course she was aware that it might -possibly be a trouble in life too many for him to bear. In that case he -might make himself free from it without a word of reproach from her. Of -that he alone must be the judge. But, for the present, she could be no -partner to any plans for the future. Her aunt had desired her to stay at -Avranches, and at Avranches she must remain. There were words of love, -no doubt; but the letter, taken altogether, was much sterner and less -demonstrative of affection than that written to her aunt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<p>There very soon came a rejoinder from Mrs. Miles, but it was so curt and -harsh as almost to crush Bessy by its laconic severity. “You are -separated from me, and I am your enemy.” That was all. Beneath that one -line the old woman had signed her name, M. Miles, in large, plain angry -letters. Bessy, who knew every turn of the woman’s mind, understood -exactly how it had been with her when she wrote those few words, and -when, with care, she had traced that indignant signature. “Then -everything shall be broken, and though there was but one gleam of -sunshine left to me, that gleam shall be extinguished. No one shall say -that I, as Lady of Launay, did not do my duty.” It was thus the Lady of -Launay had communed with herself when she penned that dreadful line. -Bessy understood it all, and could almost see the woman as she wrote it.</p> - -<p>Then in her desolation she told everything to Miss Gregory—showed the -two former letters, showed that dreadful denunciation of lasting wrath, -and described exactly what had been her own letter, both to Mrs. Miles -and to her lover. Miss Gregory had but one recipe to offer in such a -malady; that, namely, which she had taken herself in a somewhat similar -sickness. The gentleman should be allowed to go forth into the world and -seek a fitter wife, whereas Bessy should content herself, for the -remainder of her life, with the pleasures of memory. Miss Gregory -thought that it was much even to have been once loved by the -major-general. When Bessy almost angrily declared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> that this would not -be enough for her, Miss Gregory very meekly suggested that possibly -affection might change in the lapse of years, and that some other -suitor—perhaps Mr. Morrison—might in course of time suffice. But at -the idea Bessy became indignant, and Miss Gregory was glad to confine -herself to the remedy pure and simple which she acknowledged to have -been good for herself.</p> - -<p>Then there passed a month—a month without a line from Launay or from -Philip. That Mrs. Miles should not write again was to be expected. She -had declared her enmity, and there was an end of everything. During the -month there had come a cheque to Miss Gregory from some man of business, -and with the cheque there had been no intimation that the present -arrangement was to be brought to a close. It appeared therefore that -Mrs. Miles, in spite of her enmity, intended to provide for the mutinous -girl a continuation of the comforts which she now enjoyed. Certainly -nothing more than this could have been expected from her. But, in regard -to Philip, though Bessy had assured herself, and had assured Miss -Gregory also, that she did not at all desire a correspondence in the -present condition of affairs, still she felt so total a cessation of all -tidings to be hard to bear. Mary Gregory, when writing to her aunt, said -nothing of Philip—merely remarked that Bessy Pryor would be glad to -know that her aunt had nearly recovered her health, and was again able -to go out among the poor. Then Bessy began to think—not that Philip was -like the major-general,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> for to that idea she would not give way at -all—but that higher and nobler motives had induced him to yield to his -mother. If so she would never reproach him. If so she would forgive him -in her heart of hearts. If so she would accept her destiny and entreat -her old friend to allow her to return once more to Launay, and -thenceforth to endure the evil thing which fate would have done to her -in patient submission. If once the word should have come to her from -Philip, then would she freely declare that everything should be over, -then and for always, between her and her lover. After such suffering as -that, while she was undergoing agony so severe, surely her friend would -forgive her. That terrible word, “I am your enemy,” would surely then be -withdrawn.</p> - -<p>But if it were to be so, if this was to be the end of her love, Philip, -at least, would write. He would not leave her in doubt, after such a -decision on his own part. That thought ought to have sustained her; but -it was explained to her by Miss Gregory that the major-general had taken -three months before he had been inspirited to send the fatal letter, and -to declare his purpose of marrying money. There could be but little -doubt, according to Miss Gregory, that Philip was undergoing the same -process. It was, she thought, the natural end to such an affair. This -was the kind of thing which young ladies without dowry, but with hearts -to love, are doomed to suffer. There could be no doubt that Miss Gregory -regarded the termination of the affair with a certain amount of -sympathetic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> satisfaction. Could she have given Bessy all Launay, and -her lover, she would have done so. But sadness and disappointment were -congenial to her, and a heart broken, but still constant, was, to her -thinking, a pretty feminine acquisition. She was to herself the heroine -of her own romance, and she thought it good to be a heroine. But Bessy -was indignant; not that Philip should be false, but that he should not -dare to write and say so. “I think he ought to write,” was on her lips, -when the door was opened, and, lo, all of a sudden, Philip Miles was in -the room.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X-2" id="CHAPTER_X-2"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR’S LOVER ARGUED HIS CASE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> must now go back to Launay. It will be remembered that Bessy received -both her letters on the same day—those namely from Mrs. Miles and from -Philip—and that they both came from Launay. Philip had been sent away -from the place when the fact of his declared love was first made known -to the old lady, as though into a banishment which was to be perpetual -till he should have repented of his sin. Such certainly had been his -mother’s intention. He was to be sent one way, and the girl another, and -everyone concerned was to be made to feel the terrible weight of her -displeasure, till repentance and retractation should come.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> He was to be -starved into obedience by a minimised allowance, and she by the -weariness of her life at Avranches. But the person most grievously -punished by these arrangements was herself. She had declared to herself -that she would endure anything, everything, in the performance of her -duty. But the desolation of her life was so extreme that it was very -hard to bear. She did not shrink and tell herself that it was -unendurable, but after awhile she persuaded herself that now that Bessy -was gone there could be no reason why Philip also should be exiled. -Would not her influence be more potent over Philip if he were at Launay? -She therefore sent for him, and he came. Thus it was that the two -letters were written from the same house.</p> - -<p>Philip obeyed his mother’s behest in coming as he had obeyed it in -going; but he did not hesitate to show her that he felt himself to be -aggrieved. Launay of course belonged to her. She could leave it and all -the property to some hospital if she chose. He was well aware of that. -But he had been brought up as the heir, and he could not believe that -there should come such a ruin of heaven and earth as would be produced -by any change in his mother’s intentions as to the Launay property. -Touching his marriage, he felt that he had a right to marry whom he -pleased, as long as she was a lady, and that any dictation from his -mother in such a matter was a tyranny not to be endured. He had talked -it all over with the rector before he went. Of course it was possible -that his mother should commit such an injustice as that at which the -rector<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> hinted. “There are,” said Philip, “no bounds to possibilities.” -It was, however, he thought, all but impossible; and whether probable or -improbable, no fear of such tyranny should drive him from his purpose. -He was a little magniloquent, perhaps, in what he said, but he was very -resolved.</p> - -<p>It was, therefore, with some feeling of an injury inflicted upon him -that he first greeted his mother on his return to the house. For a day -or two not a word passed about Bessy. “Of course, I am delighted to be -with you, and glad enough to have the shooting,” he said, in answer to -some word of hers. “I shouldn’t have gone, as you know, unless you had -driven me away.” This was hard on the old woman; but she bore it, and, -for some days, was simply affectionate and gentle to her son—more -gentle than was her wont. Then she wrote to Bessy, and told her son that -she was writing. “It is so impossible,” she said, “that I cannot -conceive that Bessy should not obey me when she comes to regard it at a -distance.”</p> - -<p>“I see no impossibility; but Bessy can, of course, do as she pleases,” -replied Philip, almost jauntily. Then he determined that he also would -write.</p> - -<p>There were no further disputes on the matter till Bessy’s answer came, -and then Mrs. Miles was very angry indeed. She had done her best so to -write her letter that Bessy should be conquered both by the weight of -her arguments and by the warmth of her love. If reason would not -prevail, surely gratitude would compel her to do as she was bidden. But -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> very first words of Bessy’s letter contained a flat refusal. “I -cannot do as you bid me.” Who was this girl, that had been picked out of -a gutter, that she should persist in the right of becoming the mistress -of Launay? In a moment the old woman’s love was turned into a feeling of -condemnation, nearly akin to hatred. Then she sent off her short -rejoinder, declaring herself to be Bessy’s enemy.</p> - -<p>On the following morning regret had come, and perhaps remorse. She was a -woman of strong passion, subject to impulses which were, at the time, -uncontrollable; but she was one who was always compelled by her -conscience to quick repentance, and sometimes to an agonising feeling of -wrong done by herself. To declare that Bessy was her enemy—Bessy, who -for so many years had prevented all her wishes, who had never been weary -of well-doing to her, who had been patient in all things, who had been -her gleam of sunshine, of whom she had sometimes said to herself in her -closet that the child was certainly nearer to perfection than any other -human being that she had known! True, it was not fit that the girl -should become mistress of Launay! A misfortune had happened which must -be cured—if even by the severance of persons so dear to each other as -she and her Bessy. But she knew that she had signed in declaring one so -good, and one so dear, to be her enemy.</p> - -<p>But what should she do next? Days went on and she did nothing. She -simply suffered. There was no pretext on which she could frame an -affectionate letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> to her child. She could not write and ask to be -forgiven for the harshness of her letter. She could not simply revoke -the sentence she had pronounced without any reference to Philip and his -love. In great misery, with a strong feeling of self-degradation because -she had allowed herself to be violent in her wrath, she went on, -repentant but still obstinate, till Philip himself forced the subject -upon her.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” he said one day, “is it not time that things should be -settled?”</p> - -<p>“What things, Philip?”</p> - -<p>“You know my intention.”</p> - -<p>“What intention?”</p> - -<p>“As to making Bessy my wife.”</p> - -<p>“That can never be.”</p> - -<p>“But it will be. It has to be. If as regards my own feelings I could -bring myself to yield to you, how could I do so with honour in regard to -her? But, for myself, nothing on earth would induce me to change my -mind. It is a matter on which a man has to judge for himself, and I have -not heard a word from you or from anyone to make me think that I have -judged wrongly.”</p> - -<p>“Do birth and rank go for nothing?”</p> - -<p>He paused a moment, and then he answered her very seriously, standing up -and looking down upon her as he did so. “For very much—with me. I do -not think that I could have brought myself to choose a wife, whatever -might have been a woman’s charms, except among ladies. I found this one -to be the chosen companion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> and dearest friend of the finest lady I -know.” At this the old woman, old as she was, first blushed, and then, -finding herself to be sobbing, turned her face away from him. “I came -across a girl of whose antecedents I could be quite sure, of whose -bringing up I knew all the particulars, as to whom I could be certain -that every hour of her life had been passed among the best possible -associations. I heard testimony as to her worth and her temper which I -could not but believe. As to her outward belongings, I had eyes of my -own to judge. Could I be wrong in asking such a one to be my wife? Can I -be regarded as unhappy in having succeeded with her? Could I be -acquitted of dishonour if I were to desert her? Shall I be held to be -contemptible if I am true to her?”</p> - -<p>At every word he spoke he grew in her esteem. At this present crisis of -her life she did not wish to think specially well of him, though he was -her son, but she could not help herself. He became bigger before her -than he had ever been before, and more of a man. It was, she felt, -almost vain for a woman to lay her commands, either this way or that, -upon a man who could speak to her as Philip had spoken.</p> - -<p>But not the less was the power in her hands. She could bid him go and -marry—and be a beggar. She could tell him that all Launay should go to -his brother, and she could instantly make a will to that effect. So -strong was the desire for masterdom upon her that she longed to do it. -In the very teeth of her honest wish to do what was right, there was -another wish—a longing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> to do what she knew to be wrong. There was a -struggle within, during which she strove to strengthen herself for evil. -But it was vain. She knew of herself that were she to swear to-day to -him that he was disinherited, were she to make a will before nightfall -carrying out her threat, the pangs of conscience would be so heavy -during the night that she would certainly change it all on the next -morning. Of what use is a sword in your hand if you have not the heart -to use it? Why seek to be turbulent with a pistol if your bosom be of -such a nature that your finger cannot be forced to pull the trigger? -Power was in her possession—but she could not use it. The power rather -was in her hands. She could not punish her boy, even though he had -deserved it. She had punished her girl, and from that moment she had -been crushed by torments, because of the thing that she had done. Others -besides Mrs. Miles have felt, with something of regret, that they have -lacked the hardness necessary for cruelty and the courage necessary for -its doing.</p> - -<p>“How shall it be, mother?” asked Philip. As she knew not what to answer -she rose slowly from her chair, and leaving the room went to the -seclusion of her own chamber.</p> - -<p>Days again passed before Philip renewed his question, and repeated it in -the same words: “How shall it be, mother?” Wistfully she looked up at -him, as though even yet something might be accorded by him to pity; as -though the son might even yet be induced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> to accede to his mother’s -prayers. It was not that she thought so. No. She had thought much, and -was aware that it could not be so. But as a dog will ask with its eyes -when it knows that asking is in vain, so did she ask. “One word from -you, mother, will make us all happy.”</p> - -<p>“No; not all of us.”</p> - -<p>“Will not my happiness make you happy?” Then he stooped over her and -kissed her forehead. “Could you be happy if you knew that I were -wretched?”</p> - -<p>“I do not want to be happy. It should be enough that one does one’s -duty.”</p> - -<p>“And what is my duty? Can it be my duty to betray the girl I love in -order that I may increase an estate which is already large enough?”</p> - -<p>“It is for the family.”</p> - -<p>“What is a family but you, or I, or whoever for the moment may be its -representative? Say that it shall be as I would have it, and then I will -go to her and let her know that she may come back to your arms.”</p> - -<p>Not then, or on the next day, or on the next, did she yield; though she -knew well during all these hours that it was her fate to yield. She had -indeed yielded. She had confessed to herself that it must be so, and as -she did so she felt once more the soft pressure of Bessy’s arms as they -would cling round her neck, and she could see once more the brightness -of Bessy’s eyes as the girl would hang over her bed early in the -morning. “I do not want to be happy,” she had said; but she did want, -sorely want, to see her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> girl. “You may go and tell her,” she said one -night as she was preparing to go to her chamber. Then she turned quickly -away, and was out of the room before he could answer her with a word.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XI-2" id="CHAPTER_XI-2"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR RECEIVED HER LOVER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Gregory</span> was certainly surprised when, on the entrance of the young -man, Bessy jumped from her chair and rushed into his arms. She knew that -Bessy had no brother, and her instinct rather than her experience told -her that the greeting which she saw was more than fraternal,—more than -cousinly. She did not doubt but that the young man was Philip Launay, -and knowing what she knew she was not disposed to make spoken -complaints. But when Bessy lifted her face to be kissed, Miss Gregory -became red and very uneasy. It is probable that she herself had never -progressed as far as this with the young man who afterwards became the -major-general.</p> - -<p>Bessy herself, had a minute been allowed to her for reflection, would -have been less affectionate. She knew nothing of the cause which had -brought Philip to Avranches. She only knew that her dear friend at -Launay had declared her to be an enemy, and that she had determined that -she could not, for years, become<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> the wife of Philip Launay, without the -consent of her who had used that cruel word. And at the moment of -Philip’s entering the room her heart had been sore with reproaches -against him. “He ought at any rate to write.” The words had been on her -lips as the door had been opened, and the words had been spoken in the -soreness of heart coming from a fear that she was to be abandoned.</p> - -<p>Then he was there. In the moment that sufficed for the glance of his eye -to meet hers she knew that she was not abandoned. With whatever tidings -he had come that was not to be the burden of his news. No man desirous -of being released from his vows ever looked like that. So up she jumped -and flew to him, not quite knowing what she intended, but filled with -delight when she found herself pressed to his bosom. Then she had to -remember herself, and to escape from his arms. “Philip,” she said, “this -is Miss Gregory. Miss Gregory, I do not think you ever met Mr. Launay.”</p> - -<p>Then Miss Gregory had to endeavour to look as though nothing particular -had taken place,—which was a trial. But Bessy bore her part, if not -without a struggle, at least without showing it. “And now, Philip,” she -said, “how is my aunt?”</p> - -<p>“A great deal stronger than when you left her.”</p> - -<p>“Quite well?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; for her, I think I may say quite well.”</p> - -<p>“She goes out every day?”</p> - -<p>“Every day,—after the old plan. The carriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> toddles round to the door -at three, and then toddles about the parish at the rate of four miles an -hour, and toddles home exactly at five. The people at Launay, Miss -Gregory, don’t want clocks to tell them the hour in the afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“I do love punctuality,” said Miss Gregory.</p> - -<p>“I wish I were with her,” said Bessy.</p> - -<p>“I have come to take you,” said Philip.</p> - -<p>“Have you?” Then Bessy blushed,—for the first time. She blushed as a -hundred various thoughts rushed across her mind. If he had been sent to -take her back, sent by her aunt, instead of Mrs. Knowl, what a revulsion -of circumstances must there not have been at Launay! How could it all -have come to pass? Even to have been sent for at all, to be allowed to -go back even in disgrace, would have been an inexpressible joy. Had -Knowl come for her, with a grim look and an assurance that she was to be -brought back because a prison at Launay was thought to be more secure -than a prison at Avranches, the prospect of a return would have been -hailed with joy. But now,—to be taken back by Philip to Launay! There -was a whole heaven of delight in the thought of the very journey.</p> - -<p>Miss Gregory endeavoured to look pleased, but in truth the prospect to -her was not so pleasant as to Bessy. She was to be left alone again. She -was to lose her pensioner. After so short a fruition of the double bliss -of society and pay, she was to be deserted without a thought. But to be -deserted without many thoughts had been her lot in life, and now she -bore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> her misfortune like a heroine. “You will be glad to go back to -your aunt, Bessy; will you not?”</p> - -<p>“Glad!” The ecstacy was almost unkind, but poor Miss Gregory bore it, -and maintained that pretty smile of gratified serenity as though -everything were well with all of them.</p> - -<p>But Bessy felt that she had as yet heard nothing of the real news, and -that the real news could not be told in the presence of Miss Gregory. It -had not even yet occurred to her that Mrs. Miles had actually given her -sanction to the marriage. “This is a very pretty place,” said Philip.</p> - -<p>“What, Avranches?” said Miss Gregory, mindful of future possible -pensioners. “Oh, delightful. It is the prettiest place in Normandy, and -I think the most healthy town in all France.”</p> - -<p>“It seemed nice as I came up from the hotel. Suppose we go out for a -walk, Bessy. We have to start back to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow!” ejaculated Bessy. She would have been ready to go in half -an hour had he demanded it.</p> - -<p>“If you can manage it. I promised my mother to be as quick as I could; -and, when I arranged to come, I had ever so many engagements.”</p> - -<p>“If she must go to-morrow, she won’t have much time for walking,” said -Miss Gregory, with almost a touch of anger in her voice. But Bessy was -determined to have her walk. All her fate in life was to be disclosed to -her within the next few minutes. She was already exultant, but she was -beginning to think that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> there was a heaven, indeed, opening for her. So -she ran away for her hat and gloves, leaving her lover and Miss Gregory -together.</p> - -<p>“It is very sudden,” said the poor old lady with a gasp.</p> - -<p>“My mother felt that, and bade me tell you that, of course, the full -twelvemonth——”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking about that,” said Miss Gregory. “I did not mean to -allude to such a thing. Mrs. Miles has always been so kind to my -brother, and anything I could have done I should have been so happy, -without thinking of money. But——” Philip sat with the air of an -attentive listener, so that Miss Gregory could get no answer to her -question without absolutely asking it. “But there seems to be a change.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there is a change, Miss Gregory.”</p> - -<p>“We were afraid that Mrs. Miles had been offended.”</p> - -<p>“It is the old story, Miss Gregory. Young people and old people very -often will not think alike: but it is the young people who generally -have their way.”</p> - -<p>She had not had her way. She remembered that at the moment. But then, -perhaps, the major-general had had his. When a period of life has come -too late for success, when all has been failure, the expanding triumphs -of the glorious young, grate upon the feelings even of those who are -generous and self-denying. Miss Gregory was generous by nature and -self-denying by practice, but Philip’s pæan and Bessy’s wondrous -prosperity were for a moment a little hard upon her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> There had been a -comfort to her in the conviction that Philip was no better than the -major-general. “I suppose it is so,” she said. “That is, if one of them -has means.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly.”</p> - -<p>“But if they are both poor, I don’t see how their being young can enable -them to live upon nothing.” She intended to imply that Philip probably -would have been another major-general, but that he was heir to Launay.</p> - -<p>Philip, who had never heard of the major-general, was a little puzzled; -nevertheless, he acceded to the proposition, not caring, however, to say -anything as to his own circumstances on so very short an acquaintance.</p> - -<p>Then Bessy came down with her hat, and they started for their walk. “Now -tell me all about it,” she said, in a fever of expectation, as soon as -the front door was closed behind them.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing more to tell,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Nothing more?”</p> - -<p>“Unless you want me to say that I love you.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then,—I love you. There!”</p> - -<p>“Philip, you are not half nice to me.”</p> - -<p>“Not after coming all the way from Launay to say that?”</p> - -<p>“There must be so much to tell me? Why has my aunt sent for me?”</p> - -<p>“Because she wants you.”</p> - -<p>“And why has she sent you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Because I want you too.”</p> - -<p>“But does she want me?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly she does.”</p> - -<p>“For you?” If he could say this, then everything would have been said. -If he could say this truly, then everything would have been done -necessary for the perfection of her happiness. “Oh, Philip, do tell me. -It is so strange that she should send for me! Do you know what she said -to me in her last letter? It was not a letter. It was only a word. She -said that I was her enemy.”</p> - -<p>“All that is changed.”</p> - -<p>“She will be glad to have me again?”</p> - -<p>“Very glad. I fancy that she has been miserable without you.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be as glad to be with her again, Philip. You do not know how I -love her. Think of all she has done for me!”</p> - -<p>“She has done something now that I hope will beat everything else.”</p> - -<p>“What has she done?”</p> - -<p>“She has consented that you and I shall be man and wife. Isn’t that more -than all the rest?”</p> - -<p>“But has she? Oh, Philip, has she really done that?”</p> - -<p>Then at last he told his whole story. Yes; his mother had yielded. From -the moment in which she had walked out of the room, having said that he -might “go and tell her,” she had never endeavoured to renew the fight. -When he had spoken to her, endeavouring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> to draw from her some warmth of -assent, she had generally been very silent. She had never brought -herself absolutely to wish him joy. She had not as yet so crucified her -own spirit in the matter as to be able to tell him that he had chosen -his wife well; but she had shown him in a hundred ways that her anger -was at an end, and that if any feeling was left opposed to his own -happiness, it was simply one of sorrow. And there were signs which made -him think that even that was not deep-seated. She would pat him, -stroking his hair, and leaning on his shoulder, administering to his -comforts with a nervous accuracy as to little things which was peculiar -to her. And then she gave him an infinity of directions as to the way in -which it would be proper that Bessy should travel, being anxious at -first to send over a maid for her behoof,—not Mrs. Knowl, but a younger -woman, who would have been at Bessy’s command. Philip, however, objected -to the maid. And when Mrs. Miles remarked that if it was Bessy’s fate to -become mistress of Launay, Bessy ought to have a maid to attend her, -Philip said that that would be very well a month or two hence, when -Bessy would have become,—not mistress of Launay, which was a place -which he trusted might not be vacant for many a long day,—but first -lieutenant to the mistress, by right of marriage. He refused altogether -to take the maid with him, as he explained to Bessy with much laughter. -And so they came to understand each other thoroughly, and Bessy knew -that the great trouble of her life, which had been as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> mountain in her -way, had disappeared suddenly, as might some visionary mountain. And -then, when they thoroughly understood each other, they started back to -England and to Launay together.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_XII-2" id="CHAPTER_XII-2"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>HOW BESSY PRYOR WAS BROUGHT BACK, AND WHAT THEN, BECAME OF HER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bessy</span> understood the condition of the old woman much better than did her -son. “I am sad a little,” she said, on her way home, “because of her -disappointment.”</p> - -<p>“Sad, because she is to have you,—you yourself,—for her -daughter-in-law?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, Philip; because I know that she has not wanted me. She -will be kind because I shall belong to you, and perhaps partly because -she loves me; but she will always regret that that young lady down in -Cornwall has not been allowed to add to the honour and greatness of the -family. The Launays are everything to her, and what can I do for the -Launays?” Of course he said many pretty things to her in answer to this, -but he could not eradicate from her mind the feeling that, in regard to -the old friend who had been so kind to her, she was returning evil for -good.</p> - -<p>But even Bessy did not quite understand the old woman. When she found -that she had yielded, there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> was disappointment in the old woman’s -heart. Who can have indulged in a certain longing for a lifetime, in a -special ambition, and seen that ambition and that longing crushed and -trampled on, without such a feeling? And she had brought this failure on -herself,—by her own weakness, as she told herself. Why had she given -way to Bessy and to Bessy’s blandishments? It was because she had not -been strong to do her duty that this ruin had fallen upon her hopes. The -power in her own hands had been sufficient. But for her Philip need -never have seen Bessy Pryor. Might not Bessy Pryor have been sent -somewhere out of the way when it became evident that she had charms of -her own with which to be dangerous? And even after the first evil had -been done her power had been sufficient. She need not have sent for -Philip back. She need have written no letter to Bessy. She might have -been calm and steady in her purpose, so that there should have been no -violent ebullition of anger,—so violent as to induce repentance, and -with repentance renewed softness and all the pangs of renewed -repentance.</p> - -<p>When Philip had left her on his mission to Normandy her heart was heavy -with regret, and heavy also with anger. But it was with herself that she -was angry. She had known her duty and she had not done it. She had known -her duty, and had neglected it,—because Bessy had been soft to her, and -dear, and pleasant. It was here that Bessy did not quite understand her -friend. Bessy reproached herself because she had made to her friend a -bad return to all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> kindness she had received. The old woman would -not allow herself to entertain any such a thought. Once she had spoken -to herself of having warmed a serpent in her bosom; but instantly, with -infinite self-scorn, she had declared to herself that Bessy was no -serpent. For all that she had done for Bessy, Bessy had made ample -return, the only possible return that could be full enough. Bessy had -loved her. She too had loved Bessy, but that should have had no weight. -Though they two had been linked together by their very heartstrings, it -had been her duty to make a severance because their joint affection had -been dangerous. She had allowed her own heart to over-ride her own sense -of duty, and therefore she was angry,—not with Bessy, but with herself.</p> - -<p>But the thing was done. To quarrel with Philip had been impossible to -her. One feeling coming upon another, her own repentance, her own -weakness, her acknowledgment of a certain man’s strength on the part of -her son, had brought her to such a condition that she had yielded. Then -it was natural that she should endeavour to make the best of it. But -even the doing of that was a trial to her. When she told herself that as -far as the woman went, the mere woman, Philip could not have found a -better wife had he searched the world all round, she found that she was -being tempted from her proper path even in that. What right could she -have to look for consolation there? For other reasons, which she still -felt to be adequate, she had resolved that something else should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> be -done. That something else had not been done, because she had failed in -her duty. And now she was trying to salve the sore by the very poison -which had created the wound. Bessy’s sweet temper, and Bessy’s soft -voice, and Bessy’s bright eye, and Bessy’s devotion to the delight of -others, were all so many temptations. Grovelling as she was in sackcloth -and ashes because she had yielded to them, how could she console herself -by a prospect of these future enjoyments either for herself or her son?</p> - -<p>But there were various duties to which she could attend, grievously -afflicted as she was by her want of attention to that great duty. As -Fate had determined that Bessy Pryor was to become mistress of Launay, -it was proper that all Launay should know and recognise its future -mistress. Bessy certainly should not be punished by any want of -earnestness in this respect. No one should be punished but herself. The -new mistress should be made as welcome as though she had been the -red-haired girl from Cornwall. Knowl was a good deal put about because -Mrs. Miles, remembering a few hard words which Knowl had allowed herself -to use in the days of the imprisonment, became very stern. “It is -settled that Miss Pryor is to become Mrs. Philip Launay, and you will -obey her just as myself.” Mrs. Knowl, who had saved a little money, -began to consider whether it would not be as well to retire into private -life.</p> - -<p>When the day came on which the two travellers were to reach Launay Mrs. -Miles was very much disturbed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> in her mind. In what way should she -receive the girl? In her last communication,—her very last,—she had -called Bessy her enemy; and now Bessy was being brought home to be made -her daughter-in-law under her own roof. How sweet it would be to stand -at the door and welcome her in the hall, among all the smiling servants, -to make a tender fuss and hovering over her, as would be so natural with -a mother-in-law who loved an adopted daughter as tenderly as Mrs. Miles -loved Bessy! How pleasant to take her by the hand and lead her away into -some inner sanctum where warm kisses as between mother and child would -be given and taken; to hear her praises of Philip, and then to answer -again with other praises; to tell her with words half serious and half -drollery that she must now buckle on her armour and do her work, and -take upon herself the task of managing the household! There was quite -enough of softness in the old woman to make all this delightful. Her -imagination revelled in thinking of it even at the moment in which she -was telling herself that it was impossible. But it was impossible. Were -she to force such a change upon herself Bessy would not believe in the -sincerity of the change. She had told Bessy that she was her enemy!</p> - -<p>At last the carriage which had gone to the station was here; not the -waggonette on this occasion, but the real carriage itself, the carriage -which was wont to toddle four miles an hour about the parish. “This is -an honour meant for the prodigal daughter,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> Philip, as he took his -seat. “If you had never been naughty, we should only have had the -waggonette, and we then should have been there in half the time.” Mrs. -Miles, when she heard the wheels on the gravel, was even yet uncertain -where she would place herself. She was fluttered, moving about from the -room into the hall and back, when the old butler spoke a careful word: -“Go into the library, madam, and Mr. Philip will bring her to you -there.” Then she obeyed the butler,—as she had probably never done in -her life before.</p> - -<p>Bessy, as soon as her step was off the carriage, ran very quickly into -the house. “Where is my aunt?” she said. The butler was there showing -the way, and in a moment she had thrown her arms round the old woman. -Bessy had a way of making her kisses obligatory, from which Mrs. Miles -had never been able to escape. Then, when the old woman was seated, -Bessy was at once upon her knees before her. “Say that you love me, -aunt. Say that at once! Say that first of all!”</p> - -<p>“You know I love you.”</p> - -<p>“I know I love you. Oh, I am so glad to have you again. It was so hard -not to be with you when I thought that you were ill. I did not know how -sick it would make me to be away from you.” Neither then nor at any time -afterwards was there a word spoken on the one side or the other as to -that declaration of enmity.</p> - -<p>There was nothing then said in way of explanation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> There was nothing -perhaps necessary. It was clear to Bessy that she was received at Launay -as Philip’s future wife,—not only by Mrs. Miles herself, but by the -whole household,—and that all the honours of the place were to be -awarded to her without stint. For herself that would have sufficed. To -her any explanation of the circumstances which had led to a change so -violent was quite unnecessary. But it was not so with Mrs. Miles -herself. She could not but say some word in justification of -herself,—in excuse rather than justification. She had Bessy into her -bedroom that night, and said the word, holding between her two thin -hands the hand of the girl she addressed. “You have known, Bessy, that I -did not wish this.” Bessy muttered that she did know it. “And I think -you knew why.”</p> - -<p>“How could I help it, aunt?”</p> - -<p>Upon this the old woman patted the hand. “I suppose he could not help -it. And, if I had been a young man, I could not have helped it. I could -not help it as I was, though I am an old woman. I think I am as foolish -as he is.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps he is foolish, but you are not.”</p> - -<p>“Well; I do not know. I have my misgivings about that, my dear. I had -objects which I thought were sacred and holy, to which I had been wedded -through many years. They have had to be thrust aside.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will hate me!”</p> - -<p>“No, my child; I will love you with all my heart. You will be my son’s -wife now, and, as such, you will be dear to me, almost as he is dear. -And you will still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> be my own Bessy, my gleam of sunlight, without whom -the house is so gloomy that it is like a prison to me. For myself, do -you think I could want any other young woman about the house than my own -dear Bessy;—that any other wife for Philip could come as near my heart -as you do?”</p> - -<p>“But if I have stood in the way?”</p> - -<p>“We will not think of it any more. You, at any rate, need not think of -it,” added the old woman, as she remembered all the circumstances. “You -shall be made welcome with all the honours and all the privileges due to -Philip’s wife; and if there be a regret, it shall never trouble your -path. It may be a comfort to you to hear me say that you, at least, in -all things have done your duty.” Then, at last, there were more tears, -more embracings, and, before either of them went to their rest, a -perfect ecstacy of love.</p> - -<p>Little or nothing more is necessary for the telling of the story of the -Lady of Launay. Before the autumn had quite gone, and the last tint had -left the trees, Bessy Pryor became Bessy Launay, under the hand of Mr. -Gregory, in the Launay parish church. Everyone in the neighbourhood -around was there, except Mr. Morrison, who had taken this opportunity of -having a holiday and visiting Switzerland. But even he, when he -returned, soon became reconciled to the arrangement, and again became a -guest in the dining-room of the mansion. I hope I shall have no reader -who will not think that Philip Launay did well in not following the -example of the major-general.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> <br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHRISTMAS_AT_THOMPSON_HALL" id="CHRISTMAS_AT_THOMPSON_HALL"></a>CHRISTMAS AT THOMPSON HALL.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-3" id="CHAPTER_I-3"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. BROWN’S SUCCESS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VERYONE remembers the severity of the Christmas of 187—. I will not -designate the year more closely, lest I should enable those who are too -curious to investigate the circumstances of this story, and inquire into -details which I do not intend to make known. That winter, however, was -especially severe, and the cold of the last ten days of December was -more felt, I think, in Paris than in any part of England. It may, -indeed, be doubted whether there is any town in any country in which -thoroughly bad weather is more afflicting than in the French capital. -Snow and hail seem to be colder there, and fires certainly are less -warm, than in London. And then there is a feeling among visitors to -Paris that Paris ought to be gay; that gaiety, prettiness, and -liveliness are its aims, as money, commerce, and general business are -the aims of London,—which with its outside sombre darkness does often -seem to want an excuse for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> its ugliness. But on this occasion, at this -Christmas of 187—, Paris was neither gay nor pretty nor lively. You -could not walk the streets without being ankle deep, not in snow, but in -snow that had just become slush; and there was falling throughout the -day and night of the 23rd of December a succession of damp half-frozen -abominations from the sky which made it almost impossible for men and -women to go about their business.</p> - -<p>It was at ten o’clock on that evening that an English lady and gentleman -arrived at the Grand Hotel on the Boulevard des Italiens. As I have -reasons for concealing the names of this married couple I will call them -Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Now I wish it to be understood that in all the -general affairs of life this gentleman and this lady lived happily -together, with all the amenities which should bind a husband and a wife. -Mrs. Brown was one of a wealthy family, and Mr. Brown, when he married -her, had been relieved from the necessity of earning his bread. -Nevertheless she had at once yielded to him when he expressed a desire -to spend the winters of their life in the south of France; and he, -though he was by disposition somewhat idle, and but little prone to the -energetic occupations of life, would generally allow himself, at other -periods of the year, to be carried hither and thither by her, whose more -robust nature delighted in the excitement of travelling. But on this -occasion there had been a little difference between them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<p>Early in December an intimation had reached Mrs. Brown at Pau that on -the coming Christmas there was to be a great gathering of all the -Thompsons in the Thompson family hall at Stratford-le-Bow, and that she -who had been a Thompson was desired to join the party with her husband. -On this occasion her only sister was desirous of introducing to the -family generally a most excellent young man to whom she had recently -become engaged. The Thompsons,—the real name, however, is in fact -concealed,—were a numerous and a thriving people. There were uncles and -cousins and brothers who had all done well in the world, and who were -all likely to do better still. One had lately been returned to -Parliament for the Essex Flats, and was at the time of which I am -writing a conspicuous member of the gallant Conservative majority. It -was partly in triumph at this success that the great Christmas gathering -of the Thompsons was to be held, and an opinion had been expressed by -the legislator himself that should Mrs. Brown, with her husband, fail to -join the family on this happy occasion she and he would be regarded as -being but <i>fainéant</i> Thompsons.</p> - -<p>Since her marriage, which was an affair now nearly eight years old, Mrs. -Brown had never passed a Christmas in England. The desirability of doing -so had often been mooted by her. Her very soul craved the festivities of -holly and mince-pies. There had ever been meetings of the Thompsons at -Thompson Hall, though meetings not so significant, not so important<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> to -the family, as this one which was now to be collected. More than once -had she expressed a wish to see old Christmas again in the old house -among the old faces. But her husband had always pleaded a certain -weakness about his throat and chest as a reason for remaining among the -delights of Pau. Year after year she had yielded, and now this loud -summons had come.</p> - -<p>It was not without considerable trouble that she had induced Mr. Brown -to come as far as Paris. Most unwillingly had he left Pau; and then, -twice on his journey,—both at Bordeaux and Tours,—he had made an -attempt to return. From the first moment he had pleaded his throat, and -when at last he had consented to make the journey he had stipulated for -sleeping at those two towns and at Paris. Mrs. Brown, who, without the -slightest feeling of fatigue, could have made the journey from Pau to -Stratford without stopping, had assented to everything,—so that they -might be at Thompson Hall on Christmas Eve. When Mr. Brown uttered his -unavailing complaints at the two first towns at which they stayed, she -did not perhaps quite believe all that he said of his own condition. We -know how prone the strong are to suspect the weakness of the weak,—as -the weak are to be disgusted by the strength of the strong. There were -perhaps a few words between them on the journey, but the result had -hitherto been in favour of the lady. She had succeeded in bringing Mr. -Brown as far as Paris.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<p>Had the occasion been less important, no doubt she would have yielded. -The weather had been bad even when they left Pau, but as they had made -their way northwards it had become worse and still worse. As they left -Tours Mr. Brown, in a hoarse whisper, had declared his conviction that -the journey would kill him. Mrs. Brown, however, had unfortunately -noticed half an hour before that he had scolded the waiter on the score -of an overcharged franc or two with a loud and clear voice. Had she -really believed that there was danger, or even suffering, she would have -yielded;—but no woman is satisfied in such a matter to be taken in by -false pretences. She observed that he ate a good dinner on his way to -Paris, and that he took a small glass of cognac with complete -relish,—which a man really suffering from bronchitis surely would not -do. So she persevered, and brought him into Paris, late in the evening, -in the midst of all that slush and snow. Then, as they sat down to -supper, she thought that he did speak hoarsely, and her loving feminine -heart began to misgive her.</p> - -<p>But this now was at any rate clear to her,—that he could not be worse -off by going on to London than he would be should he remain in Paris. If -a man is to be ill he had better be ill in the bosom of his family than -at an hotel. What comfort could he have, what relief, in that huge -barrack? As for the cruelty of the weather, London could not be worse -than Paris, and then she thought she had heard that sea air is good for -a sore throat. In that bedroom which had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> allotted to them au -quatrième, they could not even get a decent fire. It would in every way -be wrong now to forego the great Christmas gathering when nothing could -be gained by staying in Paris.</p> - -<p>She had perceived that as her husband became really ill he became also -more tractable and less disputatious. Immediately after that little -glass of cognac he had declared that he would be—— if he would go -beyond Paris, and she began to fear that, after all, everything would -have been done in vain. But as they went down to supper between ten and -eleven he was more subdued, and merely remarked that this journey would, -he was sure, be the death of him. It was half-past eleven when they got -back to their bedroom, and then he seemed to speak with good sense,—and -also with much real apprehension. “If I can’t get something to relieve -me I know I shall never make my way on,” he said. It was intended that -they should leave the hotel at half-past five the next morning, so as to -arrive at Stratford, travelling by the tidal train, at half-past seven -on Christmas Eve. The early hour, the long journey, the infamous -weather, the prospect of that horrid gulf between Boulogne and -Folkestone, would have been as nothing to Mrs. Brown, had it not been -for that settled look of anguish which had now pervaded her husband’s -face. “If you don’t find something to relieve me I shall never live -through it,” he said again, sinking back into the questionable comfort -of a Parisian hotel arm-chair.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear, what can I do?” she asked, almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> in tears, standing -over him and caressing him. He was a thin, genteel-looking man, with a -fine long, soft brown beard, a little bald at the top of the head, but -certainly a genteel-looking man. She loved him dearly, and in her softer -moods was apt to spoil him with her caresses. “What can I do, my dearie? -You know I would do anything if I could. Get into bed, my pet, and be -warm, and then to-morrow morning you will be all right.” At this moment -he was preparing himself for his bed, and she was assisting him. Then -she tied a piece of flannel round his throat, and kissed him, and put -him in beneath the bed-clothes.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said very hoarsely. His voice was so -bad now that she could hardly hear him. So she crept close to him, and -bent over him. She would do anything if he would only say what. Then he -told her what was his plan. Down in the salon he had seen a large jar of -mustard standing on a sideboard. As he left the room he had observed -that this had not been withdrawn with the other appurtenances of the -meal. If she could manage to find her way down there, taking with her a -handkerchief folded for the purpose, and if she could then appropriate a -part of the contents of that jar, and, returning with her prize, apply -it to his throat, he thought that he could get some relief, so that he -might be able to leave his bed the next morning at five. “But I am -afraid it will be very disagreeable for you to go down all alone at this -time of night,” he croaked out in a piteous whisper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span></p> - -<p>“Of course I’ll go,” said she. “I don’t mind going in the least. Nobody -will bite me,” and she at once began to fold a clean handkerchief. “I -won’t be two minutes, my darling, and if there is a grain of mustard in -the house I’ll have it on your chest immediately.” She was a woman not -easily cowed, and the journey down into the salon was nothing to her. -Before she went she tucked the clothes carefully up to his ears, and -then she started.</p> - -<p>To run along the first corridor till she came to a flight of stairs was -easy enough, and easy enough to descend them. Then there was another -corridor, and another flight, and a third corridor, and a third flight, -and she began to think that she was wrong. She found herself in a part -of the hotel which she had not hitherto visited, and soon discovered by -looking through an open door or two that she had found her way among a -set of private sitting-rooms which she had not seen before. Then she -tried to make her way back, up the same stairs and through the same -passages, so that she might start again. She was beginning to think that -she had lost herself altogether, and that she would be able to find -neither the salon nor her bedroom, when she happily met the -night-porter. She was dressed in a loose white dressing-gown, with a -white net over her loose hair, and with white worsted slippers. I ought -perhaps to have described her personal appearance sooner. She was a -large woman, with a commanding bust, thought by some to be handsome, -after the manner of Juno. But with strangers there was a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> -severity of manner about her,—a fortification, as it were, of her -virtue against all possible attacks,—a declared determination to -maintain, at all points, the beautiful character of a British matron, -which, much as it had been appreciated at Thompson Hall, had met with -some ill-natured criticism among French men and women. At Pau she had -been called La Fière Anglaise. The name had reached her own ears and -those of her husband. He had been much annoyed, but she had taken it in -good part,—had, indeed, been somewhat proud of the title,—and had -endeavoured to live up to it. With her husband she could, on occasion, -be soft, but she was of opinion that with other men a British matron -should be stern. She was now greatly in want of assistance; but, -nevertheless, when she met the porter she remembered her character. “I -have lost my way wandering through these horrid passages,” she said, in -her severest tone. This was in answer to some question from him,—some -question to which her reply was given very slowly. Then when he asked -where Madame wished to go, she paused, again thinking what destination -she would announce. No doubt the man could take her back to her bedroom, -but if so, the mustard must be renounced, and with the mustard, as she -now feared, all hope of reaching Thompson Hall on Christmas Eve. But -she, though she was in many respects a brave woman, did not dare to tell -the man that she was prowling about the hotel in order that she might -make a midnight raid upon the mustard pot. She paused, therefore, for a -moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> that she might collect her thoughts, erecting her head as she -did so in her best Juno fashion, till the porter was lost in admiration. -Thus she gained time to fabricate a tale. She had, she said, dropped her -handkerchief under the supper-table; would he show her the way to the -salon, in order that she might pick it up? But the porter did more than -that, and accompanied her to the room in which she had supped.</p> - -<p>Here, of course, there was a prolonged, and, it need hardly be said, a -vain search. The good-natured man insisted on emptying an enormous -receptacle of soiled table-napkins, and on turning them over one by one, -in order that the lady’s property might be found. The lady stood by -unhappy, but still patient, and, as the man was stooping to his work, -her eye was on the mustard pot. There it was, capable of containing -enough to blister the throats of a score of sufferers. She edged off a -little towards it while the man was busy, trying to persuade herself -that he would surely forgive her if she took the mustard, and told him -her whole story. But the descent from her Juno bearing would have been -so great! She must have owned, not only to the quest for mustard, but -also to a fib,—and she could not do it. The porter was at last of -opinion that Madame must have made a mistake, and Madame acknowledged -that she was afraid it was so.</p> - -<p>With a longing, lingering eye, with an eye turned back, oh! so sadly, to -the great jar, she left the room, the porter leading the way. She -assured him that she could find it by herself, but he would not leave -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> till he had put her on to the proper passage. The journey seemed to -be longer now even than before, but as she ascended the many stairs she -swore to herself that she would not even yet be baulked of her object. -Should her husband want comfort for his poor throat, and the comfort be -there within her reach, and he not have it? She counted every stair as -she went up, and marked every turn well. She was sure now that she would -know the way, and that she could return to the room without fault. She -would go back to the salon. Even though the man should encounter her -again, she would go boldly forward and seize the remedy which her poor -husband so grievously required.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes,” she said, when the porter told her that her room, No. 333, -was in the corridor which they had then reached, “I know it all now. I -am so much obliged. Do not come a step further.” He was anxious to -accompany her up to the very door, but she stood in the passage and -prevailed. He lingered awhile—naturally. Unluckily she had brought no -money with her, and could not give him the two-franc piece which he had -earned. Nor could she fetch it from her room, feeling that were she to -return to her husband without the mustard no second attempt would be -possible. The disappointed man turned on his heel at last, and made his -way down the stairs and along the passage. It seemed to her to be almost -an eternity while she listened to his still audible footsteps. She had -gone on, creeping noiselessly up to the very door of her room, and there -she stood, shading the candle in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> her hand, till she thought that the -man must have wandered away into some furthest corner of that endless -building. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps.</p> - -<p>There was no difficulty now as to the way. She knew it, every stair. At -the head of each flight she stood and listened, but not a sound was to -be heard, and then she went on again. Her heart beat high with anxious -desire to achieve her object, and at the same time with fear. What might -have been explained so easily at first would now be as difficult of -explanation. At last she was in the great public vestibule, which she -was now visiting for the third time, and of which, at her last visit, -she had taken the bearings accurately. The door was there—closed, -indeed, but it opened easily to the hand. In the hall, and on the -stairs, and along the passages, there had been gas, but here there was -no light beyond that given by the little taper which she carried. When -accompanied by the porter she had not feared the darkness, but now there -was something in the obscurity which made her dread to walk the length -of the room up to the mustard jar. She paused, and listened, and -trembled. Then she thought of the glories of Thompson Hall, of the -genial warmth of a British Christmas, of that proud legislator who was -her first cousin, and with a rush she made good the distance, and laid -her hand upon the copious delf. She looked round, but there was no one -there; no sound was heard; not the distant creak of a shoe, not a rattle -from one of those thousand doors. As she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> paused with her fair hand upon -the top of the jar, while the other held the white cloth on which the -medicinal compound was to be placed, she looked like Lady Macbeth as she -listened at Duncan’s chamber door.</p> - -<p>There was no doubt as to the sufficiency of the contents. The jar was -full nearly up to the lips. The mixture was, no doubt, very different -from that good wholesome English mustard which your cook makes fresh for -you, with a little water, in two minutes. It was impregnated with a sour -odour, and was, to English eyes, unwholesome of colour. But still it was -mustard. She seized the horn spoon, and without further delay spread an -ample sufficiency on the folded square of the handkerchief. Then she -commenced to hurry her return.</p> - -<p>But still there was a difficulty, no thought of which had occurred to -her before. The candle occupied one hand, so that she had but the other -for the sustenance of her treasure. Had she brought a plate or saucer -from the salon, it would have been all well. As it was she was obliged -to keep her eye intent on her right hand, and to proceed very slowly on -her return journey. She was surprised to find what an aptitude the thing -had to slip from her grasp. But still she progressed slowly, and was -careful not to miss a turning. At last she was safe at her chamber door. -There it was, No. 333.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-3" id="CHAPTER_II-3"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. BROWN’S FAILURE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">With</span> her eye still fixed upon her burden, she glanced up at the number -of the door—333. She had been determined all through not to forget -that. Then she turned the latch and crept in. The chamber also was dark -after the gaslight on the stairs, but that was so much the better. She -herself had put out the two candles on the dressing-table before she had -left her husband. As she was closing the door behind her she paused, and -could hear that he was sleeping. She was well aware that she had been -long absent,—quite long enough for a man to fall into slumber who was -given that way. She must have been gone, she thought, fully an hour. -There had been no end to that turning over of napkins which she had so -well known to be altogether vain. She paused at the centre table of the -room, still looking at the mustard, which she now delicately dried from -off her hand. She had had no idea that it would have been so difficult -to carry so light and so small an affair. But there it was, and nothing -had been lost. She took some small instrument from the washing-stand, -and with the handle collected the flowing fragments into the centre. -Then the question occurred to her whether, as her husband was sleeping -so sweetly, it would be well to disturb him. She listened again, and -felt that the slight murmur of a snore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> with which her ears were regaled -was altogether free from any real malady in the throat. Then it occurred -to her, that after all, fatigue perhaps had only made him cross. She -bethought herself how, during the whole journey, she had failed to -believe in his illness. What meals he had eaten! How thoroughly he had -been able to enjoy his full complement of cigars! And then that glass of -brandy, against which she had raised her voice slightly in feminine -opposition. And now he was sleeping there like an infant, with full, -round, perfected, almost sonorous workings of the throat. Who does not -know that sound, almost of two rusty bits of iron scratching against -each other, which comes from a suffering windpipe? There was no -semblance of that here. Why disturb him when he was so thoroughly -enjoying that rest which, more certainly than anything else, would fit -him for the fatigue of the morrow’s journey?</p> - -<p>I think that, after all her labour, she would have left the pungent -cataplasm on the table, and have crept gently into bed beside him, had -not a thought suddenly struck her of the great injury he had been doing -her if he were not really ill. To send her down there, in a strange -hotel, wandering among the passages, in the middle of the night, subject -to the contumely of anyone who might meet her, on a commission which, if -it were not sanctified by absolute necessity, would be so thoroughly -objectionable! At this moment she hardly did believe that he had ever -really been ill. Let him have the cataplasm; if not as a remedy, then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> -as a punishment. It could, at any rate, do him no harm. It was with an -idea of avenging rather than of justifying the past labours of the night -that she proceeded at once to quick action.</p> - -<p>Leaving the candle on the table so that she might steady her right hand -with the left, she hurried stealthily to the bedside. Even though he was -behaving badly to her, she would not cause him discomfort by waking him -roughly. She would do a wife’s duty to him as a British matron should. -She would not only put the warm mixture on his neck, but would sit -carefully by him for twenty minutes, so that she might relieve him from -it when the proper period should have come for removing the counter -irritation from his throat. There would doubtless be some little -difficulty in this,—in collecting the mustard after it had served her -purpose. Had she been at home, surrounded by her own comforts, the -application would have been made with some delicate linen bag, through -which the pungency of the spice would have penetrated with strength -sufficient for the purpose. But the circumstance of the occasion had not -admitted this. She had, she felt, done wonders in achieving so much -success as this which she had obtained. If there should be anything -disagreeable in the operation he must submit to it. He had asked for -mustard for his throat, and mustard he should have.</p> - -<p>As these thoughts passed quickly through her mind, leaning over him in -the dark, with her eye fixed on the mixture lest it should slip, she -gently raised his flowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> beard with her left hand, and with her other -inverted rapidly, steadily but very softly fixed the handkerchief on his -throat. From the bottom of his chin to the spot at which the collar -bones meeting together form the orifice of the chest it covered the -whole noble expanse. There was barely time for a glance, but never had -she been more conscious of the grand proportions of that manly throat. A -sweet feeling of pity came upon her, causing her to determine to relieve -his sufferings in the shorter space of fifteen minutes. He had been -lying on his back, with his lips apart, and, as she held back his beard, -that and her hand nearly covered the features of his face. But he made -no violent effort to free himself from the encounter. He did not even -move an arm or a leg. He simply emitted a snore louder than any that had -come before. She was aware that it was not his wont to be so loud—that -there was generally something more delicate and perhaps more querulous -in his nocturnal voice, but then the present circumstances were -exceptional. She dropped the beard very softly—and there on the pillow -before her lay the face of a stranger. She had put the mustard plaster -on the wrong man.</p> - -<p>Not Priam wakened in the dead of night, not Dido when first she learned -that Æneas had fled, not Othello when he learned that Desdemona had been -chaste, not Medea when she became conscious of her slaughtered children, -could have been more struck with horror than was this British matron as -she stood for a moment gazing with awe on that stranger’s bed. One -vain,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> half-completed, snatching grasp she made at the handkerchief, and -then drew back her hand. If she were to touch him would he not wake at -once, and find her standing there in his bedroom? And then how could she -explain it? By what words could she so quickly make him know the -circumstances of that strange occurrence that he should accept it all -before he had said a word that might offend her? For a moment she stood -all but paralyzed after that faint ineffectual movement of her arm. Then -he stirred his head uneasily on the pillow, opened wider his lips, and -twice in rapid succession snored louder than before. She started back a -couple of paces, and with her body placed between him and the candle, -with her face averted, but with her hand still resting on the foot of -the bed, she endeavoured to think what duty required of her.</p> - -<p>She had injured the man. Though she had done it most unwittingly, there -could be no doubt but that she had injured him. If for a moment she -could be brave, the injury might in truth be little; but how disastrous -might be the consequences if she were now in her cowardice to leave him, -who could tell? Applied for fifteen to twenty minutes a mustard plaster -may be the salvation of a throat ill at ease, but if left there -throughout the night upon the neck of a strong man, ailing nothing, only -too prone in his strength to slumber soundly, how sad, how painful, for -aught she knew how dangerous might be the effects! And surely it was an -error which any man with a heart in his bosom would pardon! Judging from -what little she had seen of him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> she thought that he must have a heart -in his bosom. Was it not her duty to wake him, and then quietly to -extricate him from the embarrassment which she had brought upon him?</p> - -<p>But in doing this what words should she use? How should she wake him? -How should she make him understand her goodness, her beneficence, her -sense of duty, before he should have jumped from the bed and rushed to -the bell, and have summoned all above and all below to the rescue? “Sir, -sir, do not move, do not stir, do not scream. I have put a mustard -plaster on your throat, thinking that you were my husband. As yet no -harm has been done. Let me take it off, and then hold your peace for -ever.” Where is the man of such native constancy and grace of spirit -that, at the first moment of waking with a shock, he could hear these -words from the mouth of an unknown woman by his bedside, and at once -obey them to the letter? Would he not surely jump from his bed, with -that horrid compound falling about him,—from which there could be no -complete relief unless he would keep his present attitude without a -motion? The picture which presented itself to her mind as to his -probable conduct was so terrible that she found herself unable to incur -the risk.</p> - -<p>Then an idea presented itself to her mind. We all know how in a moment -quick thoughts will course through the subtle brain. She would find that -porter and send him to explain it all. There should be no concealment -now. She would tell the story and would bid him to find the necessary -aid. Alas! as she told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> herself that she would do so, she knew well that -she was only running from the danger which it was her duty to encounter. -Once again she put out her hand as though to return along the bed. Then -thrice he snorted louder than before, and moved up his knee uneasily -beneath the clothes as though the sharpness of the mustard were already -working upon his skin. She watched him for a moment longer, and then, -with the candle in her hand, she fled.</p> - -<p>Poor human nature! Had he been an old man, even a middle-aged man, she -would not have left him to his unmerited sufferings. As it was, though -she completely recognised her duty, and knew what justice and goodness -demanded of her, she could not do it. But there was still left to her -that plan of sending the night-porter to him. It was not till she was -out of the room and had gently closed the door behind her, that she -began to bethink herself how she had made the mistake. With a glance of -her eye she looked up, and then saw the number on the door: 353. -Remarking to herself, with a Briton’s natural criticism on things -French, that those horrid foreigners do not know how to make their -figures, she scudded rather than ran along the corridor, and then down -some stairs and along another passage,—so that she might not be found -in the neighbourhood should the poor man in his agony rush rapidly from -his bed.</p> - -<p>In the confusion of her first escape she hardly ventured to look for her -own passage,—nor did she in the least know how she had lost her way -when she came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> upstairs with the mustard in her hand. But at the present -moment her chief object was the night-porter. She went on descending -till she came again to that vestibule, and looking up at the clock saw -that it was now past one. It was not yet midnight when she left her -husband, but she was not at all astonished at the lapse of time. It -seemed to her as though she had passed a night among these miseries. -And, oh, what a night! But there was yet much to be done. She must find -that porter, and then return to her own suffering husband. Ah,—what now -should she say to him? If he should really be ill, how should she -assuage him? And yet how more than ever necessary was it that they -should leave that hotel early in the morning,—that they should leave -Paris by the very earliest and quickest train that would take them as -fugitives from their present dangers! The door of the salon was open, -but she had no courage to go in search of a second supply. She would -have lacked strength to carry it up the stairs. Where now, oh, where, -was that man? From the vestibule she made her way into the hall, but -everything seemed to be deserted. Through the glass she could see a -light in the court beyond, but she could not bring herself to endeavour -even to open the hall doors.</p> - -<p>And now she was very cold,—chilled to her very bones. All this had been -done at Christmas, and during such severity of weather as had never -before been experienced by living Parisians. A feeling of great pity for -herself gradually came upon her. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> wrong had she done that she -should be so grievously punished? Why should she be driven to wander -about in this way till her limbs were failing her? And then, so -absolutely important as it was that her strength should support her in -the morning! The man would not die even though he were left there -without aid, to rid himself of the cataplasm as best he might. Was it -absolutely necessary that she should disgrace herself?</p> - -<p>But she could not even procure the means of disgracing herself, if that -telling her story to the night-porter would have been a disgrace. She -did not find him, and at last resolved to make her way back to her own -room without further quest. She began to think that she had done all -that she could do. No man was ever killed by a mustard plaster on his -throat. His discomfort at the worst would not be worse than hers had -been—or too probably than that of her poor husband. So she went back up -the stairs and along the passages, and made her way on this occasion to -the door of her room without any difficulty. The way was so well known -to her that she could not but wonder that she had failed before. But now -her hands had been empty, and her eyes had been at her full command. She -looked up, and there was the number, very manifest on this -occasion,—333. She opened the door most gently, thinking that her -husband might be sleeping as soundly as that other man had slept, and -she crept into the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-3" id="CHAPTER_III-3"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. BROWN ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">But</span> her husband was not sleeping. He was not even in bed, as she had -left him. She found him sitting there before the fire-place, on which -one half-burned log still retained a spark of what had once pretended to -be a fire. Nothing more wretched than his appearance could be imagined. -There was a single lighted candle on the table, on which he was leaning -with his two elbows, while his head rested between his hands. He had on -a dressing-gown over his night-shirt, but otherwise was not clothed. He -shivered audibly, or rather shook himself with the cold, and made the -table to chatter as she entered the room. Then he groaned, and let his -head fall from his hands on to the table. It occurred to her at the -moment as she recognised the tone of his querulous voice, and as she saw -the form of his neck, that she must have been deaf and blind when she -had mistaken that stalwart stranger for her husband. “Oh, my dear,” she -said, “why are you not in bed?” He answered nothing in words, but only -groaned again. “Why did you get up? I left you warm and comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Where have you been all night?” he half whispered, half croaked, with -an agonising effort.</p> - -<p>“I have been looking for the mustard.”</p> - -<p>“Have been looking all night and haven’t found it? Where have you -been?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span>”</p> - -<p>She refused to speak a word to him till she had got him into bed, and -then she told her story! But, alas, that which she told was not the true -story! As she was persuading him to go back to his rest, and while she -arranged the clothes again around him, she with difficulty made up her -mind as to what she would do and what she would say. Living or dying he -must be made to start for Thompson Hall at half-past five on the next -morning. It was no longer a question of the amenities of Christmas, no -longer a mere desire to satisfy the family ambition of her own people, -no longer an anxiety to see her new brother-in-law. She was conscious -that there was in that house one whom she had deeply injured, and from -whose vengeance, even from whose aspect, she must fly. How could she -endure to see that face which she was so well sure that she would -recognise, or to hear the slightest sound of that voice which would be -quite familiar to her ears, though it had never spoken a word in her -hearing? She must certainly fly on the wings of the earliest train which -would carry her towards the old house; but in order that she might do so -she must propitiate her husband.</p> - -<p>So she told her story. She had gone forth, as he had bade her, in search -of the mustard, and then had suddenly lost her way. Up and down the -house she had wandered, perhaps nearly a dozen times. “Had she met no -one?” he asked in that raspy, husky whisper. “Surely there must have -been some one about the hotel! Nor was it possible that she could have -been roaming about all those hours.” “Only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> one hour, my dear,” she -said. Then there was a question about the duration of time, in which -both of them waxed angry, and as she became angry her husband waxed -stronger, and as he became violent beneath the clothes the comfortable -idea returned to her that he was not perhaps so ill as he would seem to -be. She found herself driven to tell him something about the porter, -having to account for that lapse of time by explaining how she had -driven the poor man to search for the handkerchief which she had never -lost.</p> - -<p>“Why did you not tell him you wanted the mustard?”</p> - -<p>“My dear!”</p> - -<p>“Why not? There is nothing to be ashamed of in wanting mustard.”</p> - -<p>“At one o’clock in the morning! I couldn’t do it. To tell you the truth, -he wasn’t very civil, and I thought that he was,—perhaps a little -tipsy. Now, my dear, do go to sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you get the mustard?”</p> - -<p>“There was none there,—nowhere at all about the room. I went down again -and searched everywhere. That’s what took me so long. They always lock -up those kind of things at these French hotels. They are too -close-fisted to leave anything out. When you first spoke of it I knew -that it would be gone when I got there. Now, my dear, do go to sleep, -because we positively must start in the morning.”</p> - -<p>“That is impossible,” said he, jumping up in bed.</p> - -<p>“We must go, my dear. I say that we must go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> After all that has passed -I wouldn’t not be with Uncle John and my cousin Robert to-morrow evening -for more,—more,—more than I would venture to say.”</p> - -<p>“Bother!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“It’s all very well for you to say that, Charles, but you don’t know. I -say that we must go to-morrow, and we will.”</p> - -<p>“I do believe you want to kill me, Mary.”</p> - -<p>“That is very cruel, Charles, and most false, and most unjust. As for -making you ill, nothing could be so bad for you as this wretched place, -where nobody can get warm either day or night. If anything will cure -your throat for you at once it will be the sea air. And only think how -much more comfortable they can make you at Thompson Hall than anywhere -in this country. I have so set my heart upon it, Charles, that I will do -it. If we are not there to-morrow night Uncle John won’t consider us as -belonging to the family.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe a word of it.”</p> - -<p>“Jane told me so in her letter. I wouldn’t let you know before because I -thought it so unjust. But that has been the reason why I’ve been so -earnest about it all through.”</p> - -<p>It was a thousand pities that so good a woman should have been driven by -the sad stress of circumstances to tell so many fibs. One after another -she was compelled to invent them, that there might be a way open to her -of escaping the horrors of a prolonged sojourn in that hotel. At length, -after much grumbling, he became silent, and she trusted that he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> -sleeping. He had not as yet said that he would start at the required -hour in the morning, but she was perfectly determined in her own mind -that he should be made to do so. As he lay there motionless, and as she -wandered about the room pretending to pack her things, she more than -once almost resolved that she would tell him everything. Surely then he -would be ready to make any effort. But there came upon her an idea that -he might perhaps fail to see all the circumstances, and that, so -failing, he would insist on remaining that he might tender some apology -to the injured gentleman. An apology might have been very well had she -not left him there in his misery—but what apology would be possible -now? She would have to see him and speak to him, and everyone in the -hotel would know every detail of the story. Everyone in France would -know that it was she who had gone to the strange man’s bedside, and put -the mustard plaster on the strange man’s throat in the dead of night! -She could not tell the story even to her husband, lest even her husband -should betray her.</p> - -<p>Her own sufferings at the present moment were not light. In her -perturbation of mind she had foolishly resolved that she would not -herself go to bed. The tragedy of the night had seemed to her too deep -for personal comfort. And then how would it be were she to sleep, and -have no one to call her? It was imperative that she should have all her -powers ready for thoroughly arousing him. It occurred to her that the -servant of the hotel would certainly run her too short<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> of time. She had -to work for herself and for him too, and therefore she would not sleep. -But she was very cold, and she put on first a shawl over her -dressing-gown and then a cloak. She could not consume all the remaining -hours of the night in packing one bag and one portmanteau, so that at -last she sat down on the narrow red cotton velvet sofa, and, looking at -her watch, perceived that as yet it was not much past two o’clock. How -was she to get through those other three long, tedious, chilly hours?</p> - -<p>Then there came a voice from the bed—“Ain’t you coming?”</p> - -<p>“I hoped you were asleep, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t been asleep at all. You’d better come, if you don’t mean to -make yourself as ill as I am.”</p> - -<p>“You are not so very bad, are you, darling?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you call bad. I never felt my throat so choked in my -life before!” Still as she listened she thought that she remembered his -throat to have been more choked. If the husband of her bosom could play -with her feelings and deceive her on such an occasion as this,—then, -then,—then she thought that she would rather not have any husband of -her bosom at all. But she did creep into bed, and lay down beside him -without saying another word.</p> - -<p>Of course she slept, but her sleep was not the sleep of the blest. At -every striking of the clock in the quadrangle she would start up in -alarm, fearing that she had let the time go by. Though the night was so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> -short it was very long to her. But he slept like an infant. She could -hear from his breathing that he was not quite so well as she could wish -him to be, but still he was resting in beautiful tranquillity. Not once -did he move when she started up, as she did so frequently. Orders had -been given and repeated over and over again that they should be called -at five. The man in the office had almost been angry as he assured Mrs. -Brown for the fourth time that Monsieur and Madame would most assuredly -be wakened at the appointed time. But still she would trust to no one, -and was up and about the room before the clock had struck half-past -four.</p> - -<p>In her heart of hearts she was very tender towards her husband. Now, in -order that he might feel a gleam of warmth while he was dressing -himself, she collected together the fragments of half-burned wood, and -endeavoured to make a little fire. Then she took out from her bag a -small pot, and a patent lamp, and some chocolate, and prepared for him a -warm drink, so that he might have it instantly as he was awakened. She -would do anything for him in the way of ministering to his -comfort,—only he must go! Yes, he certainly must go!</p> - -<p>And then she wondered how that strange man was bearing himself at the -present moment. She would fain have ministered to him too had it been -possible; but ah!—it was so impossible! Probably before this he would -have been aroused from his troubled slumbers. But then—how aroused? At -what time in the night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> would the burning heat upon his chest have -awakened him to a sense of torture which must have been so altogether -incomprehensible to him? Her strong imagination showed to her a clear -picture of the scene,—clear, though it must have been done in the dark. -How he must have tossed and hurled himself under the clothes; how those -strong knees must have worked themselves up and down before the potent -god of sleep would allow him to return to perfect consciousness; how his -fingers, restrained by no reason, would have trampled over his feverish -throat, scattering everywhere that unhappy poultice! Then when he should -have sat up wide awake, but still in the dark—with her mind’s eye she -saw it all—feeling that some fire as from the infernal regions had -fallen upon him, but whence he would know not, how fiercely wild would -be the working of his spirit! Ah, now she knew, now she felt, now she -acknowledged how bound she had been to awaken him at the moment, -whatever might have been the personal inconvenience to herself! In such -a position what would he do—or rather what had he done? She could -follow much of it in her own thoughts;—how he would scramble madly from -his bed, and, with one hand still on his throat, would snatch hurriedly -at the matches with the other. How the light would come, and how then he -would rush to the mirror. Ah, what a sight he would behold! She could -see it all to the last widespread daub.</p> - -<p>But she could not see, she could not tell herself, what in such a -position a man would do;—at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> rate, not what that man would do. Her -husband, she thought, would tell his wife, and then the two of them, -between them, would—put up with it. There are misfortunes which, if -they be published, are simply aggravated by ridicule. But she remembered -the features of the stranger as she had seen them at that instant in -which she had dropped his beard, and she thought that there was a -ferocity in them, a certain tenacity of self-importance, which would not -permit their owner to endure such treatment in silence. Would he not -storm and rage, and ring the bell, and call all Paris to witness his -revenge?</p> - -<p>But the storming and the raging had not reached her yet, and now it -wanted but a quarter to five. In three-quarters of an hour they would be -in that demi-omnibus which they had ordered for themselves, and in half -an hour after that they would be flying towards Thompson Hall. Then she -allowed herself to think of the coming comforts,—of those comforts so -sweet, if only they would come! That very day now present to her was the -24th December, and on that very evening she would be sitting in -Christmas joy among all her uncles and cousins, holding her new -brother-in-law affectionately by the hand. Oh, what a change from -Pandemonium to Paradise;—from that wretched room, from that miserable -house in which there was such ample cause for fear, to all the domestic -Christmas bliss of the home of the Thompsons! She resolved that she -would not, at any rate, be deterred by any light opposition on the part -of her husband. “It wants just a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> quarter to five,” she said, putting -her hand steadily upon his shoulder, “and I’ll get a cup of chocolate -for you, so that you may get up comfortably.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the back -of his hands. “It will be so much better to go over by the mail train -to-night. We should be in time for Christmas just the same.”</p> - -<p>“That will not do at all,” she answered, energetically. “Come, Charles, -after all the trouble do not disappoint me.”</p> - -<p>“It is such a horrid grind.”</p> - -<p>“Think what I have gone through,—what I have done for you! In twelve -hours we shall be there, among them all. You won’t be so little like a -man as not to go on now.” He threw himself back upon the bed, and tried -to readjust the clothes round his neck. “No, Charles, no,” she -continued; “not if I know it. Take your chocolate and get up. There is -not a moment to be lost.” With that she laid her hand upon his shoulder, -and made him clearly understand that he would not be allowed to take -further rest in that bed.</p> - -<p>Grumbling, sulky, coughing continually, and declaring that life under -such circumstances was not worth having, he did at last get up and dress -himself. When once she knew that he was obeying her she became again -tender to him, and certainly took much more than her own share of the -trouble of the proceedings. Long before the time was up she was ready, -and the porter had been summoned to take the luggage downstairs. When -the man came she was rejoiced to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> see that it was not he whom she had -met among the passages during her nocturnal rambles. He shouldered the -box, and told them that they would find coffee and bread and butter in -the small salle-à-manger below.</p> - -<p>“I told you that it would be so, when you would boil that stuff,” said -the ungrateful man, who had nevertheless swallowed the hot chocolate -when it was given to him.</p> - -<p>They followed their luggage down into the hall; but as she went, at -every step, the lady looked around her. She dreaded the sight of that -porter of the night; she feared lest some potential authority of the -hotel should come to her and ask her some horrid question; but of all -her fears her greatest fear was that there should arise before her an -apparition of that face which she had seen recumbent on its pillow.</p> - -<p>As they passed the door of the great salon, Mr. Brown looked in. “Why, -there it is still!” said he.</p> - -<p>“What?” said she, trembling in every limb.</p> - -<p>“The mustard-pot!”</p> - -<p>“They have put it in there since,” she exclaimed energetically, in her -despair. “But never mind. The omnibus is here. Come away.” And she -absolutely took him by the arm.</p> - -<p>But at that moment a door behind them opened, and Mrs. Brown heard -herself called by her name. And there was the night-porter,—with a -handkerchief in his hand. But the further doings of that morning must be -told in a further chapter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-3" id="CHAPTER_IV-3"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. BROWN DOES ESCAPE.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> had been visible to Mrs. Brown from the first moment of her arrival -on the ground floor that “something was the matter,” if we may be -allowed to use such a phrase; and she felt all but convinced that this -something had reference to her. She fancied that the people of the hotel -were looking at her as she swallowed, or tried to swallow, her coffee. -When her husband was paying the bill there was something disagreeable in -the eye of the man who was taking the money. Her sufferings were very -great, and no one sympathised with her. Her husband was quite at his -ease, except that he was complaining of the cold. When she was anxious -to get him out into the carriage, he still stood there leisurely, -arranging shawl after shawl around his throat. “You can do that quite as -well in an omnibus,” she had just said to him very crossly, when there -appeared upon the scene through a side door that very night-porter whom -she dreaded, with a soiled pocket-handkerchief in his hand.</p> - -<p>Even before the sound of her own name met her ears Mrs. Brown knew it -all. She understood the full horror of her position from that man’s -hostile face, and from the little article which he held in his hand. If -during the watches of the night she had had money in her pocket, if she -had made a friend of this greedy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> fellow by well-timed liberality, all -might have been so different! But she reflected that she had allowed him -to go unfee’d after all his trouble, and she knew that he was her enemy. -It was the handkerchief that she feared. She thought that she might have -brazened out anything but that. No one had seen her enter or leave that -strange man’s room. No one had seen her dip her hands in that jar. She -had, no doubt, been found wandering about the house while the slumberer -had been made to suffer so strangely, and there might have been -suspicion, and perhaps accusation. But she would have been ready with -frequent protestations to deny all charges made against her, and, though -no one might have believed her, no one could have convicted her. Here, -however, was evidence against which she would be unable to stand for a -moment. At the first glance she acknowledged the potency of that damning -morsel of linen.</p> - -<p>During all the horrors of the night she had never given a thought to the -handkerchief, and yet she ought to have known that the evidence it would -bring against her was palpable and certain. Her name, “M. Brown,” was -plainly written on the corner. What a fool she had been not to have -thought of this! Had she but remembered the plain marking which she, as -a careful, well-conducted British matron, had put upon all her clothes, -she would at any hazard have recovered the article. Oh that she had -waked the man, or bribed the porter, or even told her husband! But now -she was, as it were, friendless, without support, without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> word that -she could say in her own defence, convicted of having committed this -assault upon a strange man in his own bedroom, and then of having left -him! The thing must be explained by the truth; but how to explain such -truth, how to tell such story in a way to satisfy injured folk, and she -with only barely time sufficient to catch the train! Then it occurred to -her that they could have no legal right to stop her because the -pocket-handkerchief had been found in a strange gentleman’s bedroom. -“Yes, it is mine,” she said, turning to her husband, as the porter, with -a loud voice, asked if she were not Madame Brown. “Take it, Charles, and -come on.” Mr. Brown naturally stood still in astonishment. He did put -out his hand, but the porter would not allow the evidence to pass so -readily out of his custody.</p> - -<p>“What does it all mean?” asked Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“A gentleman has been—eh—eh—. Something has been done to a gentleman -in his bedroom,” said the clerk.</p> - -<p>“Something done to a gentleman!” repeated Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“Something very bad indeed,” said the porter. “Look here,” and he showed -the condition of the handkerchief.</p> - -<p>“Charles, we shall lose the train,” said the affrighted wife.</p> - -<p>“What the mischief does it all mean?” demanded the husband.</p> - -<p>“Did Madame go into the gentleman’s room?” asked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> the clerk. Then there -was an awful silence, and all eyes were fixed upon the lady.</p> - -<p>“What does it all mean?” demanded the husband. “Did you go into -anybody’s room?”</p> - -<p>“I did,” said Mrs. Brown with much dignity, looking round upon her -enemies as a stag at bay will look upon the hounds which are attacking -him. “Give me the handkerchief.” But the night-porter quickly put it -behind his back. “Charles, we cannot allow ourselves to be delayed. You -shall write a letter to the keeper of the hotel, explaining it all.” -Then she essayed to swim out, through the front door, into the courtyard -in which the vehicle was waiting for them. But three or four men and -women interposed themselves, and even her husband did not seem quite -ready to continue his journey. “To-night is Christmas Eve,” said Mrs. -Brown, “and we shall not be at Thompson Hall! Think of my sister!”</p> - -<p>“Why did you go into the man’s bedroom, my dear?” whispered Mr. Brown in -English.</p> - -<p>But the porter heard the whisper, and understood the language;—the -porter who had not been “tipped.” “Ye’es;—vy?” asked the porter.</p> - -<p>“It was a mistake, Charles; there is not a moment to lose. I can explain -it all to you in the carriage.” Then the clerk suggested that Madame had -better postpone her journey a little. The gentleman upstairs had -certainly been very badly treated, and had demanded to know why so great -an outrage had been perpetrated. The clerk said that he did not wish to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> -send for the police—here Mrs. Brown gasped terribly and threw herself -on her husband’s shoulder,—but he did not think he could allow the -party to go till the gentleman upstairs had received some satisfaction. -It had now become clearly impossible that the journey could be made by -the early train. Even Mrs. Brown gave it up herself, and demanded of her -husband that she should be taken back to her own bedroom.</p> - -<p>“But what is to be said to the gentleman?” asked the porter.</p> - -<p>Of course it was impossible that Mrs. Brown should be made to tell her -story there in the presence of them all. The clerk, when he found he had -succeeded in preventing her from leaving the house, was satisfied with a -promise from Mr. Brown that he would inquire from his wife what were -these mysterious circumstances, and would then come down to the office -and give some explanation. If it were necessary, he would see the -strange gentleman,—whom he now ascertained to be a certain Mr. Jones -returning from the east of Europe. He learned also that this Mr. Jones -had been most anxious to travel by that very morning train which he and -his wife had intended to use,—that Mr. Jones had been most particular -in giving his orders accordingly, but that at the last moment he had -declared himself to be unable even to dress himself, because of the -injury which had been done him during the night. When Mr. Brown heard -this from the clerk just before he was allowed to take his wife -upstairs, while she was sitting on a sofa in a corner with her face -hidden, a look of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> awful gloom came over his own countenance. What could -it be that his wife had done to the man of so terrible a nature? “You -had better come up with me,” he said to her with marital severity, and -the poor cowed woman went with him tamely as might have done some -patient Grizel. Not a word was spoken till they were in the room and the -door was locked. “Now,” said he, “what does it all mean?”</p> - -<p>It was not till nearly two hours had passed that Mr. Brown came down the -stairs very slowly,—turning it all over in his mind. He had now -gradually heard the absolute and exact truth, and had very gradually -learned to believe it. It was first necessary that he should understand -that his wife had told him many fibs during the night; but as she -constantly alleged to him when he complained of her conduct in this -respect, they had all been told on his behalf. Had she not struggled to -get the mustard for his comfort, and when she had secured the prize had -she not hurried to put it on,—as she had fondly thought,—his throat? -And though she had fibbed to him afterwards, had she not done so in -order that he might not be troubled? “You are not angry with me because -I was in that man’s room?” she asked, looking full into his eyes, but -not quite without a sob. He paused a moment and then declared, with -something of a true husband’s confidence in his tone, that he was not in -the least angry with her on that account. Then she kissed him, and bade -him remember that after all no one could really injure them. “What harm -has been done, Charles? The gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> won’t die because he has had a -mustard plaster on his throat. The worst is about Uncle John and dear -Jane. They do think so much of Christmas Eve at Thompson Hall!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Brown, when he again found himself in the clerk’s office, requested -that his card might be taken up to Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones had sent down -his own card, which was handed to Mr. Brown: “Mr. Barnaby Jones.” “And -how was it all, sir?” asked the clerk, in a whisper—a whisper which had -at the same time something of authoritative demand and something also of -submissive respect. The clerk of course was anxious to know the mystery. -It is hardly too much to say that everyone in that vast hotel was by -this time anxious to have the mystery unravelled. But Mr. Brown would -tell nothing to anyone. “It is merely a matter to be explained between -me and Mr. Jones,” he said. The card was taken upstairs, and after -awhile he was ushered into Mr. Jones’ room. It was, of course, that very -353 with which the reader is already acquainted. There was a fire -burning, and the remains of Mr. Jones’ breakfast were on the table. He -was sitting in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his shirt open in -the front, and a silk handkerchief very loosely covering his throat. Mr. -Brown, as he entered the room, of course looked with considerable -anxiety at the gentleman of whose condition he had heard so sad an -account; but he could only observe some considerable stiffness of -movement and demeanour as Mr. Jones turned his head round to greet him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<p>“This has been a very disagreeable accident, Mr. Jones,” said the -husband of the lady.</p> - -<p>“Accident! I don’t know how it could have been an accident. It has been -a most—most—most—a most monstrous,—er,—er,—I must say, -interference with a gentleman’s privacy, and personal comfort.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so, Mr. Jones, but,—on the part of the lady, who is my wife—”</p> - -<p>“So I understand. I myself am about to become a married man, and I can -understand what your feelings must be. I wish to say as little as -possible to harrow them.” Here Mr. Brown bowed. “But,—there’s the fact. -She did do it.”</p> - -<p>“She thought it was—me!”</p> - -<p>“What!”</p> - -<p>“I give you my word as a gentleman, Mr. Jones. When she was putting that -mess upon you she thought it was me! She did, indeed.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Jones looked at his new acquaintance and shook his head. He did not -think it possible that any woman would make such a mistake as that.</p> - -<p>“I had a very bad sore throat,” continued Mr. Brown, “and indeed you may -perceive it still,”—in saying this, he perhaps aggravated a little the -sign of his distemper, “and I asked Mrs. Brown to go down and get -one,—just what she put on you.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d had it,” said Mr. Jones, putting his hand up to his neck.</p> - -<p>“I wish I had,—for your sake as well as mine,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span>and for hers, poor -woman. I don’t know when she will get over the shock.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know when I shall. And it has stopped me on my journey. I was -to have been to-night, this very night, this Christmas Eve, with the -young lady I am engaged to marry. Of course I couldn’t travel. The -extent of the injury done nobody can imagine at present.”</p> - -<p>“It has been just as bad to me, sir. We were to have been with our -family this Christmas Eve. There were particular reasons,—most -particular. We were only hindered from going by hearing of your -condition.”</p> - -<p>“Why did she come into my room at all? I can’t understand that. A lady -always knows her own room at an hotel.”</p> - -<p>“353—that’s yours; 333—that’s ours. Don’t you see how easy it was? She -had lost her way, and she was a little afraid lest the thing should fall -down.”</p> - -<p>“I wish it had, with all my heart.”</p> - -<p>“That’s how it was. Now I’m sure, Mr. Jones, you’ll take a lady’s -apology. It was a most unfortunate mistake,—most unfortunate; but what -more can be said?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Jones gave himself up to reflection for a few moments before he -replied to this. He supposed that he was bound to believe the story as -far as it went. At any rate, he did not know how he could say that he -did not believe it. It seemed to him to be almost -incredible,—especially incredible in regard to that personal mistake, -for, except that they both had long beards and brown beards, Mr. Jones -thought that there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> was no point of resemblance between himself and Mr. -Brown. But still, even that, he felt, must be accepted. But then why had -he been left, deserted, to undergo all those torments? “She found out -her mistake at last, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t she wake a fellow and take it off again?”</p> - -<p>“Ah!”</p> - -<p>“She can’t have cared very much for a man’s comfort when she went away -and left him like that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! there was the difficulty, Mr. Jones.”</p> - -<p>“Difficulty! Who was it that had done it? To come to me, in my bedroom, -in the middle of the night, and put that thing on me, and then leave it -there and say nothing about it! It seems to me deuced like a practical -joke.”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Jones!”</p> - -<p>“That’s the way I look at it,” said Mr. Jones, plucking up his courage.</p> - -<p>“There isn’t a woman in all England, or in all France, less likely to do -such a thing than my wife. She’s as steady as a rock, Mr. Jones, and -would no more go into another gentleman’s bedroom in joke than—— Oh -dear no! You’re going to be a married man yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Unless all this makes a difference,” said Mr. Jones, almost in tears. -“I had sworn that I would be with her this Christmas Eve.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Jones, I cannot believe that will interfere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> with your -happiness. How could you think that your wife, as is to be, would do -such a thing as that in joke?”</p> - -<p>“She wouldn’t do it at all;—joke or anyway.”</p> - -<p>“How can you tell what accident might happen to anyone?”</p> - -<p>“She’d have wakened the man then afterwards. I’m sure she would. She -would never have left him to suffer in that way. Her heart is too soft. -Why didn’t she send you to wake me, and explain it all? That’s what my -Jane would have done; and I should have gone and wakened him. But the -whole thing is impossible,” he said, shaking his head as he remembered -that he and his Jane were not in a condition as yet to undergo any such -mutual trouble. At last Mr. Jones was brought to acknowledge that -nothing more could be done. The lady had sent her apology, and told her -story, and he must bear the trouble and inconvenience to which she had -subjected him. He still, however, had his own opinion about her conduct -generally, and could not be brought to give any sign of amity. He simply -bowed when Mr. Brown was hoping to induce him to shake hands, and sent -no word of pardon to the great offender.</p> - -<p>The matter, however, was so far concluded that there was no further -question of police interference, nor any doubt but that the lady with -her husband was to be allowed to leave Paris by the night train. The -nature of the accident probably became known to all. Mr. Brown was -interrogated by many, and though he professed to declare that he would -answer no question,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> nevertheless he found it better to tell the clerk -something of the truth than to allow the matter to be shrouded in -mystery. It is to be feared that Mr. Jones, who did not once show -himself through the day, but who employed the hours in endeavouring to -assuage the injury done him, still lived in the convicsion that the lady -had played a practical joke on him. But the subject of such a joke never -talks about it, and Mr. Jones could not be induced to speak even by the -friendly adherence of the night-porter.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brown also clung to the seclusion of her own bedroom, never once -stirring from it till the time came in which she was to be taken down to -the omnibus. Upstairs she ate her meals, and upstairs she passed her -time in packing and unpacking, and in requesting that telegrams might be -sent repeatedly to Thompson Hall. In the course of the day two such -telegrams were sent, in the latter of which the Thompson family were -assured that the Browns would arrive, probably in time for breakfast on -Christmas Day, certainly in time for church. She asked more than once -tenderly after Mr. Jones’ welfare, but could obtain no information. “He -was very cross, and that’s all I know about it,” said Mr. Brown. Then -she made a remark as to the gentleman’s Christian name, which appeared -on the card as “Barnaby.” “My sister’s husband’s name will be Burnaby,” -she said. “And this man’s Christian name is Barnaby; that’s all the -difference,” said her husband, with ill-timed jocularity.</p> - -<p>We all know how people under a cloud are apt to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> fail in asserting their -personal dignity. On the former day a separate vehicle had been ordered -by Mr. Brown to take himself and his wife to the station, but now, after -his misfortunes, he contented himself with such provision as the people -at the hotel might make for him. At the appointed hour he brought his -wife down, thickly veiled. There were many strangers as she passed -through the hall, ready to look at the lady who had done that wonderful -thing in the dead of night, but none could see a feature of her face as -she stepped across the hall, and was hurried into the omnibus. And there -were many eyes also on Mr. Jones, who followed very quickly, for he -also, in spite of his sufferings, was leaving Paris on the evening in -order that he might be with his English friends on Christmas Day. He, as -he went through the crowd, assumed an air of great dignity, to which, -perhaps, something was added by his endeavours, as he walked, to save -his poor throat from irritation. He, too, got into the same omnibus, -stumbling over the feet of his enemy in the dark. At the station they -got their tickets, one close after the other, and then were brought into -each other’s presence in the waiting-room. I think it must be -acknowledged that here Mr. Jones was conscious, not only of her -presence, but of her consciousness of his presence, and that he assumed -an attitude, as though he should have said, “Now do you think it -possible for me to believe that you mistook me for your husband?” She -was perfectly quiet, but sat through that quarter of an hour with her -face continually veiled. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> Brown made some little overture of -conversation to Mr. Jones, but Mr. Jones, though he did mutter some -reply, showed plainly enough that he had no desire for further -intercourse. Then came the accustomed stampede, the awful rush, the -internecine struggle in which seats had to be found. Seats, I fancy, are -regularly found, even by the most tardy, but it always appears that -every British father and every British husband is actuated at these -stormy moments by a conviction that unless he proves himself a very -Hercules he and his daughters and his wife will be left desolate in -Paris. Mr. Brown was quite Herculean, carrying two bags and a hat-box in -his own hands, besides the cloaks, the coats, the rugs, the sticks, and -the umbrellas. But when he had got himself and his wife well seated, -with their faces to the engine, with a corner seat for her,—there was -Mr. Jones immediately opposite to her. Mr. Jones, as soon as he -perceived the inconvenience of his position, made a scramble for another -place, but he was too late. In that contiguity the journey as far as -Calais had to be made. She, poor woman, never once took up her veil. -There he sat, without closing an eye, stiff as a ramrod, sometimes -showing by little uneasy gestures that the trouble at his neck was still -there, but never speaking a word, and hardly moving a limb.</p> - -<p>Crossing from Calais to Dover the lady was, of course, separated from -her victim. The passage was very bad, and she more than once reminded -her husband how well it would have been with them now had they pursued -their journey as she had intended,—as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> they had been detained in -Paris by his fault! Mr. Jones, as he laid himself down on his back, gave -himself up to wondering whether any man before him had ever been made -subject to such absolute injustice. Now and again he put his hand up to -his own beard, and began to doubt whether it could have been moved, as -it must have been moved, without waking him. What if chloroform had been -used? Many such suspicions crossed his mind during the misery of that -passage.</p> - -<p>They were again together in the same railway carriage from Dover to -London. They had now got used to the close neighbourhood, and knew how -to endure each the presence of the other. But as yet Mr. Jones had never -seen the lady’s face. He longed to know what were the features of the -woman who had been so blind—if indeed that story were true. Or if it -were not true, of what like was the woman who would dare in the middle -of the night to play such a trick as that? But still she kept her veil -close over her face.</p> - -<p>From Cannon Street the Browns took their departure in a cab for the -Liverpool Street Station, whence they would be conveyed by the Eastern -Counties Railway to Stratford. Now at any rate their troubles were over. -They would be in ample time, not only for Christmas Day church, but for -Christmas Day breakfast. “It will be just the same as getting in there -last night,” said Mr. Brown, as he walked across the platform to place -his wife in the carriage for Stratford. She entered it the first, and as -she did so there she saw Mr. Jones seated in the corner! Hitherto she -had borne his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> presence well, but now she could not restrain herself -from a little start and a little scream. He bowed his head very -slightly, as though acknowledging the compliment, and then down she -dropped her veil. When they arrived at Stratford, the journey being over -in a quarter of an hour, Jones was out of the carriage even before the -Browns.</p> - -<p>“There is Uncle John’s carriage,” said Mrs. Brown, thinking that now, at -any rate, she would be able to free herself from the presence of this -terrible stranger. No doubt he was a handsome man to look at, but on no -face so sternly hostile had she ever before fixed her eyes. She did not, -perhaps, reflect that the owner of no other face had ever been so deeply -injured by herself.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-3" id="CHAPTER_V-3"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>MRS. BROWN AT THOMPSON HALL.</small></h3> - -<p>“Please, sir, we were to ask for Mr. Jones,” said the servant, putting -his head into the carriage after both Mr. and Mrs. Brown had seated -themselves.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Jones!” exclaimed the husband.</p> - -<p>“Why ask for Mr. Jones?” demanded the wife. The servant was about to -tender some explanation when Mr. Jones stepped up and said that he was -Mr. Jones. “We are going to Thompson Hall,” said the lady with great -vigour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span></p> - -<p>“So am I,” said Mr. Jones, with much dignity. It was, however, arranged -that he should sit with the coachman, as there was a rumble behind for -the other servant. The luggage was put into a cart, and away all went -for Thompson Hall.</p> - -<p>“What do you think about it, Mary?” whispered Mr. Brown, after a pause. -He was evidently awe-struck by the horror of the occasion.</p> - -<p>“I cannot make it out at all. What do you think?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what to think. Jones going to Thompson Hall?”</p> - -<p>“He’s a very good-looking young man,” said Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“Well;—that’s as people think. A stiff, stuck-up fellow, I should say. -Up to this moment he has never forgiven you for what you did to him.”</p> - -<p>“Would you have forgiven his wife, Charles, if she’d done it to you?”</p> - -<p>“He hasn’t got a wife,—yet.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know?”</p> - -<p>“He is coming home now to be married,” said Mr. Brown. “He expects to -meet the young lady this very Christmas Day. He told me so. That was one -of the reasons why he was so angry at being stopped by what you did last -night.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he knows Uncle John, or he wouldn’t be going to the Hall,” -said Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I can’t make it out,” said Mr. Brown, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“He looks quite like a gentleman,” said Mrs. Brown,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> “though he has been -so stiff. Jones! Barnaby Jones! You’re sure it was Barnaby?”</p> - -<p>“That was the name on the card.”</p> - -<p>“Not Burnaby?” asked Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“It was Barnaby Jones on the card,—just the same as ‘Barnaby Rudge,’ -and as for looking like a gentleman, I’m by no means quite so sure. A -gentleman takes an apology when it’s offered.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, my dear, that depends on the condition of his throat. If you -had had a mustard plaster on all night, you might not have liked it. But -here we are at Thompson Hall at last.”</p> - -<p>Thompson Hall was an old brick mansion, standing within a huge iron -gate, with a gravel sweep before it. It had stood there before Stratford -was a town, or even a suburb, and had then been known by the name of Bow -Place. But it had been in the hands of the present family for the last -thirty years, and was now known far and wide as Thompson Hall,—a -comfortable, roomy, old-fashioned place, perhaps a little dark and dull -to look at, but much more substantially built than most of our modern -villas. Mrs. Brown jumped with alacrity from the carriage, and with a -quick step entered the home of her forefathers. Her husband followed her -more leisurely, but he, too, felt that he was at home at Thompson Hall. -Then Mr. Jones walked in also;—but he looked as though he were not at -all at home. It was still very early, and no one of the family was as -yet down. In these circumstances it was almost necessary that something -should be said to Mr. Jones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span></p> - -<p>“Do you know Mr. Thompson?” asked Mr. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I never had the pleasure of seeing him,—as yet,” answered Mr. Jones, -very stiffly.</p> - -<p>“Oh,—I didn’t know;—because you said you were coming here.”</p> - -<p>“And I have come here. Are you friends of Mr. Thompson?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear, yes,” said Mrs. Brown. “I was a Thompson myself before I -married.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,—indeed!” said Mr. Jones. “How very odd,—very odd, indeed.”</p> - -<p>During this time the luggage was being brought into the house, and two -old family servants were offering them assistance. Would the new comers -like to go up to their bedrooms? Then the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, -intimated with a wink that Miss Jane would, she was sure, be down quite -immediately. The present moment, however, was still very unpleasant. The -lady probably had made her guess as to the mystery; but the two -gentlemen were still altogether in the dark. Mrs. Brown had no doubt -declared her parentage, but Mr. Jones, with such a multitude of strange -facts crowding on his mind, had been slow to understand her. Being -somewhat suspicious by nature, he was beginning to think whether -possibly the mustard had been put by this lady on his throat with some -reference to his connexion with Thompson Hall. Could it be that she, for -some reason of her own, had wished to prevent his coming, and had -contrived this untoward stratagem out of her brain? or had she wished to -make him ridiculous to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> the Thompson family,—to whom, as a family, he -was at present unknown? It was becoming more and more improbable to him -that the whole thing should have been an accident. When, after the first -horrid torments of that morning in which he had in his agony invoked the -assistance of the night-porter, he had begun to reflect on his -situation, he had determined that it would be better that nothing -further should be said about it. What would life be worth to him if he -were to be known wherever he went as the man who had been -mustard-plastered in the middle of the night by a strange lady? The -worst of a practical joke is that the remembrance of the absurd -condition sticks so long to the sufferer! At the hotel that -night-porter, who had possessed himself of the handkerchief and had read -the name, and had connected that name with the occupant of 333 whom he -had found wandering about the house with some strange purpose, had not -permitted the thing to sleep. The porter had pressed the matter home -against the Browns, and had produced the interview which has been -recorded. But during the whole of that day Mr. Jones had been resolving -that he would never again either think of the Browns or speak of them. A -great injury had been done to him,—a most outrageous injustice;—but it -was a thing which had to be endured. A horrid woman had come across him -like a nightmare. All he could do was to endeavour to forget the -terrible visitation. Such had been his resolve,—in making which he had -passed that long day in Paris. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> now the Browns had stuck to him from -the moment of his leaving his room! he had been forced to travel with -them, but had travelled with them as a stranger. He had tried to comfort -himself with the reflection that at every fresh stage he would shake -them off. In one railway after another the vicinity had been bad,—but -still they were strangers. Now he found himself in the same house with -them,—where of course the story would be told. Had not the thing been -done on purpose that the story might be told there at Thompson Hall?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Brown had acceded to the proposition of the housekeeper, and was -about to be taken to her room when there was heard a sound of footsteps -along the passage above and on the stairs, and a young lady came -bounding on to the scene. “You have all of you come a quarter of an hour -earlier than we thought possible,” said the young lady. “I did so mean -to be up to receive you!” With that she passed her sister on the -stairs,—for the young lady was Miss Jane Thompson, sister to our Mrs. -Brown,—and hurried down into the hall. Here Mr. Brown, who had ever -been on affectionate terms with his sister-in-law, put himself forward -to receive her embraces; but she, apparently not noticing him in her -ardour, rushed on and threw herself on to the breast of the other -gentleman. “This is my Charles,” she said. “Oh, Charles, I thought you -never would be here.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Charles Burnaby Jones, for such was his name since he had inherited -the Jones property in Pembrokeshire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> received into his arms the ardent -girl of his heart with all that love and devotion to which she was -entitled, but could not do so without some external shrinking from her -embrace. “Oh, Charles, what is it?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Nothing, dearest—only—only—.” Then he looked piteously up into Mrs. -Brown’s face, as though imploring her not to tell the story.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, Jane, you had better introduce us,” said Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“Introduce you! I thought you had been travelling together, and staying -at the same hotel—and all that.”</p> - -<p>“So we have; but people may be in the same hotel without knowing each -other. And we have travelled all the way home with Mr. Jones without in -the least knowing who he was.”</p> - -<p>“How very odd! Do you mean you have never spoken?”</p> - -<p>“Not a word,” said Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I do so hope you’ll love each other,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“It shan’t be my fault if we don’t,” said Mrs. Brown.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure it shan’t be mine,” said Mr. Brown, tendering his hand to the -other gentleman. The various feelings of the moment were too much for -Mr. Jones, and he could not respond quite as he should have done. But as -he was taken upstairs to his room he determined that he would make the -best of it.</p> - -<p>The owner of the house was old Uncle John. He was a bachelor, and with -him lived various members of the family. There was the great Thompson of -them all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> Cousin Robert, who was now member of Parliament for the Essex -Flats, and young John, as a certain enterprising Thompson of the age of -forty was usually called, and then there was old Aunt Bess, and among -other young branches there was Miss Jane Thompson, who was now engaged -to marry Mr. Charles Burnaby Jones. As it happened, no other member of -the family had as yet seen Mr. Burnaby Jones, and he, being by nature of -a retiring disposition, felt himself to be ill at ease when he came into -the breakfast parlour among all the Thompsons. He was known to be a -gentleman of good family and ample means, and all the Thompsons had -approved of the match, but during the first Christmas breakfast he did -not seem to accept his condition jovially. His own Jane sat beside him, -but then on the other side sat Mrs. Brown. She assumed an immediate -intimacy,—as women know how to do on such occasions,—being determined -from the very first to regard her sister’s husband as a brother; but he -still feared her. She was still to him the woman who had come to him in -the dead of night with that horrid mixture,—and had then left him.</p> - -<p>“It was so odd that both of you should have been detained on the very -same day,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was odd,” said Mrs. Brown, with a smile looking round upon her -neighbour.</p> - -<p>“It was abominably bad weather you know,” said Brown.</p> - -<p>“But you were both so determined to come,” said the old gentleman. “When -we got the two telegrams<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> at the same moment, we were sure that there -had been some agreement between you.”</p> - -<p>“Not exactly an agreement,” said Mrs. Brown; whereupon Mr. Jones looked -as grim as death.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure there is something more than we understand yet,” said the -Member of Parliament.</p> - -<p>Then they all went to church, as a united family ought to do on -Christmas Day, and came home to a fine old English early dinner at three -o’clock,—a sirloin of beef a foot-and-a-half broad, a turkey as big as -an ostrich, a plum-pudding bigger than the turkey, and two or three -dozen mince-pies. “That’s a very large bit of beef,” said Mr. Jones, who -had not lived much in England latterly. “It won’t look so large,” said -the old gentleman, “when all our friends downstairs have had their say -to it.” “A plum-pudding on Christmas Day can’t be too big,” he said -again, “if the cook will but take time enough over it. I never knew a -bit go to waste yet.”</p> - -<p>By this time there had been some explanation as to past events between -the two sisters. Mrs. Brown had indeed told Jane all about it, how ill -her husband had been, how she had been forced to go down and look for -the mustard, and then what she had done with the mustard. “I don’t think -they are a bit alike you know, Mary, if you mean that,” said Jane.</p> - -<p>“Well, no; perhaps not quite alike. I only saw his beard, you know. No -doubt it was stupid, but I did it.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you take it off again?” asked the sister.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Jane, if you’d only think of it! Could you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span>” Then of course all -that occurred was explained, how they had been stopped on their journey, -how Brown had made the best apology in his power, and how Jones had -travelled with them and had never spoken a word. The gentleman had only -taken his new name a week since, but of course had had his new card -printed immediately. “I’m sure I should have thought of it if they -hadn’t made a mistake with the first name. Charles said it was like -Barnaby Rudge.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all like Barnaby Rudge,” said Jane; “Charles Burnaby Jones is a -very good name.”</p> - -<p>“Very good indeed,—and I’m sure that after a little bit he won’t be at -all the worse for the accident.”</p> - -<p>Before dinner the secret had been told no further, but still there had -crept about among the Thompsons, and, indeed, downstairs also, among the -retainers, a feeling that there was a secret. The old housekeeper was -sure that Miss Mary, as she still called Mrs. Brown, had something to -tell if she could only be induced to tell it, and that this something -had reference to Mr. Jones’ personal comfort. The head of the family, -who was a sharp old gentleman, felt this also, and the member of -Parliament, who had an idea that he specially should never be kept in -the dark, was almost angry. Mr. Jones, suffering from some kindred -feeling throughout the dinner, remained silent and unhappy. When two or -three toasts had been drunk,—the Queen’s health, the old gentleman’s -health, the young couple’s health, Brown’s health, and the general -health of all the Thompsons, then tongues were loosened and a question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> -was asked, “I know that there has been something doing in Paris between -these young people that we haven’t heard as yet,” said the uncle. Then -Mrs. Brown laughed, and Jane, laughing too, gave Mr. Jones to understand -that she at any rate knew all about it.</p> - -<p>“If there is a mystery I hope it will be told at once,” said the member -of Parliament, angrily.</p> - -<p>“Come, Brown, what is it?” asked another male cousin.</p> - -<p>“Well, there was an accident. I’d rather Jones should tell,” said he.</p> - -<p>Jones’ brow became blacker than thunder, but he did not say a word. “You -mustn’t be angry with Mary,” Jane whispered into her lover’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Come, Mary, you never were slow at talking,” said the uncle.</p> - -<p>“I do hate this kind of thing,” said the member of Parliament.</p> - -<p>“I will tell it all,” said Mrs. Brown, very nearly in tears, or else -pretending to be very nearly in tears. “I know I was very wrong, and I -do beg his pardon, and if he won’t say that he forgives me I never shall -be happy again.” Then she clasped her hands, and turning round, looked -him piteously in the face.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; I do forgive you,” said Mr. Jones.</p> - -<p>“My brother,” said she, throwing her arms round him and kissing him. He -recoiled from the embrace, but I think that he attempted to return the -kiss. “And now I will tell the whole story,” said Mrs. Brown. And she -told it, acknowledging her fault with true contrition,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> and swearing -that she would atone for it by life-long sisterly devotion.</p> - -<p>“And you mustard-plastered the wrong man!” said the old gentleman, -almost rolling off his chair with delight.</p> - -<p>“I did,” said Mrs. Brown, sobbing, “and I think that no woman ever -suffered as I suffered.”</p> - -<p>“And Jones wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”</p> - -<p>“It was the handkerchief stopped us,” said Brown.</p> - -<p>“If it had turned out to be anybody else,” said the member of -Parliament, “the results might have been most serious,—not to say -discreditable.”</p> - -<p>“That’s nonsense, Robert,” said Mrs. Brown, who was disposed to resent -the use of so severe a word, even from the legislator cousin.</p> - -<p>“In a strange gentleman’s bedroom!” he continued. “It only shows that -what I have always said is quite true. You should never go to bed in a -strange house without locking your door.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was a very jovial meeting, and before the evening was -over Mr. Jones was happy, and had been brought to acknowledge that the -mustard-plaster would probably not do him any permanent injury.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span><br />nbsp; -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_TELEGRAPH_GIRL" id="THE_TELEGRAPH_GIRL"></a>THE TELEGRAPH GIRL.</h2> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-4" id="CHAPTER_I-4"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>LUCY GRAHAM AND SOPHY WILSON.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HREE shillings a day to cover all expenses of life, food, raiment, -shelter, a room in which to eat and sleep, and fire and light,—and -recreation if recreation there might be,—is not much; but when Lucy -Graham, the heroine of this tale, found herself alone in the world, she -was glad to think that she was able to earn so much by her work, and -that thus she possessed the means of independence if she chose to be -independent. Her story up to the date with which we are dealing shall be -very shortly told. She had lived for many years with a married brother, -who was a bookseller in Holborn,—in a small way of business, and -burdened with a large family, but still living in decent comfort. In -order, however, that she might earn her own bread she had gone into the -service of the Crown as a “Telegraph Girl” in the Telegraph Office.<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> -And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> there she had remained till the present time, and there she was -earning eighteen shillings a week by eight hours’ continual work daily. -Her life had been full of occupation, as in her spare hours she had been -her brother’s assistant in his shop, and had made herself familiar with -the details of his trade. But the brother had suddenly died, and it had -been quickly decided that the widow and the children should take -themselves off to some provincial refuge.</p> - -<p>Then it was that Lucy Graham had to think of her independence and her -eighteen shillings a week on the one side, and of her desolation and -feminine necessities on the other. To run backwards and forwards from -High Holborn to St. Martin’s-le-Grand had been very well as long as she -could comfort herself with the companionship of her sister-in-law and -defend herself with her brother’s arm;—but how would it be with her if -she were called upon to live all alone in London? She was driven to -consider what else she could do to earn her bread. She might become a -nursemaid, or perhaps a nursery governess. Though she had been well and -in some respects carefully educated, she knew that she could not soar -above that. Of music she did not know a note. She could draw a little -and understood enough French,—not to read it, but to teach herself to -read it. With English literature she was better acquainted than is usual -with young women of her age and class; and, as her only personal -treasures, she had managed to save a few books which had become hers -through her brother’s kindness. To be a servant was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> distasteful to her, -not through any idea that service was disreputable, but from a dislike -to be subject at all hours to the will of others. To work and work hard -she was quite willing, so that there might be some hours of her life in -which she might not be called upon to obey.</p> - -<p>When, therefore, it was suggested to her that she had better abandon the -Telegraph Office and seek the security of some household, her spirit -rebelled against the counsel. Why should she not be independent, and -respectable, and safe? But then the solitude! Solitude would certainly -be hard, but absolute solitude might not perhaps be necessary. She was -fond too of the idea of being a government servant, with a sure and -fixed salary,—bound of course to her work at certain hours, but so -bound only for certain hours. During a third of the day she was, as she -proudly told herself, a servant of the Crown. During the other -two-thirds she was lord,—or lady,—of herself.</p> - -<p>But there was a quaintness, a mystery, even an awe, about her -independence which almost terrified her. During her labours she had -eight hundred female companions, all congregated together in one vast -room, but as soon as she left the Post Office she was to be all alone! -For a few months after her brother’s death she continued to live with -her sister-in-law, during which time this great question was being -discussed. But then the sister-in-law and the children disappeared, and -it was incumbent on Lucy to fix herself somewhere. She must begin life -after what seemed to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> to be a most unfeminine fashion,—“just as -though she were a young man,”—for it was thus that she described to -herself her own position over and over again.</p> - -<p>At this time Lucy Graham was twenty-six years old. She had hitherto -regarded herself as being stronger and more steadfast than are women -generally of that age. She had taught herself to despise feminine -weaknesses, and had learned to be almost her brother’s equal in managing -the affairs of his shop in his absence. She had declared to herself, -looking forward then to some future necessity which had become present -to her with terrible quickness, that she would not be feckless, -helpless, and insufficient for herself as are so many females. She had -girded herself up for a work-a-day life,—looking forward to a time when -she might leave the telegraphs and become a partner with her brother. A -sudden disruption had broken up all that.</p> - -<p>She was twenty-six, well made, cheery, healthy, and to some eyes -singularly good-looking, though no one probably would have called her -either pretty or handsome. In the first place her complexion was—brown. -It was impossible to deny that her whole face was brown, as also was her -hair, and generally her dress. There was a pervading brownness about her -which left upon those who met her a lasting connection between Lucy -Graham and that serviceable, long-enduring colour. But there was nobody -so convinced that she was brown from head to foot as was she herself. A -good lasting colour she would call it,—one that did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> require to be -washed every half-hour in order that it might be decent, but could bear -real washing when it was wanted; for it was a point of her inner creed, -of her very faith of faith, that she was not to depend upon feminine -good looks, or any of the adventitious charms of dress for her advance -in the world. “A good strong binding,” she would say of certain -dark-visaged books, “that will stand the gas, and not look disfigured -even though a blot of ink should come in its way.” And so it was that -she regarded her own personal binding.</p> - -<p>But for all that she was to some observers very attractive. There was -not a mean feature in her face. Her forehead was spacious and well -formed. Her eyes, which were brown also, were very bright, and could -sparkle with anger or solicitude, or perhaps with love. Her nose was -well formed, and delicately shaped enough. Her mouth was large, but full -of expression, and seemed to declare without speech that she could be -eloquent. The form of her face was oval, and complete, not as though it -had been moulded by an inartistic thumb, a bit added on here and a bit -there. She was somewhat above the average height of women, and stood -upon her legs,—or walked upon them,—as though she understood that they -had been given to her for real use.</p> - -<p>Two years before her brother’s death there had been a suitor for her -hand,—as to whose suit she had in truth doubted much. He also had been -a bookseller, a man in a larger way of business than her brother,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> some -fifteen years older than herself,—a widower, with a family. She knew -him to be a good man, with a comfortable house, an adequate income, and -a kind heart. Had she gone to him she would not have been required then -to live among the bookshelves or the telegraphs. She had doubted much -whether she would not go to him. She knew she could love the children. -She thought that she could buckle herself to that new work with a will. -But she feared,—she feared that she could not love him.</p> - -<p>Perhaps there had come across her heart some idea of what might be the -joy of real, downright, hearty love. If so it was only an idea. No -personage had come across her path thus to disturb her. But the idea, or -the fear, had been so strong with her that she had never been able to -induce herself to become the wife of this man; and when he had come to -her after her brother’s death, in her worst desolation,—when the -prospect of service in some other nursery had been strongest before her -eyes,—she had still refused him. Perhaps there had been a pride in -this,—a feeling that as she had rejected him in her comparative -prosperity, she should not take him now when the renewal of his offer -might probably be the effect of generosity. But she did refuse him; and -the widowed bookseller had to look elsewhere for a second mother for his -children.</p> - -<p>Then there arose the question, how and where she should live? When it -came to the point of settling herself, that idea of starting in life -like a young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> became very awful indeed. How was she to do it? Would -any respectable keeper of lodgings take her in upon that principle? And -if so, in what way should she plan out her life? Sixteen hours a day -were to be her own. What should she do with them? Was she or was she not -to contemplate the enjoyment of any social pleasures; and if so, how -were they to be found of such a nature as not to be discreditable? On -rare occasions she had gone to the play with her brother, and had then -enjoyed the treat thoroughly. Whether it had been <i>Hamlet</i> at the -Lyceum, or <i>Lord Dundreary</i> at the Haymarket, she had found herself -equally able to be happy. But there could not be for her now even such -rare occasions as these. She thought that she knew that a young woman -all alone could not go to the theatre with propriety, let her be ever so -brave. And then those three shillings a day, though sufficient for life, -would hardly be more than sufficient.</p> - -<p>But how should she begin? At last chance assisted her. Another girl, -also employed in the Telegraph Office, with whom there had been some -family acquaintance over and beyond that formed in the office, happened -at this time to be thrown upon the world in some such fashion as -herself, and the two agreed to join their forces.</p> - -<p>She was one Sophy Wilson by name,—and it was agreed between them that -they should club their means together and hire a room for their joint -use. Here would be a companionship,—and possibly, after awhile, sweet -friendship. Sophy was younger than herself, and might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> probably need, -perhaps be willing to accept, assistance. To be able to do something -that should be of use to somebody would, she felt, go far towards giving -her life that interest which it would otherwise lack.</p> - -<p>When Lucy examined her friend, thinking of the closeness of their future -connection, she was startled by the girl’s prettiness and youth, and -thorough unlikeness to herself. Sophy had long, black, glossy curls, -large eyes, a pink complexion, and was very short. She seemed to have no -inclination for that strong, serviceable brown binding which was so -valuable in Lucy’s eyes; but rather to be wedded to bright colours and -soft materials. And it soon became evident to the elder young woman that -the younger looked upon her employment simply as a stepping-stone to a -husband. To get herself married as soon as possible was unblushingly -declared by Sophy Wilson to be the one object of her ambition,—and as -she supposed that of every other girl in the telegraph department. But -she seemed to be friendly and at first docile, to have been brought up -with aptitudes for decent life, and to be imbued with the necessity of -not spending more than her three shillings a day. And she was quick -enough at her work in the office,—quicker even than Lucy -herself,—which was taken by Lucy as evidence that her new friend was -clever, and would therefore probably be an agreeable companion.</p> - -<p>They took together a bedroom in a very quiet street in Clerkenwell,—a -street which might be described as genteel because it contained no -shops; and here they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> began to keep house, as they called it. Now the -nature of their work was such that they were not called upon to be in -their office till noon, but that then they were required to remain there -till eight in the evening. At two a short space was allowed them for -dinner, which was furnished to them at a cheap rate in a room adjacent -to that in which they worked. Here for eightpence each they could get a -good meal, or if they preferred it they could bring their food with -them, and even have it cooked upon the premises. In the evening tea and -bread and butter were provided for them by the officials; and then at -eight or a few minutes after they left the building and walked home. The -keeping of house was restricted in fact to providing tea and bread and -butter for the morning meal, and perhaps when they could afford it for -the repetition of such comfort later in the evening. There was the -Sunday to be considered,—as to which day they made a contract with the -keeper of the lodging-house to sit at her table and partake of her -dishes. And so they were established.</p> - -<p>From the first Lucy Graham made up her mind that it was her duty to be a -very friend of friends to this new companion. It was as though she had -consented to marry that widowed bookseller. She would then have -considered herself bound to devote herself to his welfare. It was not -that she could as yet say that she loved Sophy Wilson. Love with her -could not be so immediate as that. But the nature of the bond between -them was such, that each might possibly do so much either for the -happiness, or the unhappiness of the other!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> And then, though Sophy was -clever,—for as to this Lucy did not doubt,—still she was too evidently -in many things inferior to herself, and much in want of such assistance -as a stronger nature could give her. Lucy in acknowledging this put down -her own greater strength to the score of her years and the nature of the -life which she had been called upon to lead. She had early in her days -been required to help herself, to hold her own, and to be as it were a -woman of business. But the weakness of the other was very apparent to -her. That doctrine as to the necessity of a husband, which had been very -soon declared, had,—well,—almost disgusted Lucy. And then she found -cause to lament the peculiar arrangement which the requirements of the -office had made as to their hours. At first it had seemed to her to be -very pleasant that they should have their morning hours for needlework, -and perhaps for a little reading; but when she found that Sophy would -lie in bed till ten because early rising was not obligatory, then she -wished that they had been classed among those whose presence was -demanded at eight.</p> - -<p>After awhile, there was a little difference between them as to what -might or what might not be done with propriety after their office hours -were over. It must be explained that in that huge room in which eight -hundred girls were at work together, there was also a sprinkling of boys -and young men. As no girls were employed there after eight there would -always be on duty in the afternoon an increasing number of the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> -sex, some of whom remained there till late at night,—some indeed all -night. Now, whether by chance,—or as Lucy feared by management,—Sophy -Wilson had her usual seat next to a young lad with whom she soon -contracted a certain amount of intimacy. And from this intimacy arose a -proposition that they two should go with Mr. Murray,—he was at first -called Mister, but the formal appellation soon degenerated into a -familiar Alec,—to a Music Hall! Lucy Graham at once set her face -against the Music Hall.</p> - -<p>“But why?” asked the other girl. “You don’t mean to say that decent -people don’t go to Music Halls?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean to say anything of the kind, but then they go decently -attended.”</p> - -<p>“How decently? We should be decent.”</p> - -<p>“With their brothers,” said Lucy;—“or something of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“Brothers!” ejaculated the other girl with a tone of thorough contempt. -A visit to a Music Hall with her brother was not at all the sort of -pleasure to which Sophy was looking forward. She did her best to get -over objections which to her seemed to be fastidious and absurd, -observing, “that if people were to feel like that there would be no -coming together of people at all.” But when she found that Lucy could -not be instigated to go to the Music Hall, and that the idea of Alec -Murray and herself going to such a place unattended by others was -regarded as a proposition too monstrous to be discussed, Sophy for -awhile gave way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> But she returned again and again to the subject, -thinking to prevail by asserting that Alec had a friend, a most -excellent young man, who would go with them,—and bring his sister. Alec -was almost sure that the sister would come. Lucy, however, would have -nothing to do with it. Lucy thought that there should be very great -intimacy indeed before anything of that kind should be permitted.</p> - -<p>And so there was something of a quarrel. Sophy declared that such a life -as theirs was too hard for her, and that some kind of amusement was -necessary. Unless she were allowed some delight she must go mad, she -must die, she must throw herself off Waterloo Bridge. Lucy, remembering -her duty, remembering how imperative it was that she should endeavour to -do good to the one human being with whom she was closely concerned, -forgave her, and tried to comfort her;—forgave her even though at last -she refused to be guided by her monitress. For Sophy did go to the Music -Hall with Alec Murray,—reporting, but reporting falsely, that they were -accompanied by the friend and the friend’s sister. Lucy, poor Lucy, was -constrained by certain circumstances to disbelieve this false assertion. -She feared that Sophy had gone with Alec alone,—as was the fact. But -yet she forgave her friend. How are we to live together at all if we -cannot forgive each other’s offences?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-4" id="CHAPTER_II-4"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>ABRAHAM HALL.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">As</span> there was no immediate repetition of the offence the forgiveness soon -became complete, and Lucy found the interest of her life in her -endeavours to be good to this weak child whom chance had thrown in her -way. For Sophy Wilson was but a weak child. She was full of Alec Murray -for awhile, and induced Lucy to make the young man’s acquaintance. The -lad was earning twelve shillings a week, and if these two poor young -creatures chose to love each other and get themselves married, it would -be respectable, though it might be unfortunate. It would at any rate be -the way of the world, and was a natural combination with which she would -have no right to interfere. But she found that Alec was a mere boy, and -with no idea beyond the enjoyment of a bright scarf and a penny cigar, -with a girl by his side at a Music Hall. “I don’t think it can be worth -your while to go much out of your way for his sake,” said Lucy.</p> - -<p>“Who is going out of her way? Not I. He’s as good as anybody else, I -suppose. And one must have somebody to talk to sometimes.” These last -words she uttered so plaintively, showing so plainly that she was unable -to endure the simple unchanging dulness of a life of labour, that Lucy’s -heart was thoroughly softened towards her. She had the great gift of -being not the less able to sympathize with the weakness of the weak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> -because of her own abnormal strength. And so it came to pass that she -worked for her friend,—stitching and mending when the girl ought to -have stitched and mended for herself,—reading to her, even though but -little of what was read might be understood,—yielding to her and -assisting her in all things, till at last it came to pass that in truth -she loved her. And such love and care were much wanted, for the elder -girl soon found that the younger was weak in health as well as weak in -spirit. There were days on which she could not,—or at any rate did not -go to her office. When six months had passed by Lucy had not once been -absent since she had begun her new life.</p> - -<p>“Have you seen that man who has come to look at our house?” asked Sophy -one day as they were walking down to the office. Lucy had seen a strange -man, having met him on the stairs. “Isn’t he a fine fellow?”</p> - -<p>“For anything that I know. Let us hope that he is very fine,” said Lucy -laughing.</p> - -<p>“He’s about as handsome a chap as I think I ever saw.”</p> - -<p>“As for being a chap the man I saw must be near forty.”</p> - -<p>“He is a little old I should say, but not near that. I don’t think he -can have a wife or he wouldn’t come here. He’s an engineer, and he has -the care of a steam-engine in the City Road,—that great printing place. -His name is Abraham Hall, and he’s earning three or four pounds a week. -A man like that ought to have a wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span>”</p> - -<p>“How did you learn all about him?”</p> - -<p>“It’s all true. Sally heard it from Mrs. Green.” Mrs. Green was the -keeper of the lodging-house and Sally was the maid. “I couldn’t help -speaking to him yesterday because we were both at the door together. He -talked just like a gentleman although he was all smutty and greasy.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad he talked like a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“I told him we lodged here and that we were telegraph girls, and that we -never got home till half-past eight. He would be just the beau for you -because he is such a big steady-looking fellow.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want a beau,” said Lucy angrily.</p> - -<p>“Then I shall take him myself,” said Sophy as she entered the office.</p> - -<p>Soon after that it came to pass that there did arise a slight -acquaintance between both the girls and Abraham Hall, partly from the -fact of their near neighbourhood, partly perhaps from some little tricks -on Sophy’s part. But the man seemed to be so steady, so solid, so little -given to lightnesses of flirtation or to dangerous delights, that Lucy -was inclined to welcome the accident. When she saw him on a Sunday -morning free from the soil of his work, she could perceive that he was -still a young man, probably not much over thirty;—but there was a look -about him as though he were well inured to the cares of the world, such -as is often produced by the possession of a wife and family,—not a look -of depression by any means, but seeming to betoken an appreciation of -the seriousness of life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> From all this Lucy unconsciously accepted an -idea of security in the man, feeling that it might be pleasant to have -some strong one near her, from whom in case of need assistance might be -asked without fear. For this man was tall and broad and powerful, and -seemed to Lucy’s eyes to be a very pillar of strength when he would -stand still for a moment to greet her in the streets.</p> - -<p>But poor Sophy, who had so graciously offered the man to her friend at -the beginning of their intercourse, seemed soon to change her mind and -to desire his attention for herself. He was certainly much more worthy -than Alec Murray. But to Lucy, to whom it was a rule of life as strong -as any in the commandments that a girl should not throw herself at a -man, but should be sought by him, it was a painful thing to see how many -of poor Sophy’s much-needed sixpences were now spent in little articles -of finery by which it was hoped that Mr. Hall’s eyes might be gratified, -and how those glossy ringlets were brushed and made to shine with -pomatum, and how the little collars were washed and re-washed and -starched and re-starched, in order that she might be smart for him. -Lucy, who was always neat, endeavoured to become browner and browner. -This she did by way of reproach and condemnation, not at all surmising -that Mr. Hall might possibly prefer a good solid wearing colour to -glittering blue and pink gewgaws.</p> - -<p>At this time Sophy was always full of what Mr. Hall had last said to -her; and after awhile broached<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> an idea that he was some gentleman in -disguise. “Why in disguise? Why not a gentleman not in disguise?” asked -Lucy, who had her own ideas, perhaps a little exaggerated, as to -Nature’s gentlemen. Then Sophy explained herself. A gentleman, a real -gentleman, in disguise would be very interesting;—one who had -quarrelled with his father, perhaps, because he would not endure -paternal tyranny, and had then determined to earn his own bread till he -might happily come into the family honours and property in a year or -two. Perhaps instead of being Abraham Hall he was in reality the Right -Honourable Russell Howard Cavendish; and if, during his temporary -abeyance, he should prove his thorough emancipation from the thraldom of -his aristocracy by falling in love with a telegraph girl, how fine it -would be! When Lucy expressed an opinion that Mr. Hall might be a very -fine fellow though he were fulfilling no more than the normal condition -of his life at the present moment, Sophy would not be contented, -declaring that her friend, with all her reading, knew nothing of poetry. -In this way they talked very frequently about Abraham Hall, till Lucy -would often feel that such talking was indecorous. Then she would be -silent for awhile herself, and rebuke the other girl for her constant -mention of the man’s name. Then again she would be brought back to the -subject;—for in all the little intercourse which took place between -them and the man, his conduct was so simple and yet so civil, that she -could not really feel him to be unworthy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> of a place in her thoughts. -But Sophy soon declared frankly to her friend that she was absolutely in -love with the man. “You wouldn’t have him, you know,” she said when Lucy -scolded her for the avowal.</p> - -<p>“Have him! How can you bring yourself to talk in such a way about a man? -What does he want of either of us?”</p> - -<p>“Men do marry you know,—sometimes,” said Sophy; “and I don’t know how a -young man is to get a wife unless some girl will show that she is fond -of him.”</p> - -<p>“He should show first that he is fond of her.”</p> - -<p>“That’s all very well for talkee-talkee,” said Sophy; “but it doesn’t do -for practice. Men are awfully shy. And then though they do marry -sometimes, they don’t want to get married particularly,—not as we do. -It comes like an accident. But how is a man to fall into a pit if -there’s no pit open?”</p> - -<p>In answer to this Lucy used many arguments and much scolding. But to -very little effect. That the other girl should have thought so much -about it and be so ready with her arguments was horrid to her. “A pit -open!” ejaculated Lucy; “I would rather never speak to a man again than -regard myself in such a light.” Sophy said that all that might be very -well, but declared that it “would not wash.”</p> - -<p>The elder girl was so much shocked by all this that there came upon her -gradually a feeling of doubt whether their joint life could be -continued. Sophy declared her purpose openly of entrapping Abraham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> Hall -into a marriage, and had absolutely induced him to take her to the -theatre. He had asked Lucy to join them; but she had sternly refused, -basing her refusal on her inability to bear the expense. When he offered -to give her the treat, she told him with simple gravity that nothing -would induce her to accept such a favour from any man who was not either -a very old friend or a near relation. When she said this he so looked at -her that she was sure that he approved of her resolve. He did not say a -word to press her;—but he took Sophy Wilson, and, as Lucy knew, paid -for Sophy’s ticket.</p> - -<p>All this displeased Lucy so much that she began to think whether there -must not be a separation. She could not continue to live on terms of -affectionate friendship with a girl whose conduct she so strongly -disapproved. But then again, though she could not restrain the poor -light thing altogether, she did restrain her in some degree. She was -doing some good by her companionship. And then, if it really was in the -man’s mind to marry the girl, that certainly would be a good thing,—for -the girl. With such a husband she would be steady enough. She was quite -sure that the idea of preparing a pit for such a one as Abraham Hall -must be absurd. But Sophy was pretty and clever, and if married would at -any rate love her husband. Lucy thought she had heard that steady, -severe, thoughtful men were apt to attach themselves to women of the -butterfly order. She did not like the way in which Sophy was doing this; -but then, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> was she that she should be a judge? If Abraham Hall liked -it, would not that be much more to the purpose? Therefore she resolved -that there should be no separation at present;—and, if possible, no -quarrelling.</p> - -<p>But soon it came to pass that there was another very solid reason -against separation. Sophy, who was often unwell, and would sometimes -stay away from the office for a day or two on the score of ill-health, -though by doing so she lost one of her three shillings on each such day, -gradually became worse. The superintendent at her department had -declared that in case of further absence a medical certificate must be -sent, and the doctor attached to the office had called upon her. He had -looked grave, had declared that she wanted considerable care, had then -gone so far as to recommend rest,—which meant absence from work,—for -at least a fortnight, and ordered her medicine. This of course meant the -loss of a third of her wages. In such circumstances and at such a time -it was not likely that Lucy should think of separation.</p> - -<p>While Sophy was ill Abraham Hall often came to the door to inquire after -her health;—so often that Lucy almost thought that her friend had -succeeded. The man seemed to be sympathetic and anxious, and would -hardly have inquired with so much solicitude had he not really been -anxious as to poor Sophy’s health. Then, when Sophy was better, he would -come in to see her, and the girl would deck herself out with some little -ribbon and would have her collar always starched<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> and ironed, ready for -his reception. It certainly did seem to Lucy that the man was becoming -fond of her foolish little friend.</p> - -<p>During this period Lucy of course had to go to the office alone, leaving -Sophy to the care of the lodging-house keeper. And, in her solitude, -troubles were heavy on her. In the first place Sophy’s illness had -created certain necessarily increased expenses; and at the same time -their joint incomes had been diminished by one shilling a week out of -six. Lucy was in general matters allowed to be the dispenser of the -money; but on occasions the other girl would assert her rights,—which -always meant her right to some indulgence out of their joint incomes -which would be an indulgence to her and her alone. Even those bright -ribbons could not be had for nothing. Lucy wanted no bright ribbons. -When they were fairly prosperous she had not grudged some little -expenditure in this direction. She had told herself that young girls -like to be bright in the eyes of men, and that she had no right even to -endeavour to make her friend look at all these things with her eyes. She -even confessed to herself some deficiency on her own part, some want of -womanliness in that she did not aspire to be attractive,—still owning -to herself, vehemently declaring to herself, that to be attractive in -the eyes of a man whom she could love would of all delights be the most -delightful. Thinking of all this she had endeavoured not to be angry -with poor Sophy; but when she became pinched for shillings and sixpences -and to feel doubtful whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> at the end of each fortnight there would -be money to pay Mrs. Green for lodgings and coal, then her heart became -sad within her, and she told herself that Sophy, though she was ill, -ought to be more careful.</p> - -<p>And there was another trouble which for awhile was very grievous. -Telegraphy is an art not yet perfected among us and is still subject to -many changes. Now it was the case at this time that the pundits of the -office were in favour of a system of communicating messages by ear -instead of by eye. The little dots and pricks which even in Lucy’s time -had been changed more than once, had quickly become familiar to her. No -one could read and use her telegraphic literature more rapidly or -correctly than Lucy Graham. But now that this system of little tinkling -sounds was coming up,—a system which seemed to be very pleasant to -those females who were gifted with musical aptitudes,—she found herself -to be less quick, less expert, less useful than her neighbours. This was -very sad, for she had always been buoyed up by an unconscious conviction -of her own superior intelligence. And then, though there had been -neither promises nor threats, she had become aware,—at any rate had -thought that she was aware,—that those girls who could catch and use -the tinkling sounds would rise more quickly to higher pay than the less -gifted ones. She had struggled therefore to overcome the difficulty. She -had endeavoured to force her ears to do that which her ears were not -capable of accomplishing. She had failed, and to-day had owned to -herself that she must fail. But Sophy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> had been one of the first to -catch the tinkling sounds. Lucy came back to her room sad and down at -heart and full of troubles. She had a long task of needlework before -her, which had been put by for awhile through causes consequent on -Sophy’s illness. “Now she is better perhaps he will marry her and take -her away, and I shall be alone again,” she said to herself, as though -declaring that such a state of things would be a relief to her, and -almost a happiness.</p> - -<p>“He has just been here,” said Sophy to her as soon as she entered the -room. Sophy was painfully, cruelly smart, clean and starched, and -shining about her locks,—so prepared that, as Lucy thought, she must -have evidently expected him.</p> - -<p>“Well;—and what did he say?”</p> - -<p>“He has not said much yet, but it was very good of him to come and see -me,—and he was looking so handsome. He is going out somewhere this -evening to some political meeting with two or three other men, and he -was got up quite like a gentleman. I do like to see him look like that.”</p> - -<p>“I always think a working man looks best in his working clothes,” said -Lucy. “There’s some truth about him then. When he gets into a black coat -he is pretending to be something else, but everybody can see the -difference.”</p> - -<p>There was a severity, almost a savageness in this, which surprised Sophy -so much that at first she hardly knew how to answer it. “He is going to -speak at the meeting,” she said after a pause. “And of course he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> had to -make himself tidy. He told me all that he is going to say. Should you -not like to hear him speak?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Lucy very sharply, setting to work instantly upon her -labours, not giving herself a moment for preparation or a moment for -rest. Why should she like to hear a man speak who could condescend to -love so empty and so vain a thing as that? Then she became gradually -ashamed of her own feelings. “Yes,” she said; “I think I should like to -hear him speak;—only if I were not quite so tired. Mr. Hall is a man of -good sense, and well educated, and I think I should like to hear him -speak.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to hear him say one thing I know,” said Sophy. Then Lucy -in her rage tore asunder some fragment of a garment on which she was -working.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-4" id="CHAPTER_III-4"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>SOPHY WILSON GOES TO HASTINGS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Sophy</span> went back to her work, and in a very few days was permanently -moved from the seat which she had hitherto occupied next to Alec Murray -and near to Lucy, to a distant part of the chamber in which the tinkling -instruments were used. And as a part of the arrangement consequent on -this she was called on to attend from ten till six instead of from noon -till eight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> And her hour for dining was changed also. In this way a -great separation between the girls was made, for neither could they walk -to the office together, nor walk from it. To Lucy, though she was -sometimes inclined to be angry with her friend, this was very painful. -But Sophy triumphed in it greatly. “I think we are to have a step up to -21<i>s.</i> in the musical box,” she said laughing. For it was so that she -called the part of the room in which the little bells were always -ringing. “Won’t it be nice to have 3<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> instead of 3<i>s.</i>?” Lucy -said solemnly that any increase of income was always nice, and that when -such income was earned by superiority of acquirement it was a matter of -just pride. This she enunciated with something of a dogmatic air; having -schooled herself to give all due praise to Sophy, although it had to be -given at the expense of her own feelings. But when Sophy said in reply -that that was just what she had been thinking herself, and that as she -could do her work by ear she was of course worth more than those who -could not, then the other could only with difficulty repress the -soreness of her heart.</p> - -<p>But to Sophy I think the new arrangements were most pleasant because it -enabled her to reach the street in which she lived just when Abraham -Hall was accustomed to return from his work. He would generally come -home,—to clean himself as she called it,—and would then again go out -for his employment or amusement for the evening; and now, by a proper -system of lying in wait, by creeping slow or walking quick, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> by -watching well, she was generally able to have a word or two with him. -But he was so very bashful! He would always call her Miss Wilson; and -she of course was obliged to call him Mr. Hall. “How is Miss Graham?” he -asked one evening.</p> - -<p>“She is very well. I think Lucy is always well. I never knew anybody so -strong as she is.”</p> - -<p>“It is a great blessing. And how are you yourself?”</p> - -<p>“I do get so tired at that nasty office. Though of course I like what I -am doing now better than the other. It was that rolling up the bands -that used to kill me. But I don’t think I shall ever really be strong -till I get away from the telegraphs. I suppose you have no young ladies -where you are?”</p> - -<p>“There are I believe a lot of them in the building, stitching bindings; -but I never see them.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you care much for young ladies, Mr. Hall.”</p> - -<p>“Not much—now.”</p> - -<p>“Why not now? What does that mean?”</p> - -<p>“I dare say I never told you or Miss Graham before. But I had a wife of -my own for a time.”</p> - -<p>“A wife! You!”</p> - -<p>“Yes indeed. But she did not stay with me long. She left me before we -had been a year married.”</p> - -<p>“Left you!”</p> - -<p>“She died,” he said, correcting very quickly the false impression which -his words had been calculated to make.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span></p> - -<p>“Dear me! Died before a year was out. How sad!”</p> - -<p>“It was very sad.”</p> - -<p>“And you had no,—no,—no baby, Mr. Hall?”</p> - -<p>“I wish she had had none, because then she would have been still living. -Yes, I have a boy. Poor little mortal! It is two years old I think -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I should so like to see him. A little boy! Do bring him some day, Mr. -Hall.” Then the father explained that the child was in the country, down -in Hertfordshire; but nevertheless he promised that he would some day -bring him up to town and show him to his new friends.</p> - -<p>Surely having once been married and having a child he must want another -wife! And yet how little apt he was to say or do any of those things by -saying and doing which men are supposed to express their desire in that -direction! He was very slow at making love;—so slow that Sophy hardly -found herself able to make use of her own little experiences with him. -Alec Murray, who, however, in the way of a husband was not worth -thinking of, had a great deal more to say for himself. She could put on -her ribbons for Mr. Hall, and wait for him in the street, and look up -into his face, and call him Mr. Hall;—but she could not tell him how -dearly she would love that little boy and what an excellent mother she -would be to him, unless he gave her some encouragement.</p> - -<p>When Lucy heard that he had been a married man and that he had a child -she was gratified, though she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> knew not why. “Yes, I should like to see -him of course,” she said, speaking of the boy. “A child, if you have not -the responsibility of taking care of it, is always nice.”</p> - -<p>“I should so like to take care of it.”</p> - -<p>“I should not like to ask him to bring the boy up out of the country.” -She paused a moment, and then added, “He is just the man whom I should -have thought would have married, and just the man to be made very -serious by the grief of such a loss. I am coming to think it does a -person good to have to bear troubles.”</p> - -<p>“You would not say that if you always felt as sick as I do after your -day’s work.”</p> - -<p>About a week after that Sophy was so weak in the middle of the day that -she was obliged to leave the office and go home. “I know it will kill -me,” she said that evening, “if I go on with it. The place is so stuffy -and nasty, and then those terrible stairs. If I could get out of it and -settle down, then I should be quite well. I am not made for that kind of -work;—not like you are.”</p> - -<p>“I think I was made for it certainly.”</p> - -<p>“It is such a blessing to be strong,” said poor Sophy.</p> - -<p>“Yes; it is a blessing. And I do bless God that he has made me so. It is -the one good thing that has been given to me, and it is better, I think, -than all the others.” As she said this she looked at Sophy and thought -that she was very pretty; but she thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> also that prettiness had its -dangers and its temptations; and that good strong serviceable health -might perhaps be better for one who had to earn her bread.</p> - -<p>But through all these thoughts there was a great struggle going on -within her. To be able to earn one’s bread without personal suffering is -very good. To be tempted by prettiness to ribbons, pomatum, and vanities -which one cannot afford is very bad. To do as Sophy was doing in regard -to this young man, setting her cap at him and resolving to make prey of -him as a fowler does of a bird, was, to her way of thinking, most -unseemly. But to be loved by such a man as Abraham Hall, to be chosen by -him as his companion, to be removed from the hard, outside, unwomanly -work of the world to the indoor occupations which a husband would -require from her; how much better a life according to her real tastes -would that be, than anything which she now saw before her! It was all -very well to be brown and strong while the exigencies of her position -were those which now surrounded her; but she could not keep herself from -dreaming of something which would have been much better than that.</p> - -<p>A month or two passed away during which the child had on one occasion -been brought up to town on a Saturday evening, and had been petted and -washed and fed and generally cared for by the two girls during the -Sunday,—all which greatly increased their intimacy with the father. And -now, as Lucy quickly observed, Abraham Hall called Sophy by her -Christian name. When the word was first pronounced in Lucy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span>’s presence -Sophy blushed and looked round at her friend. But she never said that -the change had been made at her own request. “I do so hate to be called -Miss Wilson,” she had said. “It seems among friends as though I were a -hundred years old.” Then he had called her Sophy. But she did not -dare,—not as yet,—to call him Abraham. All which the other girl -watched very closely, saying nothing.</p> - -<p>But during these two months Sophy had been away from her office more -than half the time. Then the doctor said she had better leave town for -awhile. It was September, and it was desired that she should pass that -month at Hastings. Now it should be explained that in such emergencies -as this the department has provided a most kindly aid for young women. -Some five or six at a time are sent out for a month to Hastings or to -Brighton, and are employed in the telegraph offices in those towns. -Their railway fares are paid for them, and a small extra allowance is -made to them to enable them to live away from their homes. The privilege -is too generally sought to be always at the command of her who wants it; -nor is it accorded except on the doctor’s certificate. But in the -September Sophy Wilson was sent down to Hastings.</p> - -<p>In spite, however, of the official benevolence which greatly lightened -the special burden which illness must always bring on those who have to -earn their bread, and which in Sophy Wilson’s case had done so much for -her, nevertheless the weight of the misfortune fell heavily on poor -Lucy. Some little struggle had to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> made as to clothes before the girl -could be sent away from her home; and, though the sick one was enabled -to support herself at Hastings, the cost of the London lodgings which -should have been divided fell entirely upon Lucy. Then at the end of the -month there came worse tidings. The doctor at Hastings declared that the -girl was unfit to go back to her work,—was, indeed, altogether unfit -for such effort as eight hours’ continued attendance required from her. -She wanted at any rate some period of perfect rest, and therefore she -remained down at the seaside without the extra allowance which was so -much needed for her maintenance.</p> - -<p>Then the struggle became very severe with Lucy,—so severe that she -began to doubt whether she could long endure it. Sophy had her two -shillings a day, the two-thirds of her wages, but she could not subsist -on that. Something had to be sent to her in addition, and this something -could only come from Lucy’s wages. So at least it was at first. In order -to avoid debt she gave up her more comfortable room and went upstairs -into a little garret. And she denied herself her accustomed dinner at -the office, contenting herself with bread and cheese,—or often simply -with bread,—which she could take in her pocket. And she washed her own -clothes and mended even her own boots, so that still she might send a -part of her earnings to the sick one.</p> - -<p>“Is she better?” Abraham asked her one day.</p> - -<p>“It is hard to know, Mr. Hall. She writes just as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> she feels at the -moment. I am afraid she fears to return to the office.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it does not suit her.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not. She thinks some other kind of life would be better for -her. I dare say it would.”</p> - -<p>“Could I do anything?” asked the man very slowly.</p> - -<p>Could he do anything? well; yes. Lucy at least thought that he could do -a great deal. There was one thing which, if he would do it, would make -Sophy at any rate believe herself to be well. And this sickness was not -organic,—was not, as it appeared, due to any cause which could be -specified. It had not as yet been called by any name,—such as -consumption. General debility had been spoken of both by the office -doctor and by him at Hastings. Now Lucy certainly thought that a few -words from Mr. Hall would do more than all the doctors in the way of -effecting a cure. Sophy hated the telegraph office, and she lacked the -strength of mind necessary for doing that which was distasteful to her. -And that idea of a husband had taken such hold of her, that nothing else -seemed to her to give a prospect of contentment. “Why don’t you go down -and see her, Mr. Hall?” she said.</p> - -<p>Then he was silent for awhile before he answered,—silent and very -thoughtful. And Lucy as the sound of her own words rested on her ears -felt she had done wrong in asking such a question. Why should he go -down, unless indeed he were in love with the girl and prepared to ask -her to be his wife? If he were to go down expressly to visit her at -Hastings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> unless he were so prepared, what false hopes he would raise; -what damage he would do instead of good! How indeed could he possibly go -down on such a mission without declaring to all the world that he -intended to make the girl his wife? But it was necessary that the -question should be answered. “I could do no good by that,” he said.</p> - -<p>“No; perhaps not. Only I thought——”</p> - -<p>“What did you think?” Now he asked a question and showed plainly by his -manner that he expected an answer.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Lucy blushing. “I suppose I ought not to have -thought anything. But you seemed to be so fond of her.”</p> - -<p>“Fond of her! Well; one does get fond of kind neighbours. I suppose you -would think me impertinent, Miss Lucy,”—he had never made even this -approach to familiarity before,—“if I were to say that I am fond of -both of you.”</p> - -<p>“No indeed,” she replied, thinking that as a fondness declared by a -young man for two girls at one and the same moment could not be -interesting, so neither could it be impertinent.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I should do any good by going down. All that kind of -thing costs so much money.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it does, and I was very wrong.”</p> - -<p>“But I should like to do something, Miss Lucy.” And then he put his hand -into his trousers pocket, and Lucy knew that he was going to bring forth -money.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<p>She was very poor; but the idea of taking money from him was shocking to -her. According to her theory of life, even though Sophy had been engaged -to the man as his promised wife, she should not consent to accept -maintenance from him or pecuniary aid till she had been made, in very -truth, flesh of his flesh, and bone of his bone. Presents an engaged -girl might take of course, but hardly even presents of simple utility. A -shawl might be given, so that it was a pretty thing and not a shawl -merely for warmth. An engaged girl should rather live on bread and water -up to her marriage, than take the means of living from the man she -loved, till she could take it by right of having become his wife. Such -were her feelings, and now she knew that this man was about to offer her -money. “We shall do very well,” she said, “Sophy and I together.”</p> - -<p>“You are very hard pinched,” he replied. “You have given up your room.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have done that. When I was alone I did not want so big a place.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I understand all about it,” he said somewhat roughly, or, -perhaps, gruffly would be the better word. “I think there is one thing -poor people ought never to do. They ought never to be ashamed of being -poor among themselves.”</p> - -<p>Then she looked up into his face, and as she did so a tear formed itself -in each of her eyes. “Am I ashamed of anything before you?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“You are afraid of telling the truth lest I should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> offer to help you. I -know you don’t have your dinner regular as you used.”</p> - -<p>“Who has dared to tell you that, Mr. Hall? What is my dinner to -anybody?”</p> - -<p>“Well. It is something to me. If we are to be friends of course I don’t -like seeing you go without your meals. You’ll be ill next yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I am very strong.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t the way to keep so, to work without the victuals you’re used -to.” He was talking to her now in such a tone as to make her almost feel -that he was scolding her. “No good can come of that. You are sending -your money down to Hastings to her.”</p> - -<p>“Of course we share everything.”</p> - -<p>“You wouldn’t take anything from me for yourself I dare say. Anybody can -see how proud you are. But if I leave it for her I don’t think you have -a right to refuse it. Of course she wants it if you don’t.” With that he -brought out a sovereign and put it down on the table.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I couldn’t, Mr. Hall,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I may give it to her if I please.”</p> - -<p>“You can send it her yourself,” said Lucy, not knowing how else to -answer him.</p> - -<p>“No, I couldn’t. I don’t know her address.” Then without waiting for -another word he walked out of the room, leaving the sovereign on the -table. This occurred in a small back parlour on the ground floor, which -was in the occupation of the landlady, but was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> used sometimes by the -lodgers for such occasional meetings.</p> - -<p>What was she to do with the sovereign? She would be very angry if any -man were to send her a sovereign; but it was not right that she should -measure Sophy’s feelings by her own. And then it might still be that the -man was sending the present to the girl whom he intended to make his -wife. But why—why—why, had he asked about her dinner? What were her -affairs to him? Would she not have gone without her dinner for ever -rather than have taken it at his hands? And yet, who was there in all -the world of whom she thought so well as of him? And so she took the -sovereign upstairs with her into her garret.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-4" id="CHAPTER_IV-4"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>MR. BROWN THE HAIRDRESSER.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lucy</span>, when she got up to her own little room with the sovereign, sat for -awhile on the bed, crying. But she could not in the least explain to -herself why it was that she was shedding tears at this moment. It was -not because Sophy was ill, though that was cause to her of great grief; -nor because she herself was so hard put to it for money to meet her -wants. It may be doubted whether grief or pain ever does of itself -produce tears, which are rather the outcome of some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> emotional feeling. -She was not thinking much of Sophy as she cried, nor certainly were her -own wants present to her mind. The sovereign was between her fingers, -but she did not at first even turn her mind to that, or consider what -had best be done with it. But what right had he to make inquiry as to -her poverty? It was that, she told herself, which now provoked her to -anger so that she wept from sheer vexation. Why should he have searched -into her wants and spoken to her of her need of victuals? What had there -been between them to justify him in tearing away that veil of custom -which is always supposed to hide our private necessities from our -acquaintances till we ourselves feel called upon to declare them? He had -talked to her about her meals. He ought to know that she would starve -rather than accept one from him. Yes;—she was very angry with him, and -would henceforth keep herself aloof from him.</p> - -<p>But still, as she sat, there were present to her eyes and ears the form -and words of an heroic man. He had seemed to scold her; but there are -female hearts which can be better reached and more surely touched by the -truth of anger than by the patent falseness of flattery. Had he paid her -compliments she would not now have been crying, nor would she have -complained to herself of his usage; but she certainly would not have sat -thinking of him, wondering what sort of woman had been that young wife -to whom he had first given himself, wondering whether it was possible -that Sophy should be good enough for him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span></p> - -<p>Then she got up, and looking down upon her own hand gazed at the -sovereign till she had made up her mind what she would do with it. She -at once sat down and wrote to Sophy. She had made up her mind. There -should be no diminution in the contribution made from her own wages. In -no way should any portion of that sovereign administer to her own -comfort. Though she might want her accustomed victuals ever so badly, -they should not come to her from his earnings. So she told Sophy in the -letter that Mr. Hall had expressed great anxiety for her welfare, and -had begged that she would accept a present from him. She was to get -anything with the sovereign that might best tend to her happiness. But -the shilling a day which Lucy contributed out of her own wages was sent -with the sovereign.</p> - -<p>For an entire month she did not see Abraham Hall again so as to do more -than just speak to him on the stairs. She was almost inclined to think -that he was cold and unkind in not seeking her;—and yet she wilfully -kept out of his way. On each Sunday it would at any rate have been easy -for her to meet him; but with a stubborn purpose which she did not -herself understand she kept herself apart, and when she met him on the -stairs, which she would do occasionally when she returned from her work, -she would hardly stand till she had answered his inquiries after Sophy. -But at the end of the month one evening he came up and knocked at her -door. “I am sorry to intrude, Miss Lucy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span>”</p> - -<p>“It is no intrusion, Mr. Hall. I wish I had a place to ask you to sit -down in.”</p> - -<p>“I have come to bring another trifle for Miss Sophy.”</p> - -<p>“Pray do not do it. I cannot send it her. She ought not to take it. I am -sure you know that she ought not to take it.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing of the kind. If I know anything, it is that the strong -should help the weak, and the healthy the sick. Why should she not take -it from me as well as from you?”</p> - -<p>It was necessary that Lucy should think a little before she could answer -this;—but, when she had thought, her answer was ready. “We are both -girls.”</p> - -<p>“Is there anything which ought to confine kindness to this or the other -sex? If you were knocked down in the street would you let no one but a -woman pick you up?”</p> - -<p>“It is not the same. I know you understand it, Mr. Hall. I am sure you -do.”</p> - -<p>Then he also paused to think what he would say, for he was conscious -that he did “understand it.” For a young woman to accept money from a -man seemed to imply that some return of favours would be due. But,—he -said to himself,—that feeling came from what was dirty and not from -what was noble in the world. “You ought to lift yourself above all -that,” he said at last. “Yes; you ought. You are very good, but you -would be better if you would do so. You say that I understand, and I -think that you, too, understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span>” This again was said in that voice -which seemed to scold, and again her eyes became full of tears. Then he -was softer on a sudden. “Good night, Miss Lucy. You will shake hands -with me;—will you not?” She put her hand in his, being perfectly -conscious at the moment that it was the first time that she had ever -done so. What a mighty hand it seemed to be as it held hers for a -moment! “I will put the sovereign on the table,” he said, again leaving -the room and giving her no option as to its acceptance.</p> - -<p>But she made up her mind at once that she would not be the means of -sending his money to Sophy Wilson. She was sure that she would take -nothing from him for her own relief, and therefore sure that neither -ought Sophy to do so,—at any rate unless there had been more between -them than either of them had told to her. But Sophy must judge for -herself. She sent, therefore, the sovereign back to Hall with a little -note as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="c"> -“<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Hall</span>,—Sophy’s address is at<br /> - -<span style="margin-right: 8em;">“Mrs. Pike’s,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-right: 2em;">“19, Paradise Row,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Fairlight, near Hastings.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>“You can do as you like as to writing to her. I am obliged to send -back the money which you have so <i>very generously</i> left for her, -because I do not think she ought to accept it. If she were quite in -want it might be different, but we have still five shillings a day -between us. If a young woman were starving perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> it ought to be -the same as though she were being run over in the street, but it is -not like that. In my next letter I shall tell Sophy all about it.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 4em;">“Yours truly,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Lucy Graham</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>The following evening, when she came home, he was standing at the house -door evidently waiting for her. She had never seen him loitering in that -way before, and she was sure that he was there in order that he might -speak to her.</p> - -<p>“I thought I would let you know that I got the sovereign safely,” he -said. “I am so sorry that you should have returned it.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure that I was right, Mr. Hall.”</p> - -<p>“There are cases in which it is very hard to say what is right and what -is wrong. Some things seem right because people have been wrong so long. -To give and take among friends ought to be right.”</p> - -<p>“We can only do what we think right,” she said, as she passed in through -the passage upstairs.</p> - -<p>She felt sure from what had passed that he had not sent the money to -Sophy. But why not? Sophy had said that he was bashful. Was he so far -bashful that he did not dare himself to send the money to the girl he -loved, though he had no scruple as to giving it to her through another -person? And, as for bashfulness, it seemed to her that the man spoke out -his mind clearly enough. He could scold her, she thought, without any -difficulty, for it still seemed that his voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> and manner were rough to -her. He was never rough to Sophy; but then she had heard so often that -love will alter a man amazingly!</p> - -<p>Then she wrote her letter to Sophy, and explained as well as she could -the whole affair. She was quite sure that Sophy would regret the loss of -the money. Sophy, she knew, would have accepted it without scruple. -People, she said to herself, will be different. But she endeavoured to -make her friend understand that she, with her feelings, could not be the -medium of sending on presents of which she disapproved. “I have given -him your address,” she said, “and he can suit himself as to writing to -you.” In this letter she enclosed a money order for the contribution -made to Sophy’s comfort out of her own wages.</p> - -<p>Sophy’s answer, which came in a day or two, surprised her very much. “As -to Mr. Hall’s money,” she began, “as things stand at present perhaps it -is as well that you didn’t take it.” As Lucy had expected that grievous -fault would be found with her, this was comfortable. But it was after -that, that the real news came. Sophy was a great deal better; that was -also good tidings;—but she did not want to leave Hastings just at -present. Indeed she thought that she did not want to leave it at all. A -very gentlemanlike young man, who was just going to be taken into -partnership in a hairdressing establishment, had proposed to her;—and -she had accepted him. Then there were two wishes expressed;—the first -was that Lucy would go on a little longer with her kind generosity, and -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> second,—that Mr. Hall would not feel it very much.</p> - -<p>As regarded the first wish, Lucy resolved that she would go on at least -for the present. Sophy was still on sick leave from the office, and, -even though she might be engaged to a hairdresser, was still to be -regarded as an invalid. But as to Mr. Hall, she thought that she could -do nothing. She could not even tell him,—at any rate till that marriage -at Hastings was quite a settled thing. But she thought that Mr. Hall’s -future happiness would not be lessened by the event. Though she had -taught herself to love Sophy, she had been unable not to think that her -friend was not a fitting wife for such a man. But in telling herself -that he would have an escape, she put it to herself as though the fault -lay chiefly in him. “He is so stern and so hard that he would have -crushed her, and she never would have understood his justness and -honesty.” In her letter of congratulation, which was very kind, she said -not a word of Abraham Hall, but she promised to go on with her own -contribution till things were a little more settled.</p> - -<p>In the meantime she was very poor. Even brown dresses won’t wear for -ever, let them be ever so brown, and in the first flurry of sending -Sophy off to Hastings,—with that decent apparel which had perhaps been -the means of winning the hairdresser’s heart,—she had got somewhat into -debt with her landlady. This she was gradually paying off, even on her -reduced wages, but the effort pinched her closely. Day by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> day, in spite -of all her efforts with her needle, she became sensible of a -deterioration in her outward appearance which was painful to her at the -office, and which made her most careful to avoid any meeting with -Abraham Hall. Her boots were very bad, and she had now for some time -given up even the pretence of gloves as she went backwards and forwards -to the office. But perhaps it was her hat that was most vexatious. The -brown straw hat which had lasted her all the summer and autumn could -hardly be induced to keep its shape now when November was come.</p> - -<p>One day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Abraham Hall went to the -Post Office, and, having inquired among the messengers, made his way up -to the telegraph department at the top of the building. There he asked -for Miss Graham, and was told by the doorkeeper that the young ladies -were not allowed to receive visitors during office hours. He persisted, -however, explaining that he had no wish to go into the room, but that it -was a matter of importance, and that he was very anxious that Miss -Graham should be asked to come out to him. Now it is a rule that the -staff of the department who are engaged in sending and receiving -messages, the privacy of which may be of vital importance, should be -kept during the hours of work as free as possible from communication -with the public. It is not that either the girls or the young men would -be prone to tell the words which they had been the means of passing on -to their destination, but that it might be worth the while of some -sinner to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> offer great temptation, and that the power of offering it -should be lessened as much as possible. Therefore, when Abraham Hall -pressed his request the doorkeeper told him that it was quite -impossible.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that if it were an affair of life and death she -could not be called out?” Abraham asked in that voice which had -sometimes seemed to Lucy to be so impressive. “She is not a prisoner!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know as to that,” replied the man; “you would have to see the -superintendent, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Then let me see the superintendent.” And at last he did succeed in -seeing some one whom he so convinced of the importance of his message as -to bring Lucy to the door.</p> - -<p>“Miss Graham,” he said, when they were at the top of the stairs, and so -far alone that no one else could hear him, “I want you to come out with -me for half an hour.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I can. They won’t let me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes they will. I have to say something which I must say now.”</p> - -<p>“Will not the evening do, Mr. Hall?”</p> - -<p>“No; I must go out of town by the mail train from Paddington, and it -will be too late. Get your hat and come with me for half an hour.”</p> - -<p>Then she remembered her hat, and she snatched a glance at her poor -stained dress, and she looked up at him. He was not dressed in his -working clothes, and his face and hands were clean, and altogether there -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> a look about him of well-to-do manly tidiness which added to her -feeling of shame.</p> - -<p>“If you will go on to the house I will follow you,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Are you ashamed to walk with me?”</p> - -<p>“I am, because——”</p> - -<p>He had not understood her at first, but now he understood it all. “Get -your hat,” he said, “and come with a friend who is really a friend. You -must come; you must, indeed.” Then she felt herself compelled to obey, -and went back and got her old hat and followed him down the stairs into -the street. “And so Miss Wilson is going to be married,” were the first -words he said in the street.</p> - -<p>“Has she written to you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; she has told me all about it. I am so glad that she should be -settled to her liking, out of town. She says that she is nearly well -now. I hope that Mr. Brown is a good sort of man, and that he will be -kind to her.”</p> - -<p>It could hardly be possible, Lucy thought, that he should have taken her -away from the office merely to talk to her of Sophy’s prospects. It was -evident that he was strong enough to conceal any chagrin which might -have been caused by Sophy’s apostacy. Could it, however, be the case -that he was going to leave London because his feelings had been too much -disturbed to allow of his remaining quiet? “And so you are going away? -Is it for long?” “Well, yes; I suppose it is for always.” Then there -came upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> her a sense of increased desolation. Was he not her only -friend? And then, though she had refused all pecuniary assistance, there -had been present to her a feeling that there was near to her a strong -human being whom she could trust, and who in any last extremity could be -kind to her.</p> - -<p>“For always! And you go to-night!” Then she thought that he had been -right to insist on seeing her. It would certainly have been a great blow -to her if he had gone without a word of farewell.</p> - -<p>“There is a man wanted immediately to look after the engines at a great -establishment on the Wye, in the Forest of Dean. They have offered me -four pounds a week.”</p> - -<p>“Four pounds a week!”</p> - -<p>“But I must go at once. It has been talked about for some time, and now -it has come all in a clap. I have to be off without a day’s notice, -almost before I know where I am. As for leaving London, it is just what -I like. I love the country.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “that will be nice;—and about your little boy?” -Could it be that she was to be asked to do something for the child?</p> - -<p>They were now at the door of their house.</p> - -<p>“Here we are,” he said, “and perhaps I can say better inside what I have -got to say.” Then she followed him into the back sitting-room on the -ground floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-4" id="CHAPTER_V-4"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>ABRAHAM HALL MARRIED.</small></h3> - -<p>“Yes;” he said;—“about my little boy. I could not say what I had to say -in the street, though I had thought to do so.” Then he paused, and she -sat herself down, feeling, she did not know why, as though she would -lack strength to hear him if she stood. It was then the case that some -particular service was to be demanded from her,—something that would -show his confidence in her. The very idea of this seemed at once to add -a grace to her life. She would have the child to love. There would be -something for her to do. And there must be letters between her and him. -It would certainly add a grace to her life. But how odd that he should -not take his child with him! He had paused a moment while she thought of -all this, and she was aware that he was looking at her. But she did not -dare to return his gaze, or even to glance up at his face. And then -gradually she felt that she was shivering and trembling. What was it -that ailed her,—just now when it would be so necessary that she should -speak out with some strength? She had eaten nothing since her breakfast -when he had come to her, and she was afraid that she would show herself -to be weak. “Will you be his mother?” he said.</p> - -<p>What did it mean? How was she to answer him? She knew that his eyes were -on her, but hers were more than ever firmly fixed upon the floor. And -she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> aware that she ought briskly to have acceded to his -request,—so as to have shown by her ready alacrity that she had -attributed no other meaning to the words than they had been intended to -convey,—that she had not for a moment been guilty of rash folly. But -though it was so imperative upon her to say a word, yet she could not -speak. Everything was swimming round her. She was not even sure that she -could sit upon her chair. “Lucy,” he said;—then she thought she would -have fallen;—“Lucy, will you be my wife?”</p> - -<p>There was no doubt about the word. Her sense of hearing was at any rate -not deficient. And there came upon her at once a thorough conviction -that all her troubles had been changed for ever and a day into joys and -blessings. The word had been spoken from which he certainly would never -go back, and which of course,—of course,—must be a commandment to her. -But yet there was an unfitness about it which disturbed her, and she was -still powerless to speak. The remembrance of the meanness of her clothes -and poorness of her position came upon her,—so that it would be her -duty to tell him that she was not fit for him; and yet she could not -speak.</p> - -<p>“If you will say that you want time to think about it, I shall be -contented,” he said. But she did not want a moment to think about it. -She could not have confessed to herself that she had learned to love -him,—oh, so much too dearly,—if it were not for this most unexpected, -most unthought of, almost impossible revelation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> But she did not want a -moment to make herself sure that she did love him. Yet she could not -speak. “Will you say that you will think of it for a month?”</p> - -<p>Then there came upon her an idea that he was not asking this because he -loved her, but in order that he might have a mother whom he could trust -for his child. Even that would have been flattering, but that would not -have sufficed. Then when she told herself what she was, or rather what -she thought herself to be, she felt sure that he could not really love -her. Why should such a man as he love such a woman? Then her mouth was -opened. “You cannot want me for myself,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Not for yourself! Then why? I am not the man to seek any girl for her -fortune, and you have none.” Then again she was dumfounded. She could -not explain what she meant. She could not say,—because I am brown, and -because I am plain, and because I have become thin and worn from want, -and because my clothes are old and shabby. “I ask you,” he said, -“because with all my heart I love you.”</p> - -<p>It was as though the heavens had been opened to her. That he should -speak a word that was not true was to her impossible. And, as it was so, -she would not coy her love to him for a moment. If only she could have -found words with which to speak to him! She could not even look up at -him, but she put out her hand so as to touch him. “Lucy,” he said, -“stand up and come to me.” Then she stood up and with one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> little step -crept close to his side. “Lucy, can you love me?” And as he asked the -question his arm was pressed round her waist, and as she put up her hand -to welcome rather than to restrain his embrace, she again felt the -strength, the support, and the warmth of his grasp. “Will you not say -that you love me?”</p> - -<p>“I am such a poor thing,” she replied.</p> - -<p>“A poor thing, are you? Well, yes; there are different ways of being -poor. I have been poor enough in my time, but I never thought myself a -poor thing. And you must not say it ever of yourself again.”</p> - -<p>“No?”</p> - -<p>“My girl must not think herself a poor thing. May I not say, my girl?” -Then there was just a little murmur, a sound which would have been “yes” -but for the inability of her lips to open themselves. “And if my girl, -then my wife. And shall my wife be called a poor thing? No, Lucy. I have -seen it all. I don’t think I like poor things;—but I like you.”</p> - -<p>“Do you?”</p> - -<p>“I do. And now I must go back to the City Road and give up charge and -take my money. And I must leave this at seven—after a cup of tea. Shall -I see you again?”</p> - -<p>“See me again! Oh, to-day, you mean. Indeed you shall. Not see you off? -My own, own, own man?”</p> - -<p>“What will they say at the office?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care what they say. Let them say what they like. I have never -been absent a day yet without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> leave. What time shall I be here?” Then -he named an hour. “Of course I will have your last words. Perhaps you -will tell me something that I must do.”</p> - -<p>“I must leave some money with you.”</p> - -<p>“No; no; no; not yet. That shall come after.” This she said smiling up -at him, with a sparkle of a tear in each eye, but with such a smile! -Then he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “That may come at present -at any rate,” he said. To this, though it was repeated once and again, -there was no opposition. Then in his own masterful manner he put on his -hat and stalked out of the room without any more words.</p> - -<p>She must return to the office that afternoon, of course, if only for the -sake of explaining her wish to absent herself the rest of the day. But -she could not go forth into the streets just yet. Though she had been -able to smile at him and to return his caress, and for a moment so to -stand by him that she might have something of the delight of his love, -still she was too much flurried, too weak from the excitement of the -last half-hour, to walk back to the Post Office without allowing herself -some minutes to recruit her strength and collect her thoughts. She went -at once up to her own room and cut for herself a bit of bread which she -began to eat,—just as one would trim one’s lamp carefully for some -night work, even though oppressed by heaviest sorrow, or put fuel on the -fire that would be needed. Then having fed herself, she leaned back in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> -her chair, throwing her handkerchief over her face, in order that she -might think of it.</p> - -<p>Oh,—how much there was to fill her mind with many thoughts! Looking -back to what she had been even an hour ago, and then assuring herself -with infinite delight of the certain happiness of her present position, -she told herself that all the world had been altered to her within that -short space. As for loving him;—there was no doubt about that! Now she -could own to herself that she had long since loved him, even when she -thought that he might probably take that other girl as his wife. That -she should love him,—was it not a matter of course, he being what he -was? But that he should love her,—that, that was the marvel! But he -did. She need not doubt that. She could remember distinctly each word of -assurance that he had spoken to her. “I ask you, because with all my -heart I love you.” “May I not say my girl;—and, if my girl, then my -wife?” “I do not think that I like poor things; but I like you.” No. If -she were regarded by him as good enough to be his wife then she would -certainly never call herself a poor thing again.</p> - -<p>In her troubles and her poverty,—especially in her solitude, she had -often thought of that other older man who had wanted to make her his -wife,—sometimes almost with regret. There would have been duties for -her and a home, and a mode of life more fitting to her feminine nature -than this solitary tedious existence. And there would have been -something for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> her to love, some human being on whom to spend her human -solicitude and sympathies. She had leagued herself with Sophy Wilson, -and she had been true to the bond; but it had had in it but little -satisfaction. The other life, she had sometimes thought, would have been -better. But she had never loved the man, and could not have loved him as -a husband should, she thought, be loved by his wife. She had done what -was right in refusing the good things which he had offered her,—and now -she was rewarded! Now had come to her the bliss of which she had -dreamed, that of belonging to a man to whom she felt that she was bound -by all the chords of her heart. Then she repeated his name to -herself,—Abraham Hall, and tried in a lowest whisper the sound of that -other name,—Lucy Hall. And she opened her arms wide as she sat upon the -chair as though in that way she could take his child to her bosom.</p> - -<p>She had been sitting so nearly an hour when she started up suddenly and -again put on her old hat and hurried off towards her office. She felt -now that as regarded her clothes she did not care about herself. There -was a paradise prepared for her so dear and so near that the present was -made quite bright by merely being the short path to such a future. But -for his sake she cared. As belonging to him she would fain, had it been -possible, not have shown herself in a garb unfitting for his wife. -Everything about him had always been decent, fitting, and serviceable! -Well! It was his own doing. He had chosen her as she was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> She would not -run in debt to make herself fit for his notice, because such debts would -have been debts to be paid by him. But if she could squeeze from her -food what should supply her with garments fit at any rate to stand with -him at the altar it should be done.</p> - -<p>Then, as she hurried on to the office, she remembered what he had said -about money. No! She would not have his money till it was hers of right. -Then with what perfect satisfaction would she take from him whatever he -pleased to give her, and how hard would she work for him in order that -he might never feel that he had given her his good things for nothing!</p> - -<p>It was five o’clock before she was at the office, and she had promised -to be back in the lodgings at six, to get for him his tea. It was quite -out of the question that she should work to-day. “The truth is, ma’am,” -she said to the female superintendent, “I have received and accepted an -offer of marriage this afternoon. He is going out of town to-night, and -I want to be with him before he goes.” This is a plea against which -official rigour cannot prevail. I remember once when a young man applied -to a saturnine pundit who ruled matters in a certain office for leave of -absence for a month to get married. “To get married!” said the saturnine -pundit. “Poor fellow! But you must have the leave.” The lady at the -telegraph office was no doubt less caustic, and dismissed our Lucy for -the day with congratulations rather than pity.</p> - -<p>She was back at the lodging before her lover, and had borrowed the -little back parlour from Mrs. Green,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> and had spread the tea-things, and -herself made the toast in the kitchen before he came. “There’s something -I suppose more nor friendship betwixt you and Mr. Hall, and better,” -said the landlady smiling. “A great deal better, Mrs. Green,” Lucy had -replied, with her face intent upon the toast. “I thought it never could -have been that other young lady,” said Mrs. Green.</p> - -<p>“And now, my dear, about money,” said Abraham as he rose to prepare -himself for the journey. Many things had been settled over that -meal,—how he was to get a house ready, and was then to say when she -should come to him, and how she should bring the boy with her, and how -he would have the banns called in the church, and how they would be -married as soon as possible after her arrival in the new country. “And -now, my dear, about money?”</p> - -<p>She had to take it at last. “Yes,” she said, “it is right that I should -have things fit to come to you in. It is right that you shouldn’t be -disgraced.”</p> - -<p>“I’d marry you in a sack from the poor-house, if it were necessary,” he -said with vehemence.</p> - -<p>“As it is not necessary, it shall not be so. I will get things;—but -they shall belong to you always; and I will not wear them till the day -that I also shall belong to you.”</p> - -<p>She went with him that night to the station, and kissed him openly as -she parted from him on the platform. There was nothing in her love now -of which she was ashamed. How, after some necessary interval,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> she -followed him down into Gloucestershire, and how she became his wife -standing opposite to him in the bright raiment which his liberality had -supplied, and how she became as good a wife as ever blessed a man’s -household, need hardly here be told.</p> - -<p>That Miss Wilson recovered her health and married the hairdresser may be -accepted by all anxious readers as an undoubted fact.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> </p> - -<h2><a name="ALICE_DUGDALE" id="ALICE_DUGDALE"></a>ALICE DUGDALE.</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> </p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_I-5" id="CHAPTER_I-5"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>THE DOCTOR’S FAMILY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T used to be said in the village of Beetham that nothing ever went -wrong with Alice Dugdale,—the meaning of which, perhaps, lay in the -fact that she was determined that things should be made to go right. -Things as they came were received by her with a gracious welcome, and -“things,” whatever they were, seemed to be so well pleased with the -treatment afforded to them, that they too for most part made themselves -gracious in return.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless she had had sorrows, as who has not? But she had kept her -tears for herself, and had shown her smiles for the comfort, of those -around her. In this little story it shall be told how in a certain -period of her life she had suffered much;—how she still smiled, and how -at last she got the better of her sorrow.</p> - -<p>Her father was the country doctor in the populous and straggling parish -of Beetham. Beetham is one of those places so often found in the south -of England,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> half village, half town, for the existence of which there -seems to be no special reason. It had no mayor, no municipality, no -market, no pavements, and no gas. It was therefore no more than a -village;—but it had a doctor, and Alice’s father, Dr. Dugdale, was the -man. He had been established at Beetham for more than thirty years, and -knew every pulse and every tongue for ten miles round. I do not know -that he was very great as a doctor;—but he was a kind-hearted, liberal -man, and he enjoyed the confidence of the Beethamites, which is -everything. For thirty years he had worked hard and had brought up a -large family without want. He was still working hard, though turned -sixty, at the time of which we are speaking. He had even in his old age -many children dependent on him, and though he had fairly prospered, he -had not become a rich man.</p> - -<p>He had been married twice, and Alice was the only child left at home by -his first wife. Two elder sisters were married, and an elder brother was -away in the world. Alice had been much younger than they, and had been -the only child living with him when he had brought to his house a second -mother for her. She was then fifteen. Eight or nine years had since -gone, and almost every year had brought an increase to the doctor’s -family. There were now seven little Dugdales in and about the nursery; -and what the seven would do when Alice should go away the folk of -Beetham always declared that they were quite at a loss even to guess. -For Mrs. Dugdale was one of those women who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> succumb to -difficulties,—who seem originally to have been made of soft material -and to have become warped, out of joint, tattered, and almost useless -under the wear of the world. But Alice had been constructed of -thoroughly seasoned timber, so that, let her be knocked about as she -might, she was never out of repair. Now the doctor, excellent as he was -at doctoring, was not very good at household matters,—so that the folk -at Beetham had reason to be at a loss when they bethought themselves as -to what would happen when Alice should “go away.”</p> - -<p>Of course there is always that prospect of a girl’s “going away.” Girls -not unfrequently intend to go away. Sometimes they “go away” very -suddenly, without any previous intention. At any rate such a girl as -Alice cannot be regarded as a fixture in a house. Binding as may be her -duties at home, it is quite understood that should any adequate -provocation to “go away” be brought within her reach, she will go, let -the duties be what they may. Alice was a thoroughly good girl,—good to -her father, good to her little brothers and sisters, unutterably good to -that poor foolish stepmother;—but, no doubt she would “go away” if duly -asked.</p> - -<p>When that vista of future discomfort in the doctor’s house first made -itself clearly apparent to the Beethamites, an idea that Alice might -perhaps go very soon had begun to prevail in the village. The eldest son -of the vicar, Parson Rossiter, had come back from India as Major -Rossiter, with an appointment, as some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> said, of £2,000 a year;—let us -put it down as £1,500;—and had renewed his acquaintance with his old -playfellow. Others, more than one or two, had endeavoured before this to -entice Alice to “go away,” but it was said that the dark-visaged -warrior, with his swarthy face and black beard, and bright -eyes,—probably, too, something in him nobler than those outward -bearings,—had whispered words which had prevailed. It was supposed that -Alice now had a fitting lover, and that therefore she would “go away.”</p> - -<p>There was no doubt in the mind of any single inhabitant of Beetham as to -the quality of the lover. It was considered on all sides that he was -fitting,—so fitting that Alice would of course go when asked. John -Rossiter was such a man that every Beethamite looked upon him as a -hero,—so that Beetham was proud to have produced him. In small -communities a man will come up now and then as to whom it is surmised -that any young lady would of course accept him. This man, who was now -about ten years older than Alice, had everything to recommend him. He -was made up of all good gifts of beauty, conduct, dignity, good -heart,—and fifteen hundred a year at the very least. His official -duties required him to live in London, from which Beetham was seventy -miles distant; but those duties allowed him ample time for visiting the -parsonage. So very fitting he was to take any girl away upon whom he -might fix an eye of approbation, that there were others, higher than -Alice in the world’s standing, who were said to grudge the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> young lady -of the village so great a prize. For Alice Dugdale was a young lady of -the village and no more; whereas there were county families around, with -daughters, among whom the Rossiters had been in the habit of mixing. Now -that such a Rossiter had come to the fore, the parsonage family was held -to be almost equal to county people.</p> - -<p>To whatever extent Alice’s love affairs had gone, she herself had been -very silent about them; nor had her lover as yet taken the final step of -being closeted for ten minutes with her father. Nevertheless everybody -had been convinced in Beetham that it would be so,—unless it might be -Mrs. Rossiter. Mrs. Rossiter was ambitious for her son, and in this -matter sympathised with the county people. The county people certainly -were of opinion that John Rossiter might do better, and did not -altogether see what there was in Alice Dugdale to make such a fuss -about. Of course she had a sweet countenance, rather brown, with good -eyes. She had not, they said, another feature in her face which could be -called handsome. Her nose was broad. Her mouth was large. They did not -like that perpetual dimpling of the cheek which, if natural, looked as -if it were practised. She was stout, almost stumpy, they thought. No -doubt she danced well, having a good ear and being active and healthy; -but with such a waist no girl could really be graceful. They -acknowledged her to be the best nursemaid that ever a mother had in her -family; but they thought it a pity that she should be taken away from -duties for which her presence was so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> desired, at any rate by such -a one as John Rossiter. I, who knew Beetham well, and who though turned -the hill of middle life had still an eye for female charms, used to -declare to myself that Alice, though she was decidedly village and not -county, was far, far away the prettiest girl in that part of the world.</p> - -<p>The old parson loved her, and so did Miss Rossiter,—Miss Janet -Rossiter,—who was four or five years older than her brother, and -therefore quite an old maid. But John was so great a man that neither of -them dared to say much to encourage him,—as neither did Mrs. Rossiter -to use her eloquence on the other side. It was felt by all of them that -any persuasion might have on John anything but the intended effect. When -a man at the age of thirty-three is Deputy Assistant Inspector General -of Cavalry, it is not easy to talk him this way or that in a matter of -love. And John Rossiter, though the best fellow in the world, was apt to -be taciturn on such a subject. Men frequently marry almost without -thinking about it at all. “Well; perhaps I might as well. At any rate I -cannot very well help it.” That too often is the frame of mind. -Rossiter’s discussion to himself was of a higher nature than that, but -perhaps not quite what it should have been. “This is a thing of such -moment that it requires to be pondered again and again. A man has to -think of himself, and of her, and of the children which have to come -after him;—of the total good or total bad which may come of such a -decision.” As in the one manner there is too much of negligence, so in -the other there may be too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> much of care. The “perhaps I might as -wells,”—so good is Providence,—are sometimes more successful than -those careful, long-pondering heroes. The old parson was very sweet to -Alice, believing that she would be his daughter-in-law, and so was Miss -Rossiter, thoroughly approving of such a sister. But Mrs. Rossiter was a -little cold;—all of which Alice could read plainly and digest, without -saying a word. If it was to be, she would welcome her happy lot with -heartfelt acknowledgment of the happiness provided for her; but if it -was not to be, no human being should know that she had sorrowed. There -should be nothing lack-a-daisical in her life or conduct. She had her -work to do, and she knew that as long as she did that, grief would not -overpower her.</p> - -<p>In her own house it was taken for granted that she was to “go,” in a -manner that distressed her. “You’ll never be here to lengthen ’em,” said -her stepmother to her, almost whining, when there was a question as to -flounces in certain juvenile petticoats which might require to be longer -than they were first made before they should be finally abandoned.</p> - -<p>“That I certainly shall if Tiny grows as she does now.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose he’ll pop regularly when he next comes down,” said Mrs. -Dugdale.</p> - -<p>There was ever so much in this which annoyed Alice. In the first place, -the word “pop” was to her abominable. Then she was almost called upon to -deny that he would “pop,” when in her heart she thought it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> very -probable that he might. And the word, she knew, had become intelligible -to the eldest of her little sisters who was present. Moreover, she was -most unwilling to discuss the subject at all, and could hardly leave it -undiscussed when such direct questions were asked. “Mamma,” she said, -“don’t let us think about anything of the kind.” This did not at all -satisfy herself. She ought to have repudiated the lover altogether; and -yet she could not bring herself to tell the necessary lie.</p> - -<p>“I suppose he will come—some day,” said Minnie, the child old enough to -understand the meaning of such coming.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“For men may come and men may go,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But I go on for ever,—for ever,”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">said or sang Alice, with a pretence of drollery, as she turned herself -to her little sister. But even in her little song there was a purpose. -Let any man come or let any man go, she would go on, at any rate -apparently untroubled, in her walk of life.</p> - -<p>“Of course he’ll take you away, and then what am I to do?” said Mrs. -Dugdale moaning. It is sad enough for a girl thus to have her lover -thrown in her face when she is by no means sure of her lover.</p> - -<p>A day or two afterwards another word, much more painful, was said to her -up at the parsonage. Into the parsonage she went frequently to show that -there was nothing in her heart to prevent her visiting her old friends -as had been her wont.</p> - -<p>“John will be down here next week,” said the parson,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> whom she met on -the gravel drive just at the hall door.</p> - -<p>“How often he comes! What do they do at the Horse Guards, or wherever it -is that he goes to?”</p> - -<p>“He’ll be more steady when he has taken a wife,” said the old man.</p> - -<p>“In the meantime what becomes of the cavalry?”</p> - -<p>“I dare say you’ll know all about that before long,” said the parson -laughing.</p> - -<p>“Now, my dear, how can you be so foolish as to fill the girl’s head with -nonsense of that kind?” said Mrs. Rossiter, who at that moment came out -from the front door. “And you’re doing John an injustice. You are making -people believe that he has said that which he has not said.”</p> - -<p>Alice at the moment was very angry,—as angry as she well could be. It -was certain that Mrs. Rossiter did not know what her son had said or had -not said. But it was cruel that she who had put forward no claim, who -had never been forward in seeking her lover, should be thus almost -publicly rebuked. Quiet as she wished to be, it was necessary that she -should say one word in her own defence. “I don’t think Mr. Rossiter’s -little joke will do John any injustice or me any harm,” she said. “But, -as it may be taken seriously, I hope he will not repeat it.”</p> - -<p>“He could not do better for himself. That’s my opinion,” said the old -man, turning back into the house. There had been words before on the -subject between him and his wife, and he was not well pleased with her -at this moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear Alice, I am sure you know that I mean everything the best for -you,” said Mrs. Rossiter.</p> - -<p>“If nobody would mean anything, but just let me alone, that would be -best. And as for nonsense, Mrs. Rossiter, don’t you know of me that I’m -not likely to be carried away by foolish ideas of that kind?”</p> - -<p>“I do know that you are very good.”</p> - -<p>“Then why should you talk at me as though I were very bad?” Mrs. -Rossiter felt that she had been reprimanded, and was less inclined than -ever to accept Alice as a daughter-in-law.</p> - -<p>Alice, as she walked home, was low in spirits, and angry with herself -because it was so. People would be fools. Of course that was to be -expected. She had known all along that Mrs. Rossiter wanted a grander -wife for her son, whereas the parson was anxious to have her for his -daughter-in-law. Of course she loved the parson better than his wife. -But why was it that she felt at this moment that Mrs. Rossiter would -prevail?</p> - -<p>“Of course it will be so,” she said to herself. “I see it now. And I -suppose he is right. But then certainly he ought not to have come here. -But perhaps he comes because he wishes to—see Miss Wanless.” She went a -little out of her road home, not only to dry a tear, but to rid herself -of the effect of it, and then spent the remainder of the afternoon -swinging her brothers and sisters in the garden.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_II-5" id="CHAPTER_II-5"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>MAJOR ROSSITER.</small></h3> - -<p>“Perhaps he is coming here to see Miss Wanless,” Alice had said to -herself. And in the course of that week she found that her surmise was -correct. John Rossiter stayed only one night at the parsonage, and then -went over to Brook Park where lived Sir Walter Wanless and all the -Wanlesses. The parson had not so declared when he told Alice that his -son was coming, but John himself said on his arrival that this was a -special visit made to Brook Park, and not to Beetham. It had been -promised for the last three months, though only fixed lately. He took -the trouble to come across to the doctor’s house with the express -purpose of explaining the fact. “I suppose you have always been intimate -with them,” said Mrs. Dugdale, who was sitting with Alice and a little -crowd of the children round them. There was a tone of sarcasm in the -words not at all hidden. “We all know that you are a great deal finer -than we mere village folk. We don’t know the Wanlesses, but of course -you do. You’ll find yourself much more at home at Brook Park than you -can in such a place as this.” All that, though not spoken, was contained -in the tone of the lady’s speech.</p> - -<p>“We have always been neighbours,” said John Rossiter.</p> - -<p>“Neighbours ten miles off!” said Mrs Dugdale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span></p> - -<p>“I dare say the Good Samaritan lived thirty miles off,” said Alice.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think distance has much to do with it,” said the Major.</p> - -<p>“I like my neighbours to be neighbourly. I like Beetham neighbours,” -said Mrs. Dugdale. There was a reproach in every word of it. Mrs. -Dugdale had heard of Miss Georgiana Wanless, and Major Rossiter knew -that she had done so. After her fashion the lady was accusing him for -deserting Alice.</p> - -<p>Alice understood it also, and yet it behoved her to hold herself well up -and be cheerful. “I like Beetham people best myself,” she said, “but -then it is because I don’t know any other. I remember going to Brook -Park once, when there was a party of children, a hundred years ago, and -I thought it quite a paradise. There was a profusion of strawberries by -which my imagination has been troubled ever since. You’ll just be in -time for the strawberries, Major Rossiter.” He had always been John till -quite lately,—John with the memories of childhood; but now he had -become Major Rossiter.</p> - -<p>She went out into the garden with him for a moment as he took his -leave,—not quite alone, as a little boy of two years old was clinging -to her hand. “If I had my way,” she said, “I’d have my neighbours -everywhere,—at any distance. I envy a man chiefly for that.”</p> - -<p>“Those one loves best should be very near, I think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Those one loves best of all? Oh yes, so that one may do something. It -wouldn’t do not to have you every day, would it, Bobby?” Then she -allowed the willing little urchin to struggle up into her arms and to -kiss her, all smeared as was his face with bread-and-butter.</p> - -<p>“Your mother meant to say that I was running away from my old friends.”</p> - -<p>“Of course she did. You see, you loom so very large to us here. You -are—such a swell, as Dick says, that we are a little sore when you pass -us by. Everybody likes to be bowed to by royalty. Don’t you know that? -Brook Park is, of course, the proper place for you; but you don’t expect -but what we are going to express our little disgusts and little prides -when we find ourselves left behind!” No words could have less declared -her own feelings on the matter than those she was uttering; but she -found herself compelled to laugh at him, lest, in the other direction, -something of tenderness might escape her, whereby he might be injured -worse than by her raillery. In nothing that she might say could there be -less of real reproach to him than in this.</p> - -<p>“I hate that word ‘swell,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> he said.</p> - -<p>“So do I.”</p> - -<p>“Then why do you use it?”</p> - -<p>“To show you how much better Brook Park is than Beetham. I am sure they -don’t talk about swells at Brook Park.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you throw Brook Park in my teeth?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span>”</p> - -<p>“I feel an inclination to make myself disagreeable to-day. Are you never -like that?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not.”</p> - -<p>“And then I am bound to follow up what poor dear mamma began. But I -won’t throw Brook Park in your teeth. The ladies I know are very nice. -Sir Walter Wanless is a little grand;—isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“You know,” said he, “that I should be much happier here than there.”</p> - -<p>“Because Sir Walter is so grand?”</p> - -<p>“Because my friends here are dearer friends. But still it is right that -I should go. One cannot always be where one would be happiest.”</p> - -<p>“I am happiest with Bobby,” said she; “and I can always have Bobby.” -Then she gave him her hand at the gate, and he went down to the -parsonage.</p> - -<p>That night Mrs. Rossiter was closeted for awhile with her son before -they both went to bed. She was supposed, in Beetham, to be of a higher -order of intellect,—of a higher stamp generally,—than her husband or -daughter, and to be in that respect nearly on a par with her son. She -had not travelled as he had done, but she was of an ambitious mind and -had thoughts beyond Beetham. The poor dear parson cared for little -outside the bounds of his parish. “I am so glad you are going to stay -for awhile over at Brook Park,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Only for three days.”</p> - -<p>“In the intimacy of a house three days is a lifetime. Of course I do not -like to interfere.” When this was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> said the Major frowned, knowing well -that his mother was going to interfere. “But I cannot help thinking how -much a connection with the Wanlesses would do for you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want anything from any connection.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well, John, for a man to say; but in truth we all -depend on connections one with another. You are beginning the world.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that, mother.”</p> - -<p>“To my eyes you are. Of course, you look upwards.”</p> - -<p>“I take all that as it comes.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt; but still you must have it in your mind to rise. A man is -assisted very much by the kind of wife he marries. Much would be done -for a son-in-law of Sir Walter Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, I hope, ever for me on that score. To succeed by favour is -odious.”</p> - -<p>“But even to rise by merit, so much outside assistance is often -necessary! Though you will assuredly deserve all that you will ever get, -yet you may be more likely to get it as a son-in-law to Sir Walter -Wanless than if you were married to some obscure girl. Men who make the -most of themselves in the world do think of these things. I am the last -woman in the world to recommend my boy to look after money in marriage.”</p> - -<p>“The Miss Wanlesses will have none.”</p> - -<p>“And therefore I can speak the more freely. They will have very -little,—as coming from such a family. But he has great influence. He -has contested the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> county five times. And then—where is there a -handsomer girl than Georgiana Wanless?” The Major thought that he knew -one, but did not answer the question. “And she is all that such a girl -ought to be. Her manners are perfect,—and her conduct. A constant -performance of domestic duties is of course admirable. If it comes to -one to have to wash linen, she who washes her linen well is a good -woman. But among mean things high spirits are not to be found.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure of that.”</p> - -<p>“It must be so. How can the employment of every hour in the day on -menial work leave time for the mind to fill itself? Making children’s -frocks may be a duty, but it must also be an impediment.”</p> - -<p>“You are speaking of Alice.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I am speaking of Alice.”</p> - -<p>“I would wager my head that she has read twice more in the last two -years than Georgiana Wanless. But, mother, I am not disposed to discuss -either the one young lady or the other. I am not going to Brook Park to -look for a wife; and if ever I take one, it will be simply because I -like her best, and not because I wish to use her as a rung of a ladder -by which to climb upwards into the world.” That all this and just this -would be said to her Mrs. Rossiter had been aware; but still she had -thought that a word in season might have its effect.</p> - -<p>And it did have its effect. John Rossiter, as he was driven over to -Brook Park on the following morning, was unconsciously mindful of that -allusion to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> washerwoman. He had seen that Alice’s cheek had been -smirched by the greasy crumbs from her little brother’s mouth, he had -seen that the tips of her fingers showed the mark of the needle; he had -seen fragments of thread about her dress, and the mud even from the -children’s boots on her skirts. He had seen this, and had been aware -that Georgiana Wanless was free from all such soil on her outward -raiment. He liked the perfect grace of unspotted feminine apparel, and -he had, too, thought of the hours in which Alice might probably be -employed amidst the multifarious needs of a nursery, and had argued to -himself much as his mother had argued. It was good and homely,—worthy -of a thousand praises; but was it exactly that which he wanted in a -wife? He had repudiated with scorn his mother’s cold, worldly doctrine; -but yet he had felt that it would be a pleasant thing to have it known -in London that his wife was the daughter of Sir Walter Wanless. It was -true that she was wonderfully handsome,—a complexion perfectly clear, a -nose cut as out of marble, a mouth delicate as of a goddess, with a -waist quite to match it. Her shoulders were white as alabaster. Her -dress was at all times perfect. Her fingers were without mark or stain. -There might perhaps be a want of expression; but faces so symmetrical -are seldom expressive. And then, to crown all this, he was justified in -believing that she was attached to himself. Almost as much had been said -to him by Lady Wanless herself,—a word which would amount to as much, -coupled as it was with an immediate invitation to Brook<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> Park. Of this -he had given no hint to any human being; but he had been at Brook Park -once before, and some rumour of something between him and Miss Georgiana -Wanless had reached the people at Beetham,—had reached, as we have -seen, not only Mrs. Rossiter, but also Alice Dugdale.</p> - -<p>There had been moments up in London when his mind had veered round -towards Miss Wanless. But there was one little trifle which opposed the -action of his mind, and that was his heart. He had begun to think that -it might be his duty to marry Georgiana;—but the more he thought so the -more clearly would the figure of Alice stand before him, so that no veil -could be thrown over it. When he tried to summon to his imagination the -statuesque beauty of the one girl, the bright eyes of the other would -look at him, and the words from her speaking mouth would be in his ears. -He had once kissed Alice, immediately on his return, in the presence of -her father, and the memory of the halcyon moment was always present to -him. When he thought most of Miss Wanless he did not think much of her -kisses. How grand she would be at his dining-table, how glorious in his -drawing-room! But with Alice how sweet would it be to sit by some brook -side and listen to the waters!</p> - -<p>And now since he had been at Beetham, from the nature of things which -sometimes make events to come from exactly contrary causes, a new charm -had been added to Alice, simply by the little effort she had made to -annoy him. She had talked to him of “swells,” and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> had pretended to be -jealous of the Wanlesses, just because she had known that he would hate -to hear such a word from her lips, and that he would be vexed by -exhibition of such a feeling on her part! He was quite sure that she had -not committed these sins because they belonged to her as a matter of -course. Nothing could be more simple than her natural language or her -natural feelings. But she had chosen to show him that she was ready to -run into little faults which might offend him. The reverse of her ideas -came upon him. She had said, as it were,—“See how little anxious I must -be to dress myself in your mirror when I put myself in the same category -with my poor stepmother.” Then he said to himself that he could see her -as he was fain to see her, in her own mirror, and he loved her the -better because she had dared to run the risk of offending him.</p> - -<p>As he was driven up to the house at Brook Park he knew that it was his -destiny to marry either the one girl or the other; and he was afraid of -himself,—that before he left the house he might be engaged to the one -he did not love. There was a moment in which he thought he would turn -round and go back. “Major Rossiter,” Lady Wanless had said, “you know -how glad we are to see you here. There is no young man of the day of -whom Sir Walter thinks so much.” Then he had thanked her. “But—may I -say a word in warning?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly.”</p> - -<p>“And I may trust to your honour?”</p> - -<p>“I think so, Lady Wanless.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Do not be much with that sweet darling of mine,—unless indeed—” And -then she had stopped. Major Rossiter, though he was a major and had -served some years in India, blushed up to his eyebrows and was unable to -answer a word. But he knew that Georgiana Wanless had been offered to -him, and was entitled to believe that the young lady was prone to fall -in love with him. Lady Wanless, had she been asked for an excuse for -such conduct, would have said that the young men of the present day were -slow in managing their own affairs, unless a little help were given to -them.</p> - -<p>When the Major was almost immediately invited to return to Brook Park, -he could not but feel that, if he were so to make his choice, he would -be received there as a son-in-law. It may be that unless he intended so -to be received, he should not have gone. This he felt as he was driven -across the park, and was almost minded to return to Beetham.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_III-5" id="CHAPTER_III-5"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>LADY WANLESS.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Sir Walter Wanless</span> was one of those great men who never do anything -great, but achieve their greatness partly by their tailors, partly by a -breadth of eyebrow and carriage of the body,—what we may call -deportment,—and partly by the outside gifts of fortune. Taking his -career altogether we must say that he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> been unfortunate. He was a -baronet with a fine house and park,—and with an income hardly -sufficient for the place. He had contested the county four times on old -Whig principles, and had once been in Parliament for two years. There he -had never opened his mouth; but in his struggle to get there had greatly -embarrassed his finances. His tailor had been well chosen, and had -always turned him out as the best dressed old baronet in England. His -eyebrow was all his own, and certainly commanded respect from those with -whom eyebrows are efficacious. He never read; he eschewed farming, by -which he had lost money in early life; and had, so to say, no visible -occupation at all. But he was Sir Walter Wanless, and what with his -tailor and what with his eyebrow he did command a great deal of respect -in the country round Beetham. He had, too, certain good gifts for which -people were thankful as coming from so great a man. He paid his bills, -he went to church, he was well behaved, and still maintained certain -old-fashioned family charities, though money was not plentiful with him.</p> - -<p>He had two sons and five daughters. The sons were in the army, and were -beyond his control. The daughters were all at home, and were altogether -under the control of their mother. Indeed everything at Brook Park was -under the control of Lady Wanless,—though no man alive gave himself -airs more autocratic than Sir Walter. It was on her shoulders that fell -the burden of the five daughters, and of maintaining with straitened -means the hospitality of Brook Park on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> their behoof. A hard-worked -woman was Lady Wanless, in doing her duty,—with imperfect lights no -doubt, but to the best of her abilities with such lights as she -possessed. She was somewhat fine in her dress, not for any comfort that -might accrue to herself, but from a feeling that an alliance with the -Wanlesses would not be valued by the proper sort of young men unless she -were grand herself. The girls were beautifully dressed; but oh, with -such care and economy and daily labour among them, herself, and the two -lady’s-maids upstairs! The father, what with his election and his -farming, and a period of costly living early in his life, had not done -well for the family. That she knew, and never rebuked him. But it was -for her to set matters right, which she could only do by getting -husbands for the daughters. That this might be achieved the Wanless -prestige must be maintained; and with crippled means it is so hard to -maintain a family prestige! A poor duke may do it, or perhaps an earl; -but a baronet is not high enough to give bad wines to his guests without -serious detriment to his unmarried daughters.</p> - -<p>A beginning to what might be hoped to be a long line of successes had -already been made. The eldest girl, Sophia, was engaged. Lady Wanless -did not look very high, knowing that failure in such operations will -bring with it such unutterable misfortune. Sophia was engaged to the -eldest son of a neighbouring Squire,—whose property indeed was not -large, nor was the squire likely to die very soon; but there were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> -means of present living and a future rental of £4,000 a year. Young Mr. -Cobble was now staying at the house, and had been duly accepted by Sir -Walter himself. The youngest girl, who was only nineteen, had fallen in -love with a young clergyman in the neighbourhood. That would not do at -all, and the young clergyman was not allowed within the Park. Georgiana -was the beauty; and for her, if for any, some great destiny might have -been hoped. But it was her turn, a matter of which Lady Wanless thought -a great deal, and the Major was too good to be allowed to escape. -Georgiana, in her cold, impassive way, seemed to like the Major, and -therefore Lady Wanless paired them off instantly with that decision -which was necessary amidst the labours of her life. She had no scruples -in what she did, feeling sure that her daughters would make honest, good -wives, and that the blood of the Wanlesses was a dowry in itself.</p> - -<p>The Major had been told to come early, because a party was made to visit -certain ruins about eight miles off,—Castle Owless, as it was -called,—to which Lady Wanless was accustomed to take her guests, -because the family history declared that the Wanlesses had lived there -at some very remote period. It still belonged to Sir Walter, though -unfortunately the intervening lands had for the most part fallen into -other hands. Owless and Wanless were supposed to be the same, and thus -there was room for a good deal of family tattle.</p> - -<p>“I am delighted to see you at Brook Park,” said Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span> Walter as they met -at the luncheon table. “When I was at Christchurch your father was at -Wadham, and I remember him well.” Exactly the same words had been spoken -when the Major, on a former occasion, had been made welcome at the -house, and clearly implied a feeling that Christchurch, though much -superior, may condescend to know Wadham—under certain circumstances. Of -the Baronet nothing further was heard or seen till dinner.</p> - -<p>Lady Wanless went in the open carriage with three daughters, Sophie -being one of them. As her affair was settled it was not necessary that -one of the two side-saddles should be allotted to her use. Young Cobble, -who had been asked to send two horses over from Cobble Hall so that -Rossiter might ride one, felt this very hard. But there was no appeal -from Lady Wanless. “You’ll have plenty enough of her all the evening,” -said the mother, patting him affectionately, “and it is so necessary -just at present that Georgiana and Edith should have horse exercise.” In -this way it was arranged that Georgiana should ride with the Major, and -Edith, the third daughter, with young Burmeston, the son of Cox and -Burmeston, brewers at the neighbouring town of Slowbridge. A country -brewer is not quite what Lady Wanless would have liked; but with -difficulties such as hers a rich young brewer might be worth having. All -this was hard upon Mr. Cobble, who would not have sent his horses over -had he known it.</p> - -<p>Our Major saw at a glance that Georgiana rode well.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> He liked ladies to -ride, and doubted whether Alice had ever been on horseback in her life. -After all, how many advantages does a girl lose by having to pass her -days in a nursery! For a moment some such idea crossed his mind. Then he -asked Georgiana some question as to the scenery through which they were -passing. “Very fine, indeed,” said Georgiana. She looked square before -her, and sat with her back square to the horse’s tail. There was no -hanging in the saddle, no shifting about in uneasiness. She could rise -and fall easily, even gracefully, when the horse trotted. “You are fond -of riding I can see,” said the Major. “I do like riding,” answered -Georgiana. The tone in which she spoke of her present occupation was -much more lively than that in which she had expressed her approbation of -scenery.</p> - -<p>At the ruin they all got down, and Lady Wanless told them the entire -story of the Owlesses and the Wanlesses, and filled the brewer’s mind -with wonder as to the antiquity and dignity of the family. But the Major -was the fish just at this moment in hand. “The Rossiters are very old, -too,” she said smiling; “but perhaps that is a kind of thing you don’t -care for.”</p> - -<p>“Very much indeed,” said he. Which was true,—for he was proud of -knowing that he had come from the Rossiters who had been over four -hundred years in Herefordshire. “A remembrance of old merit will always -be an incitement to new.”</p> - -<p>“It is just that, Major Rossiter. It is strange how very nearly in the -same words Georgiana said the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span> thing to me yesterday.” Georgiana -happened to overhear this, but did not contradict her mother, though she -made a grimace to her sister which was seen by no one else. Then Lady -Wanless slipped aside to assist the brewer and Edith, leaving the Major -and her second daughter together. The two younger girls, of whom the -youngest was the wicked one with the penchant for the curate, were -wandering among the ruins by themselves.</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether there ever were any people called Owless,” said -Rossiter, not quite knowing what subject of conversation to choose.</p> - -<p>“Of course there were. Mamma always says so.”</p> - -<p>“That settles the question;—does it not?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why there shouldn’t be Owlesses. No; I won’t sit on the -wall, thank you, because I should stain my habit.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ll be tired.”</p> - -<p>“Not particularly tired. It is not so very far. I’d go back in the -carriage, only of course we can’t because of the habits. Oh, yes; I’m -very fond of dancing,—very fond indeed. We always have two balls every -year at Slowbridge. And there are some others about the county. I don’t -think you ever have balls at Beetham.”</p> - -<p>“There is no one to give them.”</p> - -<p>“Does Miss Dugdale ever dance?”</p> - -<p>The Major had to think for a moment before he could answer the question. -Why should Miss Wanless ask as to Alice’s dancing? “I am sure she does. -Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> I think of it I have heard her talk of dancing. You don’t know -Alice Dugdale?” Miss Wanless shook her head. “She is worth knowing.”</p> - -<p>“I am quite sure she is. I have always heard that you thought so. She is -very good to all those children; isn’t she?”</p> - -<p>“Very good indeed.”</p> - -<p>“She would be almost pretty if she wasn’t so,—so, so dumpy I should -say.” Then they got on their horses again and rode back to Brook Park. -Let Georgiana be ever so tired she did not show it, but rode in under -the portico with perfect equestrian grace.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid you took too much out of her,” said Lady Wanless to the -Major that evening. Georgiana had gone to bed a little earlier than the -others.</p> - -<p>This was in some degree hard upon him, as he had not proposed the -ride,—and he excused himself. “It was you arranged it all, Lady -Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“Yes indeed,” said she, smiling. “I did arrange the little excursion, -but it was not I who kept her talking the whole day.” Now this again was -felt to be unfair, as nearly every word of conversation between the -young people has been given in this little chronicle.</p> - -<p>On the following day the young people were again thrust together, and -before they parted for the night another little word was spoken by Lady -Wanless which indicated very clearly that there was some special bond of -friendship between the Major and her second daughter. “You are quite -right,” she had said in answer to some extracted compliment; “she does -ride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> very well. When I was up in town in May I thought I saw no one -with such a seat in the row. Miss Green, who taught the Duchess of -Ditchwater’s daughters, declared that she knew nothing like it.”</p> - -<p>On the third morning he returned to Beetham early, as he intended to go -up to town the same afternoon. Then there was prepared for him a little -valedictory opportunity in which he could not but press the young lady’s -fingers for a moment. As he did so no one was looking at him, but then -he knew that it was so much the more dangerous because no one was -looking. Nothing could be more knowing than the conduct of the young -lady, who was not in any way too forward. If she admitted that slight -pressure, it was done with a retiring rather than obtrusive favour. It -was not by her own doing that she was alone with him for a moment. There -was no casting down or casting up of her eyes. And yet it seemed to him -as he left her and went out into the hall that there had been so much -between them that he was almost bound to propose to her. In the hall -there was the Baronet to bid him farewell,—an honour which he did to -his guests only when he was minded to treat them with great distinction. -“Lady Wanless and I are delighted to have had you here,” he said. -“Remember me to your father, and tell him that I remember him very well -when I was at Christchurch and he was at Wadham.” It was something to -have had one’s hand taken in so paternal a manner by a baronet with such -an eyebrow, and such a coat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span></p> - -<p>And yet when he returned to Beetham he was not in a good-humour with -himself. It seemed to him that he had been almost absorbed among the -Wanlesses without any action or will of his own. He tried to comfort -himself by declaring that Georgiana was, without doubt, a remarkably -handsome young woman, and that she was a perfect horsewoman,—as though -all that were a matter to him of any moment! Then he went across to the -doctor’s house to say a word of farewell to Alice.</p> - -<p>“Have you had a pleasant visit?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; all very well.”</p> - -<p>“That second Miss Wanless is quite beautiful; is she not?”</p> - -<p>“She is handsome certainly.”</p> - -<p>“I call her lovely,” said Alice. “You rode with her the other day over -to that old castle.”</p> - -<p>Who could have told this of him already? “Yes; there was a party of us -went over.”</p> - -<p>“When are you going there again?” Now something had been said of a -further visit, and Rossiter had almost promised that he would return. It -is impossible not to promise when undefined invitations are given. A man -cannot declare that he is engaged for ever and ever. But how was it that -Alice knew all that had been said and done? “I cannot say that I have -fixed any exact day,” he replied almost angrily.</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard all about you, you know. That young Mr. Burmeston was at -Mrs. Tweed’s and told them what a favourite you are. If it be true I -will congratulate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> you, because I do really think that the young lady is -the most beautiful that I ever saw in my life.” This she said with a -smile and a good-humoured little shake of the head. If it was to be that -her heart must be broken he at least should not know it. And she still -hoped, she still thought, that by being very constant at her work she -might get over it.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IV-5" id="CHAPTER_IV-5"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BEETHAMITES.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was told all through Beetham before a week was over that Major -Rossiter was to marry the second Miss Wanless, and Beetham liked the -news. Beetham was proud that one of her sons should be introduced into -the great neighbouring family, and especially that he should be honoured -by the hand of the acknowledged beauty. Beetham, a month ago, had -declared that Alice Dugdale, a Beethamite herself from her -babyhood,—who had been born and bred at Beetham and had ever lived -there,—was to be honoured by the hand of the young hero. But it may be -doubted whether Beetham had been altogether satisfied with the -arrangement. We are apt to envy the good luck of those who have always -been familiar with us. Why should it have been Alice Dugdale any more -than one of the Tweed girls, or Miss Simkins, the daughter of the -attorney, who would certainly have a snug little fortune<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> of her -own,—which unfortunately would not be the case with Alice Dugdale? It -had been felt that Alice was hardly good enough for their hero,—Alice -who had been seen about with all the Dugdale children, pushing them in -perambulators almost every day since the eldest was born! We prefer the -authority of a stranger to that of one chosen from among ourselves. As -the two Miss Tweeds, and Miss Simkins, with Alice and three or four -others, could not divide the hero among them, it was better then that -the hero should go from among them, and choose a fitting mate in a -higher realm. They all felt the greatness of the Wanlesses, and argued -with Mrs. Rossiter that the rising star of the village should obtain -such assistance in rising as would come to him from an almost noble -marriage.</p> - -<p>There had been certainly a decided opinion that Alice was to be the -happy woman. Mrs. Dugdale, the stepmother, had boasted of the promotion; -and old Mr. Rossiter had whispered his secret conviction into the ear of -every favoured parishioner. The doctor himself had allowed his patients -to ask questions about it. This had become so common that Alice herself -had been inwardly indignant,—would have been outwardly indignant but -that she could not allow herself to discuss the matter. That having been -so, Beetham ought to have been scandalised by the fickleness of her -hero. Beetham ought to have felt that her hero was most unheroic. But, -at any rate among the ladies, there was no shadow of such a feeling. Of -course such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span> man as the Major was bound to do the best for himself. -The giving away of his hand in marriage was a very serious thing, and -was not to be obligatory on a young hero because he had been carried -away by the fervour of old friendship to kiss a young lady immediately -on his return home. The history of the kiss was known all over Beetham, -and was declared by competent authorities to have amounted to nothing. -It was a last lingering touch of childhood’s happy embracings, and if -Alice was such a fool as to take it for more, she must pay the penalty -of her folly. “It was in her father’s presence,” said Mrs. Rossiter, -defending her son to Mrs. Tweed, and Mrs. Tweed had expressed her -opinion that the kiss ought to go for nothing. The Major was to be -acquitted,—and the fact of the acquittal made its way even to the -doctor’s nursery; so that Alice knew that the man might marry that girl -at Brook Park with clean hands. That, as she declared to herself, did -not increase her sorrow. If the man were minded to marry the girl he was -welcome for her. And she apologised for him to her own heart. What a man -generally wants, she said, is a beautiful wife; and of the beauty of -Miss Georgiana Wanless there could be no doubt. Only,—only—only, there -had been a dozen words which he should have left unspoken!</p> - -<p>That which riveted the news on the minds of the Beethamites was the -stopping of the Brook Park carriage at the door of the parsonage one day -about a week after the Major’s visit. It was not altogether an -unprecedented<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> occurrence. Had there been no precedent it could hardly -have been justified on the present occasion. Perhaps once in two years -Lady Wanless would call at the parsonage, and then there would be a -return visit during which a reference would always be made to Wadham and -Christchurch. The visit was now out of its order, only nine months -having elapsed,—of which irregularity Beetham took due notice. On this -occasion Miss Wanless and the third young lady accompanied their mother, -leaving Georgiana at home. What was whispered between the two old ladies -Beetham did not quite know,—but made its surmises. It was in this wise. -“We were so glad to have the Major over with us,” said her ladyship.</p> - -<p>“It was so good of you,” said Mrs. Rossiter.</p> - -<p>“He is a great favourite with Sir Walter.”</p> - -<p>“That is so good of Sir Walter.”</p> - -<p>“And we are quite pleased to have him among our young people.” That was -all, but it was quite sufficient to tell Mrs. Rossiter that John might -have Georgiana Wanless for the asking, and that Lady Wanless expected -him to ask. Then the parting was much more affectionate than it had ever -been before, and there was a squeezing of the hand and a nodding of the -head which meant a great deal.</p> - -<p>Alice held her tongue, and did her work and attempted to be cheery -through it all. Again and again she asked herself,—what did it matter? -Even though she were unhappy, even though she felt a keen, palpable, -perpetual aching at her heart, what would it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> matter so long as she -could go about and do her business? Some people in this world had to be -unhappy;—perhaps most people. And this was a sorrow which, though it -might not wear off, would by wearing become dull enough to be bearable. -She distressed herself in that there was any sorrow. Providence had -given to her a certain condition of life to which many charms were -attached. She thoroughly loved the people about her,—her father, her -little brothers and sisters, even her overworn and somewhat idle -stepmother. She was a queen in the house, a queen among her busy toils; -and she liked being a queen, and liked being busy. No one ever scolded -her or crossed her or contradicted her. She had the essential -satisfaction of the consciousness of usefulness. Why should not that -suffice to her? She despised herself because there was a hole in her -heart,—because she felt herself to shrink all over when the name of -Georgiana Wanless was mentioned in her hearing. Yet she would mention -the name herself, and speak with something akin to admiration of the -Wanless family. And she would say how well it was that men should strive -to rise in the world, and how that the world progressed through such -individual efforts. But she would not mention the name of John Rossiter, -nor would she endure that it should be mentioned in her hearing with any -special reference to herself.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Dugdale, though she was overworn and idle,—a warped and almost -useless piece of furniture, made, as was said before, of bad -timber,—yet saw more of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> this than anyone else, and was indignant. To -lose Alice, to have no one to let down those tucks and take up those -stitches, would be to her the loss of all her comforts. But, though she -was feckless, she was true-hearted, and she knew that Alice was being -wronged. It was Alice that had a right to the hero, and not that -stuck-up young woman at Brook Park. It was thus she spoke of the affair -to the doctor, and after awhile found herself unable to be silent on the -subject to Alice herself. “If what they say does take place I shall -think worse of John Rossiter than I ever did of any man I ever knew.” -This she said in the presence both of her husband and her step-daughter.</p> - -<p>“John Rossiter will not be very much the worse for that,” said Alice -without relaxing a moment from her work. There was a sound of drolling -in her voice, as though she were quizzing her stepmother for her folly.</p> - -<p>“It seems to me that men may do anything now,” continued Mrs. Dugdale.</p> - -<p>“I suppose they are the same now as they always were,” said the doctor. -“If a man chose to be false he could always be false.”</p> - -<p>“I call it unmanly,” said Mrs. Dugdale. “If I were a man I would beat -him.”</p> - -<p>“What would you beat him for?” said Alice, getting up, and as she did so -throwing down on the table before her the little frock she was making. -“If you had the power of beating him, why would you beat him?”</p> - -<p>“Because he is ill-using you.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know that? Did I ever tell you so?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> Have you ever heard a -word that he has said to me, either direct from himself, or second-hand, -that justifies you in saying that he has ill-used me? You ill-use me -when you speak like that.”</p> - -<p>“Alice, do not be so violent,” said the doctor.</p> - -<p>“Father, I will speak of this once, and once for all;—and then pray, -pray, let there be no further mention of it. I have no right to complain -of anything in Major Rossiter. He has done me no wrong. Those who love -me should not mention his name in reference to me.”</p> - -<p>“He is a villain,” said Mrs. Dugdale.</p> - -<p>“He is no villain. He is a gentleman, as far as I know, from the crown -of his head to the sole of his foot. Does it ever occur to you how -little you make of me when you talk of him in this way? Dismiss it all -from your mind, father, and let things be as they were. Do you think -that I am pining for any man’s love? I say that Major Rossiter is a true -man and a gentleman;—but I would not give my Bobby’s little finger for -all his whole body.” Then there was silence, and afterwards the doctor -told his wife that the Major’s name had better not be mentioned again -among them. Alice on this occasion was, or appeared to be, very angry -with Mrs. Dugdale; but on that evening and the next morning there was an -accession of tenderness in her usually sweet manner to her stepmother. -The expression of her mother’s anger against the Major had been -wrong;—but the feeling of anger was not the less endearing.</p> - -<p>Some time after that, one evening, the parson came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> upon Alice as she -was picking flowers in one of the Beetham lanes. She had all the -children with her, and was filling Minnie’s apron with roses from the -hedge. Old Mr. Rossiter stopped and talked to them, and after awhile -succeeded in getting Alice to walk on with him. “You haven’t heard from -John?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” replied Alice, almost with a start. And then she added -quickly, “There is no one at our house likely to hear from him. He does -not write to anyone there.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know whether any message might have reached you.”</p> - -<p>“I think not.”</p> - -<p>“He is to be here again before long,” said the parson.</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed.” She had but a moment to think of it all; but, after -thinking, she continued, “I suppose he will be going over to Brook -Park.”</p> - -<p>“I fear he will.”</p> - -<p>“Fear;—why should you fear, Mr. Rossiter? If that is true, it is the -place where he ought to be.”</p> - -<p>“But I doubt its truth, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I know nothing about that. If so he had better stay up in London, I -suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think John can care much for Miss Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? She is the most thoroughly beautiful young woman I ever saw.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he does, because I believe his heart is elsewhere. Alice, -you have his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span>”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“I think so, Alice.”</p> - -<p>“No, Mr. Rossiter. I have not. It is not so. I know nothing of Miss -Wanless, but I can speak of myself.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me that you are speaking of him now.”</p> - -<p>“Then why does he go there?”</p> - -<p>“That is just what I cannot answer. Why does he go there? Why do we do -the worst thing so often, when we see the better?”</p> - -<p>“But we don’t leave undone the thing which we wish to do, Mr. Rossiter.”</p> - -<p>“That is just what we do do,—under constraint. Alice, I hope, I hope -that you may become his wife.” She endeavoured to deny that it could -ever be so;—she strove to declare that she herself was much too -heart-free for that; but the words would not come to her lips, and she -could only sob while she struggled to retain her tears. “If he does come -to you give him a chance again, even though he may have been untrue to -you for a moment.”</p> - -<p>Then she was left alone among the children. She could dry her tears and -suppress her sobs, because Minnie was old enough to know the meaning of -them if she saw them; but she could not for awhile go back into the -house. She left them in the passage and then went out again, and walked -up and down a little pathway that ran through the shrubs at the bottom -of the garden. “I believe his heart is elsewhere.” Could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> it be that it -was so? And if so, of what nature can be a man’s love, if when it be -given in one direction, he can go in another with his hand? She could -understand that there had not been much heart in it;—that he, being a -man and not a woman, could have made this turning point of his life an -affair of calculation, and had taken himself here or there without much -love at all; that as he would seek a commodious house, so would he also -a convenient wife. Resting on that suggestion to herself, she had dared -to declare to her father and mother that Major Rossiter was, not a -villain, but a perfect gentleman. But all that was not compatible with -his father’s story. “Alice, you have his heart,” the old man had said. -How had it come to pass that the old man had known it? And yet the -assurance was so sweet, so heavenly, so laden to her ears with divine -music, that at this moment she would not even ask herself to disbelieve -it. “If he does come to you, give him a chance again.” Why;—yes! Though -she never spoke a word of Miss Wanless without praise, though she had -tutored herself to swear that Miss Wanless was the very wife for him, -yet she knew herself too well not to know that she was better than Miss -Wanless. For his sake, she could with a clear conscience—give him a -chance again. The dear old parson! He had seen it all. He had known. He -had appreciated. If it should ever come to pass that she was to be his -daughter-in-law, he should have his reward. She would not tell herself -that she expected him to come again; but, if he did come, she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span> -give the parson his chance. Such was her idea at that moment. But she -was forced to change it before long.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_V-5" id="CHAPTER_V-5"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>THE INVITATION.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Major Rossiter discussed his own conduct with himself as men are so -often compelled to do by their own conscience, in opposition to their -own wishes, he was not well pleased with himself. On his return home -from India he had found himself possessed of a liberal income, and had -begun to enjoy himself without thinking much about marrying. It is not -often that a man looks for a wife because he has made up his mind that -he wants the article. He roams about unshackled, till something, which -at the time seems to be altogether desirable, presents itself to him; -and then he meditates marriage. So it had been with our Major. Alice had -presented herself to him as something altogether desirable,—a something -which, when it was touched and looked at, seemed to be so full of -sweetnesses, that to him it was for the moment of all things the most -charming. He was not a forward man,—one of those who can see a girl for -the first time on a Monday, and propose to her on the Tuesday. When the -idea first suggested itself to him of making Alice his wife he became -reticent and undemonstrative. The kiss had in truth meant no more than -Mrs. Tweed had said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> When he began to feel that he loved her, then he -hardly dared to dream of kissing her.</p> - -<p>But though he felt that he loved her,—liked perhaps it would be fairer -to say in that early stage of his feelings,—better than any other -woman, yet when he came to think of marriage, the importance of it all -made him hesitate; and he was reminded, by little hints from others, and -by words plain enough from one person, that Alice Dugdale was after all -a common thing. There is a fitness in such matters,—so said Mrs. -Rossiter,—and a propriety in like being married to like. Had it been -his lot to be a village doctor, Alice would have suited him well. -Destiny, however, had carried him,—the Major,—higher up, and would -require him to live in London, among ornate people, with polished -habits, and peculiar manners of their own. Would not Alice be out of her -element in London? See the things among which she passed her life! Not a -morsel of soap or a pound of sugar was used in the house, but what she -gave it out. Her hours were passed in washing, teaching, and sewing for -the children. In her very walks she was always pushing a perambulator. -She was, no doubt, the doctor’s daughter; but, in fact, she was the -second Mrs. Dugdale’s nursemaid. Nothing could be more praiseworthy. But -there is a fitness in things; and he, the hero of Beetham, the Assistant -Deputy Inspector-General of the British Cavalry, might surely do better -than marry a praiseworthy nursery girl. It was thus that Mrs. Rossiter -argued<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> with her son, and her arguments were not without avail.</p> - -<p>Then Georgiana Wanless had been, as it were, thrown at his head. When -one is pelted with sugar-plums one can hardly resent the attack. He was -clever enough to feel that he was pelted, but at first he liked the -sweetmeats. A girl riding on horseback, with her back square to the -horse’s tail, with her reins well held, and a chimney-pot hat on her -head, is an object, unfortunately, more attractive to the eyes of -ordinary men, than a young woman pushing a perambulator with two babies. -Unfortunately, I say, because in either case the young woman should be -judged by her personal merits and not by externals. But the Major -declared to himself that the personal merits would be affected by the -externals. A girl who had pushed a perambulator for many years, would -hardly have a soul above perambulators. There would be wanting the -flavour of the aroma of romance, that something of poetic vagueness -without which a girl can hardly be altogether charming to the senses of -an appreciative lover. Then, a little later on, he asked himself whether -Georgiana Wanless was romantic and poetic,—whether there was much of -true aroma there.</p> - -<p>But yet he thought that fate would require him to marry Georgiana -Wanless, whom he certainly did not love, and to leave Alice to her -perambulator,—Alice, whom he certainly did love. And as he thought of -this, he was ill at ease with himself. It might be well<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> that he should -give up his Assistant Deputy Inspector-Generalship, go back to India, -and so get rid of his two troubles together. Fate, as he personified -fate to himself in this matter,—took the form of Lady Wanless. It made -him sad to think that he was but a weak creature in the hands of an old -woman, who wanted to use him for a certain purpose;—but he did not see -his way of escaping. When he began to console himself by reflecting that -he would have one of the handsomest women in London at his dinner-table -he knew that he would be unable to escape.</p> - -<p>About the middle of July he received the following letter from Lady -Wanless:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Major Rossiter</span>,—The girls have been at their father for the -last ten days to have an archery meeting on the lawn, and have at -last prevailed, though Sir Walter has all a father’s abhorrence to -have the lawn knocked about. Now it is settled. ‘I’ll see about -it,’ Sir Walter said at last, and when so much as that had been -obtained, they all knew that the archery meeting was to be. Sir -Walter likes his own way, and is not always to be persuaded. But -when he has made the slightest show of concession, he never goes -back from it. Then comes the question as to the day, which is now -in course of discussion in full committee. In that matter Sir -Walter is supposed to be excluded from any voice. ‘It cannot matter -to him what day of the week or what day of the month,’ said -Georgiana very irreverently. It will not, however, much matter to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> -him so long as it is all over before St. Partridge comes round.</p> - -<p>“The girls one and all declared that you must be here,—as one of -the guests in the house. Our rooms will be mostly full of young -ladies, but there will be one at any rate for you. Now, what day -will suit you,—or rather what day will suit the Cavalry generally? -Everything must of course depend on the Cavalry. The girls say that -the Cavalry is sure to go out of town after the tenth of August. -But they would put it off for a week longer rather than not have -the Inspector-General. Would Wednesday 14th suit the Cavalry? They -are all reading every word of my letter as it is written, and bid -me say that if Thursday or Friday in that week, or Wednesday or -Thursday in the next, will do better, the accommodation of the -Cavalry shall be consulted. It cannot be on a Monday or Saturday -because there would be some Sunday encroachment. On Tuesday we -cannot get the band from Slowbridge.</p> - -<p>“Now you know our great purpose and our little difficulties. One -thing you cannot know,—how determined we are to accommodate -ourselves to the Cavalry. <i>The meeting is not to take place without -the Inspector-General.</i> So let us have an early answer from that -august functionary. The girls think that the Inspector had better -come down before the day, so as to make himself useful in -preparing.</p> - -<p>“Pray believe me, with Sir Walter’s kind regards, yours most -sincerely,</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Margaret Wanless</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span></p> - -<p>The Major felt that the letter was very flattering, but that it was -false and written for a certain purpose. He could read between the lines -at every sentence of it. The festival was to be got up, not at the -instance of the girls but of Lady Wanless herself, as a final trap for -the catching of himself,—and perhaps for Mr. Burmeston. Those -irreverent words had never come from Georgiana, who was too placid to -have said them. He did not believe a word of the girls looking over the -writing of the letter. In all such matters Lady Wanless had more life, -more energy than her daughters. All that little fun about the Cavalry -came from Lady Wanless herself. The girls were too like their father for -such ebullitions. The little sparks of joke with which the names of the -girls were connected,—with which in his hearing the name of Georgiana -had been specially connected,—had, he was aware, their origin always -with Lady Wanless. Georgiana had said this funny thing and that,—but -Georgiana never spoke after that fashion in his hearing. The traps were -plain to his eyes, and yet he knew that he would sooner or later be -caught in the traps.</p> - -<p>He took a day to think of it before he answered the letter, and -meditated a military tour to Berlin just about the time. If so, he must -be absent during the whole of August, so as to make his presence at the -toxopholite meeting an impossibility. And yet at last he wrote and said -that he would be there. There would be something mean in flight. After -all, he need not ask the girl to be his wife unless he chose to do so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> -He wrote a very pretty note to Lady Wanless saying that he would be at -Brook Park on the 14th, as she had suggested.</p> - -<p>Then he made a great resolution and swore an oath to himself,—that he -would not be caught on that occasion, and that after this meeting he -would go no more either to Brook Park or to Beetham for awhile. He would -not marry the girl to whom he was quite indifferent, nor her who from -her position was hardly qualified to be his wife. Then he went about his -duties with a quieted conscience, and wedded himself for once and for -always to the Cavalry.</p> - -<p>Some tidings of the doings proposed by the Wanlesses had reached the -parson’s ears when he told Alice in the lane that his son was soon -coming down to Beetham again, and that he was again going to Brook Park. -Before July was over the tidings of the coming festivity had been spread -over all that side of the county. Such a thing had not been done for -many years,—not since Lady Wanless had been herself a young wife, with -two sisters for whom husbands had to be,—and were provided. There were -those who could still remember how well Lady Wanless had behaved on that -occasion. Since those days hospitality on a large scale had not been -rife at Brook Park—and the reason why it was so was well known. Sir -Walter was determined not to embarrass himself further, and would do -nothing that was expensive. It could not be but that there was great -cause for such a deviation as this. Then the ladies of the neighbourhood -put their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> heads together,—and some of the gentlemen,—and declared -that a double stroke of business was to be done in regard to Major -Rossiter and Mr. Burmeston. How great a relief that would be to the -mother’s anxiety if the three eldest girls could be married and got rid -of all on the same day!</p> - -<p>Beetham, which was ten miles from Brook Park, had a station of its own, -whereas Slowbridge with its own station was only six miles from the -house. The Major would fain have reached his destination by Slowbridge, -so as to have avoided the chance of seeing Alice, were it not that his -father and mother would have felt themselves aggrieved by such -desertion. On this occasion his mother begged him to give them one -night. She had much that she wished to say to him, and then of course he -could have the parsonage horse and the parsonage phaeton to take him -over to Brook Park free of expense. He did go down to Beetham, did spend -an evening there, and did go on to the Park without having spoken to -Alice Dugdale.</p> - -<p>“Everybody says you are to marry Georgiana Wanless,” said Mrs. Rossiter.</p> - -<p>“If there were no other reason why I should not, the saying of everybody -would be sufficient against it.”</p> - -<p>“That is unreasonable, John. The thing should be looked at itself, -whether it is good or bad. It may be the case that Lady Wanless talks -more than she ought to do. It may be the case that, as people say, she -is looking out for husbands for her daughters. I don’t know but that I -should do the same if I had five of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> them on my hands and very little -means for them. And if I did, how could I get a better husband for one -of them than—such a one as Major John Rossiter?” Then she kissed his -forehead.</p> - -<p>“I hate the kind of thing altogether,” said he. He pretended to be -stern, but yet he showed that he was flattered by his mother’s softness.</p> - -<p>“It may well be, John, that such a match shall be desirable to them and -to you too. If so, why should there not be a fair bargain between the -two of you? You know that you admire the girl.” He would not deny this, -lest it should come to pass hereafter that she should become his wife. -“And everybody knows that as far as birth goes there is not a family in -the county stands higher. I am so proud of my boy that I wish to see him -mated with the best.”</p> - -<p>He reached the parsonage that evening only just before dinner, and on -the next morning he did not go out of the house till the phaeton came -round to take him to Brook Park. “Are you not going up to see the old -doctor?” said the parson after breakfast.</p> - -<p>“No;—I think not. He is never at home, and the ladies are always -surrounded by the children.”</p> - -<p>“She will take it amiss,” said the father almost in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“I will go as I come back,” said he, blushing as he spoke at his own -falsehood. For, if he held to his present purpose, he would return by -Slowbridge. If Fate intended that there should be nothing further -between him and Alice, it would certainly be much better<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> that they -should not be brought together any more. He knew too what his father -meant, and was more unwilling to take counsel from his father even than -his mother. Yet he blushed because he knew that he was false.</p> - -<p>“Do not seem to slight her,” said the old man. “She is too good for -that.”</p> - -<p>Then he drove himself over to Brook Park, and, as he made his way by one -of the innumerable turnings out of Beetham, he saw at one of the corners -Alice, still with the children and still with the perambulator. He -merely lifted his hat as he passed, but did not stop to speak to her.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VI-5" id="CHAPTER_VI-5"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE ARCHERY MEETING.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Assistant Deputy Inspector-General, when he reached Brook Park, -found that things were to be done on a great scale. The two -drawing-rooms were filled with flowers, and the big dining-room was laid -out for to-morrow’s lunch, in preparation for those who would prefer the -dining-room to the tent. Rossiter was first taken into the Baronet’s own -room, where Sir Walter kept his guns and administered justice. “This is -a terrible bore, Rossiter,” he said.</p> - -<p>“It must disturb you a great deal, Sir Walter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear—dreadfully! What would my old friend, your father, think of -having to do this kind of thing? Though, when I was at Christchurch and -he at Wadham, we used to be gay enough. I’m not quite sure that I don’t -owe it to you.”</p> - -<p>“To me, Sir Walter!”</p> - -<p>“I rather think you put the girls up to it.” Then he laughed as though -it were a very good joke and told the Major where he would find the -ladies. He had been expressly desired by his wife to be genial to the -Major, and had been as genial as he knew how.</p> - -<p>Rossiter, as he went out on to the lawn, saw Mr. Burmeston, the brewer, -walking with Edith, the third daughter. He could not but admire the -strategy of Lady Wanless when he acknowledged to himself how well she -managed all these things. The brewer would not have been allowed to walk -with Gertrude, the fourth daughter, nor even with Maria, the naughty -girl who liked the curate,—because it was Edith’s turn. Edith was -certainly the plainest of the family, and yet she had her turn. Lady -Wanless was by far too good a mother to have favourites among her own -children.</p> - -<p>He then found the mother, the eldest daughter, and Gertrude overseeing -the decoration of a tent, which had been put up as an addition to the -dining-room. He expected to find Mr. Cobble, to whom he had taken a -liking, a nice, pleasant, frank young country gentleman; but Mr. Cobble -was not wanted for any express purpose, and might have been in the way. -Mr. Cobble was landed and safe. Before long he found himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span> walking -round the garden with Lady Wanless herself. The other girls, though they -were to be his sisters, were never thrown into any special intimacy with -him. “She will be down before long now that she knows you are here,” -said Lady Wanless. “She was fatigued a little, and I thought it better -that she should lie down. She is so impressionable, you know.” “She” was -Georgiana. He knew that very well. But why should Georgiana be called -“She” to him, by her mother? Had “She” been in truth engaged to him it -would have been intelligible enough. But there had been nothing of the -kind. As “She” was thus dinned into his ears, he thought of the very -small amount of conversation which had ever taken place between himself -and the young lady.</p> - -<p>Then there occurred to him an idea that he would tell Lady Wanless in so -many words that there was a mistake. The doing so would require some -courage, but he thought that he could summon up manliness for the -purpose,—if only he could find the words and occasion. But though “She” -were so frequently spoken of, still nothing was said which seemed to -give him the opportunity required. It is hard for a man to have to -reject a girl when she has been offered,—but harder to do so before the -offer has in truth been made. “I am afraid there is a little mistake in -your ideas as to me and your daughter.” It was thus that he would have -had to speak, and then to have endured the outpouring of her wrath, when -she would have declared that the ideas were only in his own arrogant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> -brain. He let it pass by and said nothing, and before long he was -playing lawn-tennis with Georgiana, who did not seem to have been in the -least fatigued.</p> - -<p>“My dear, I will not have it,” said Lady Wanless about an hour -afterwards, coming up and disturbing the game. “Major Rossiter, you -ought to know better.” Whereupon she playfully took the racket out of -the Major’s hand. “Mamma is such an old bother,” said Georgiana as she -walked back to the house with her Major. The Major had on a previous -occasion perceived that the second Miss Wanless rode very well, and now -he saw that she was very stout at lawn-tennis; but he observed none of -that peculiarity of mental or physical development which her mother had -described as “impressionable.” Nevertheless she was a handsome girl, and -if to play at lawn-tennis would help to make a husband happy, so much at -any rate she could do.</p> - -<p>This took place on the day before the meeting,—before the great day. -When the morning came the girls did not come down early to breakfast, -and our hero found himself left alone with Mr. Burmeston. “You have -known the family a long time,” said the Major as they were sauntering -about the gravel paths together, smoking their cigars.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said Mr. Burmeston. “They only took me up about three -months ago,—just before we went over to Owless. Very nice -people;—don’t you think so?”</p> - -<p>“Very nice,” said the Major.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span></p> - -<p>“They stand so high in the county, and all that sort of thing. Birth -does go a long way, you know.”</p> - -<p>“So it ought,” said the Major.</p> - -<p>“And though the Baronet does not do much in the world, he has been in -the House, you know. All those things help.” Then the Major understood -that Mr. Burmeston had looked the thing in the face, and had determined -that for certain considerations it was worth his while to lead one of -the Miss Wanlesses to the hymeneal altar. In this Mr. Burmeston was -behaving with more manliness than he,—who had almost made up his mind -half-a-dozen times, and had never been satisfied with the way he had -done it.</p> - -<p>About twelve the visitors had begun to come, and Sophia with Mr. Cobble -were very soon trying their arrows together. Sophia had not been allowed -to have her lover on the previous day, but was now making up for it. -That was all very well, but Lady Wanless was a little angry with her -eldest daughter. Her success was insured for her. Her business was done. -Seeing how many sacrifices had been made to her during the last -twelvemonths, surely now she might have been active in aiding her -sisters, instead of merely amusing herself.</p> - -<p>The Major was not good at archery. He was no doubt an excellent Deputy -Inspector-General of Cavalry; but if bows and arrows had still been the -weapons used in any part of the British army, he would not, without -further instruction, have been qualified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> to inspect that branch. -Georgiana Wanless, on the other hand, was a proficient. Such shooting as -she made was marvellous to look at. And she was a very image of Diana, -as with her beautiful figure and regular features, dressed up to the -work, she stood with her bow raised in her hand and let twang the -arrows. The circle immediately outside the bull’s-eye was the farthest -from the mark she ever touched. But good as she was and bad as was the -Major, nevertheless they were appointed always to shoot together. After -a world of failures the Major would shoot no more,—but not the less did -he go backwards and forwards with Georgiana when she changed from one -end to the other, and found himself absolutely appointed to that task. -It grew upon him during the whole day that this second Miss Wanless was -supposed to be his own,—almost as much as was the elder the property of -Mr. Cobble. Other young men would do no more than speak to her. And when -once, after the great lunch in the tent, Lady Wanless came and put her -hand affectionately upon his arm, and whispered some word into his ear -in the presence of all the assembled guests, he knew that the entire -county had recognised him as caught.</p> - -<p>There was old Lady Deepbell there. How it was that towards the end of -the day’s delights Lady Deepbell got hold of him he never knew. Lady -Deepbell had not been introduced to him, and yet she got hold of him. -“Major Rossiter, you are the luckiest man of the day,” she said to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span></p> - -<p>“Pretty well,” said he, affecting to laugh; “but why so?”</p> - -<p>“She is the handsomest young woman out. There hasn’t been one in London -this season with such a figure.”</p> - -<p>“You are altogether wrong in your surmise, Lady Deepbell.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I am right enough. I see it all. Of course the poor girl won’t -have any money; but then how nice it is when a gentleman like you is -able to dispense with that. Perhaps they do take after their father a -little, and he certainly is not bright; but upon my word, I think a girl -is all the better for that. What’s the good of having such a lot of -talkee-talkee?”</p> - -<p>“Lady Deepbell, you are alluding to a young lady without the slightest -warrant,” said the Major.</p> - -<p>“Warrant enough;—warrant enough,” said the old woman, toddling off.</p> - -<p>Then young Cobble came to him, and talked to him as though he were a -brother of the house. Young Cobble was an honest fellow, and quite in -earnest in his matrimonial intentions. “We shall be delighted if you’ll -come to us on the first,” said Cobble. The first of course meant the -first of September. “We ain’t so badly off just for a week’s shooting. -Sophia is to be there, and we’ll get Georgiana too.”</p> - -<p>The Major was fond of shooting, and would have been glad to accept the -offer; but it was out of the question that he should allow himself to be -taken in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> at Cobble Hall under a false pretext. And was it not incumbent -on him to make this young man understand that he had no pretensions -whatever to the hand of the second Miss Wanless? “You are very good,” -said he.</p> - -<p>“We should be delighted,” said young Cobble.</p> - -<p>“But I fear there is a mistake. I can’t say anything more about it now -because it doesn’t do to name people;—but there is a mistake. Only for -that I should have been delighted. Good-bye.” Then he took his -departure, leaving young Cobble in a state of mystified suspense.</p> - -<p>The day lingered on to a great length. The archery and the lawn-tennis -were continued till late after the so-called lunch, and towards the -evening a few couples stood up to dance. It was evident to the Major -that Burmeston and Edith were thoroughly comfortable together. Gertrude -amused herself well, and even Maria was contented, though the curate as -a matter of course was not there. Sophia with her legitimate lover was -as happy as the day and evening were long. But there came a frown upon -Georgiana’s brow, and when at last the Major, as though forced by -destiny, asked her to dance, she refused. It had seemed to her a matter -of course that he should ask her, and at last he did;—but she refused. -The evening with him was very long, and just as he thought that he would -escape to bed, and was meditating how early he would be off on the -morrow, Lady Wanless took possession of him and carried him off alone -into one of the desolate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> chambers. “Is she very tired?” asked the -anxious mother.</p> - -<p>“Is who tired?” The Major at that moment would have given twenty guineas -to have been in his lodgings near St. James’s Street.</p> - -<p>“My poor girl,” said Lady Wanless, assuming a look of great solicitude.</p> - -<p>It was vain for him to pretend not to know who was the “she” intended. -“Oh, ah, yes; Miss Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“Georgiana.”</p> - -<p>“I think she is tired. She was shooting a great deal. Then there was a -quadrille;—but she didn’t dance. There has been a great deal to tire -young ladies.”</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t have let her do so much.”</p> - -<p>How was he to get out of it? What was he to say? If a man is clearly -asked his intentions he can say that he has not got any. That used to be -the old fashion when a gentleman was supposed to be dilatory in -declaring his purpose. But it gave the oscillating lover so easy an -escape! It was like the sudden jerk of the hand of the unpractised -fisherman: if the fish does not succumb at once it goes away down the -stream and is no more heard of. But from this new process there is no -mode of immediate escape. “I couldn’t prevent her because she is nothing -to me.” That would have been the straightforward answer;—but one most -difficult to make. “I hope she will be none the worse to-morrow -morning,” said the Major.</p> - -<p>“I hope not, indeed. Oh, Major Rossiter!” The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> mother’s position was -also difficult, as it is of no use to play with a fish too long without -making an attempt to stick the hook into his gills.</p> - -<p>“Lady Wanless!”</p> - -<p>“What am I to say to you? I am sure you know my feelings. You know how -sincere is Sir Walter’s regard.”</p> - -<p>“I am very much flattered, Lady Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“That means nothing.” This was true, but the Major did not mean to -intend anything. “Of all my flock she is the fairest.” That was true -also. The Major would have been delighted to accede to the assertion of -the young lady’s beauty, if this might have been the end of it. “I had -thought——”</p> - -<p>“Had thought what, Lady Wanless?”</p> - -<p>“If I am deceived in you, Major Rossiter, I never will believe in a man -again. I have looked upon you as the very soul of honour.”</p> - -<p>“I trust that I have done nothing to lessen your good opinion.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know. I cannot say. Why do you answer me in this way about my -child?” Then she held her hands together and looked up into his face -imploringly. He owned to himself that she was a good actress. He was -almost inclined to submit and to declare his passion for Georgiana. For -the present that way out of the difficulty would have been so easy!</p> - -<p>“You shall hear from me to-morrow morning,” he said, almost solemnly.</p> - -<p>“Shall I?” she asked, grasping his hand. “Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span> my friend, let it be as I -desire. My whole life shall be devoted to making you happy,—you and -her.” Then he was allowed to escape.</p> - -<p>Lady Wanless, before she went to bed, was closeted for awhile with the -eldest daughter. As Sophia was now almost as good as a married woman, -she was received into closer counsel than the others. “Burmeston will -do,” she said; “but, as for that Cavalry man, he means it no more than -the chair.” The pity was that Burmeston might have been secured without -the archery meeting, and that all the money, spent on behalf of the -Major, should have been thrown away.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VII-5" id="CHAPTER_VII-5"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>AFTER THE PARTY.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> the Major left Brook Park on the morning after the archery -amusements he was quite sure of this,—that under no circumstances -whatever would he be induced to ask Miss Georgiana Wanless to be his -wife. He had promised to write a letter,—and he would write one -instantly. He did not conceive it possible but that Lady Wanless should -understand what would be the purport of that letter, although as she -left him on the previous night she had pretended to hope otherwise. That -her hopes had not been very high we know from the words which she spoke -to Sophia in the privacy of her own room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span></p> - -<p>He had intended to return by Slowbridge, but when the morning came he -changed his mind and went to Beetham. His reason for doing so was hardly -plain, even to himself. He tried to make himself believe that the letter -had better be written from Beetham,—hot, as it were, from the immediate -neighbourhood,—than from London; but, as he thought of this, his mind -was crowded with ideas of Alice Dugdale. He would not propose to Alice. -At this moment, indeed, he was averse to matrimony, having been -altogether disgusted with female society at Brook Park; but he had to -acknowledge a sterling worth about Alice, and the existence of a genuine -friendship between her and himself, which made it painful to him to -leave the country without other recognition than that raising of his hat -when he saw her at the corner of the lane. He had behaved badly in this -Brook Park affair,—in having been tempted thither in opposition to -those better instincts which had made Alice so pleasant a companion to -him,—and was ashamed of himself. He did not think that he could go back -to his former ideas. He was aware that Alice must think ill of -him,—would not believe him to be now such as she had once thought him. -England and London were distasteful to him. He would go abroad on that -foreign service which he had proposed to himself. There was an opening -for him to do so if he liked, and he could return to his present duties -after a year or two. But he would see Alice again before he went. -Thinking of all this, he drove himself back to Beetham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span></p> - -<p>On that morning tidings of the successful festivities at Brook Park -reached the doctor’s house. Tidings of the coming festivities, then of -the preparations, and at last of the festal day itself, had reached -Alice, so that it seemed to her that all Beetham talked of nothing else. -Old Lady Deepbell had caught a cold, walking about on the lawn with -hardly anything on her old shoulders,—stupid old woman,—and had sent -for the doctor the first thing in the morning. “Positively settled,” she -had said to the doctor, “absolutely arranged, Dr. Dugdale. Lady Wanless -told me so herself, and I congratulated the gentleman.” She did not go -on to say that the gentleman had denied the accusation,—but then she -had not believed the denial. The doctor, coming home, had thought it his -duty to tell Alice, and Alice had received the news with a smile. “I -knew it would be so, father.”</p> - -<p>“And you?” This he said, holding her hand and looking tenderly into her -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Me! It will not hurt me. Not that I mean to tell a lie to you, father,” -she added after a moment. “A woman isn’t hurt because she doesn’t get a -prize in the lottery. Had it ever come about, I dare say I should have -liked him well enough.”</p> - -<p>“No more than that?”</p> - -<p>“And why should it have come about?” she went on saying, avoiding her -father’s last question, determined not to lie if she could help it, but -determined, also, to show no wound. “I think my position in life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> very -happy, but it isn’t one from which he would choose a wife.”</p> - -<p>“Why not, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“A thousand reasons; I am always busy, and he would naturally like a -young lady who had nothing to do.” She understood the effect of the -perambulator and the constant needle and thread. “Besides, though he -might be all very well, he could never, I think, be as dear to me as the -bairns. I should feel that I lost more than I got by going.” This she -knew to be a lie, but it was so important that her father should believe -her to be contented with her home duties! And she was contented, though -very unhappy. When her father kissed her, she smiled into his face,—oh, -so sweetly, so pleasantly! And the old man thought that she could not -have loved very deeply. Then she took herself to her own room, and sat -awhile alone with a countenance much changed. The lines of sorrow about -her brow were terrible. There was not a tear; but her mouth was close -pressed, and her hand was working constantly by her side. She gazed at -nothing, but sat with her eyes wide open, staring straight before her. -Then she jumped up quickly, and striking her hand upon her heart, she -spoke aloud to herself. “I will cure it,” she said. “He is not worthy, -and it should therefore be easier. Though he were worthy, I would cure -it. Yes, Bobby, I am coming.” Then she went about her work.</p> - -<p>That might have been about noon. It was after their early dinner with -the children that the Major came up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> to the doctor’s house. He had -reached the parsonage in time for a late breakfast, and had then written -his letter. After that he had sat idling about on the lawn,—not on the -best terms with his mother, to whom he had sworn that, under no -circumstances, would he make Georgiana Wanless his wife. “I would sooner -marry a girl from a troop of tight-rope dancers,” he had said in his -anger. Mrs. Rossiter knew that he intended to go up to the doctor’s -house, and therefore the immediate feeling between the mother and son -was not pleasant. My readers, if they please, shall see the letter to -Lady Wanless.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Lady Wanless</span>,—It is a great grief to me to say that there -has been, I fear, a misconception between you and me on a certain -matter. This is the more a trouble to me because you and Sir Walter -have been so very kind to me. From a word or two which fell from -you last night I was led to fear that you suspected feelings on my -part which I have never entertained, and aspirations to which I -have never pretended. No man can be more alive than I am to the -honour which has been suggested, but I feel bound to say that I am -not in a condition to accept it.</p> - -<p class="c"> -“Pray believe me to be,<br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Dear Lady Wanless,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Yours always very faithfully,</span><br /> - -<span style="margin-left: 8em;">“<span class="smcap">John Rossiter</span>.”</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>The letter, when it was written, was, to himself, very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> unsatisfactory. -It was full of ambiguous words and namby-pamby phraseology which -disgusted him. But he did not know how to alter it for the better. It is -hard to say an uncivil thing civilly without ambiguous namby-pamby -language. He could not bring it out in straightforward stout English: -“You want me to marry your daughter, but I won’t do anything of the -kind.” So the letter was sent. The conduct of which he was really -ashamed did not regard Miss Wanless, but Alice Dugdale.</p> - -<p>At last, very slowly, he took himself up to the doctor’s house. He -hardly knew what it was that he meant to say when he found himself -there, but he was sure that he did not mean to make an offer. Even had -other things suited, there would have been something distasteful to him -in doing this so quickly after the affair of Miss Wanless. He was in no -frame now for making love; but yet it would be ungracious in him, he -thought, to leave Beetham without seeing his old friend. He found the -two ladies together, with the children still around them, sitting near a -window which opened down to the ground. Mrs. Dugdale had a novel in -hand, and, as usual, was leaning back in a rocking-chair. Alice had also -a book open on the table before her, but she was bending over a -sewing-machine. They had latterly divided the cares of the family -between them. Mrs. Dugdale had brought the children into the world, and -Alice had washed, clothed, and fed them when they were there. When the -Major entered the room, Alice’s mind was, of course, full of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span> the -tidings she had heard from her father,—which tidings, however, had not -been communicated to Mrs. Dugdale.</p> - -<p>Alice at first was very silent while Mrs. Dugdale asked as to the -festivities. “It has been the grandest thing anywhere about here for a -long time.”</p> - -<p>“And, like other grand things, a great bore,” said the Major.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose you found it so, Major Rossiter,” said the lady.</p> - -<p>Then the conversation ran away into a description of what had been done -during the day. He wished to make it understood that there was no -permanent link binding him to Brook Park, but he hardly knew how to say -it without going beyond the lines of ordinary conversation. At last -there seemed to be an opening,—not exactly what he wished, but still an -opening. “Brook Park is not exactly the place,” said he, “at which I -should ever feel myself quite at home.” This was in answer to some -chance word which had fallen from Mrs. Dugdale.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for that,” said Alice. She would have given a guinea to -bring the word back after it had been spoken. But spoken words cannot be -brought back.</p> - -<p>“Why sorry?” he asked, smiling.</p> - -<p>“Because—Oh, because it is so likely that you may be there often.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that at all.”</p> - -<p>“You have become so intimate with them!” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span> Alice. “We are told in -Beetham that the party was got up all for your honour.”</p> - -<p>So Sir Walter had told him, and so Maria, the naughty girl, had said -also—“Only for your beaux yeux, Major Rossiter, we shouldn’t have had -any party at all.” This had been said by Maria when she was laughing at -him about her sister Georgiana. “I don’t know how that may be,” said the -Major; “but all the same I shall never be at home at Brook Park.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you like the young ladies?” asked Mrs. Dugdale.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; very much; and Lady Wanless; and Sir Walter. I like them all, -in a way. But yet I shall never find myself at home at Brook Park.”</p> - -<p>Alice was very angry with him. He ought not to have gone there at all. -He must have known that he could not be there without paining her. She -thoroughly believed that he was engaged to marry the girl of whose -family he spoke in this way. He had thought,—so it seemed to her,—that -he might lessen the blow to her by making little of the great folk among -whom his future lot was to be cast. But what could be more mean? He was -not the John Rossiter to whom she had given her heart. There had been no -such man. She had been mistaken. “I am afraid you are one of those,” she -said, “who, wherever they find themselves, at once begin to wish for -something better.”</p> - -<p>“That is meant to be severe.”</p> - -<p>“My severity won’t go for much.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span>”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you have deserved it,” said Mrs. Dugdale, most indiscreetly.</p> - -<p>“Is this intended for an attack?” he asked, looking from one to the -other.</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” said Alice, affecting to laugh. “I should have said -nothing if I thought mamma would take it up so seriously. I was only -sorry to hear you speak of your new friends so slightingly.”</p> - -<p>After that the conversation between them was very difficult, and he soon -got up to go away. As he did so, he asked Alice to say a word to him out -in the garden, having already explained to them both that it might be -some time before he would be again down at Beetham. Alice rose slowly -from her sewing-machine, and, putting on her hat, led the way with a -composed and almost dignified step out through the window. Her heart was -beating within her, but she looked as though she were mistress of every -pulse. “Why did you say that to me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Say what?”</p> - -<p>“That I always wished for better things and better people than I found.”</p> - -<p>“Because I think you ambitious,—and discontented. There is nothing -disgraceful in that, though it is not the character which I myself like -the best.”</p> - -<p>“You meant to allude specially to the Wanlesses?”</p> - -<p>“Because you have just come from there, and were speaking of them.”</p> - -<p>“And to one of that family specially?”</p> - -<p>“No, Major Rossiter. There you are wrong. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span> alluded to no one in -particular. They are nothing to me. I do not know them; but I hear that -they are kind and friendly people, with good manners and very handsome. -Of course I know, as we all know everything of each other in this little -place, that you have of late become very intimate with them. Then when I -hear you aver that you are already discontented with them, I cannot help -thinking that you are hard to please. I am sorry that mamma spoke of -deserving. I did not intend to say anything so seriously.”</p> - -<p>“Alice!”</p> - -<p>“Well, Major Rossiter.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could make you understand me.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know that that would do any good. We have been old friends, -and of course I hope that you may be happy. I must say good-bye now. I -cannot go beyond the gate, because I am wanted to take the children -out.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye then. I hope you will not think ill of me.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I think ill of you? I think very well,—only that you are -ambitious.” As she said this, she laughed again, and then she left him.</p> - -<p>He had been most anxious to tell her that he was not going to marry that -girl, but he had not known how to do it. He could not bring himself to -declare that he would not marry a girl when by such declaration he would -have been forced to assume that he might marry her if he pleased. So he -left Alice at the gate, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span> she went back to the house still convinced -that he was betrothed to Georgiana Wanless.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_VIII-5" id="CHAPTER_VIII-5"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>SIR WALTER UP IN LONDON.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Major, when he left the doctor’s house, was more thoroughly in love -with Alice than ever. There had been something in her gait as she led -the way out through the window, and again, as with determined purpose -she bade him speedily farewell at the gate, which forced him to -acknowledge that the dragging of perambulators and the making of -petticoats had not detracted from her feminine charm or from her -feminine dignity. She had been dressed in her ordinary morning -frock,—the very frock on which he had more than once seen the marks of -Bobby’s dirty heels; but she had pleased his eye better than Georgiana, -clad in all the glory of her toxopholite array. The toxopholite feather -had been very knowing, the tight leathern belt round her waist had been -bright in colour and pretty in design. The looped-up dress, fit for the -work in hand, had been gratifying. But with it all there had been the -show of a thing got up for ornament and not for use. She was like a box -of painted sugar-plums, very pretty to the eye, but of which no one -wants to extract any for the purpose of eating them. Alice was like a -housewife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span>’s store, kept beautifully in order, but intended chiefly for -comfortable use. As he went up to London he began to doubt whether he -would go abroad. Were he to let a few months pass by would not Alice be -still there, and willing perhaps to receive him with more kindness when -she should have heard that his follies at Brook Park were at an end?</p> - -<p>Three days after his return, when he was sitting in his offices thinking -perhaps more of Alice Dugdale than of the whole British Cavalry, a -soldier who was in waiting brought a card to him. Sir Walter Wanless had -come to call upon him. If he were disengaged Sir Walter would be glad to -see him. He was not at all anxious to see Sir Walter; but there was no -alternative, and Sir Walter was shown into the room.</p> - -<p>In explaining the purport of Sir Walter’s visit we must go back for a -few minutes to Brook Park. When Sir Walter came down to breakfast on the -morning after the festivities he was surprised to hear that Major -Rossiter had taken his departure. There sat young Burmeston. He at any -rate was safe. And there sat young Cobble, who by Sophia’s aid had -managed to get himself accommodated for the night, and all the other -young people, including the five Wanless girls. The father, though not -observant, could see that Georgiana was very glum. Lady Wanless herself -affected a good-humour which hardly deceived him, and certainly did not -deceive anyone else. “He was obliged to be off this morning, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span> of -his duties,” said Lady Wanless. “He told me that it was to be so, but I -did not like to say anything about it yesterday.” Georgiana turned up -her nose, as much as to say that the going and coming of Major Rossiter -was not a matter of much importance to any one there, and, least of all, -to her. Except the father, there was not a person in the room who was -not aware that Lady Wanless had missed her fish.</p> - -<p>But she herself was not quite sure even yet that she had failed -altogether. She was a woman who hated failure, and who seldom failed. -She was brave of heart too, and able to fight a losing battle to the -last. She was very angry with the Major, who she well knew was -endeavouring to escape from her toils. But he would not on that account -be the less useful as a son-in-law;—nor on that account was she the -more willing to allow him to escape. With five daughters without -fortunes it behoved her as a mother to be persistent. She would not give -it up, but must turn the matter well in her mind before she took further -steps. She feared that a simple invitation could hardly bring the Major -back to Brook Park. Then there came the letter from the Major which did -not make the matter easier.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” she said to her husband, sitting down opposite to him in his -room, “that Major Rossiter isn’t behaving quite as he ought to do.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not a bit surprised,” said the Baronet angrily. “I never knew -anybody from Wadham behave well.”</p> - -<p>“He’s quite a gentleman, if you mean that,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span> Lady Wanless; “and -he’s sure to do very well in the world; and poor Georgiana is really -fond of him,—which doesn’t surprise me in the least.”</p> - -<p>“Has he said anything to make her fond of him? I suppose she has gone -and made a fool of herself,—like Maria.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. He has said a great deal to her;—much more than he ought -to have done, if he meant nothing. But the truth is, young men nowadays -never know their own minds unless there is somebody to keep them up to -the mark. You must go and see him.”</p> - -<p>“I!” said the afflicted father.</p> - -<p>“Of course, my dear. A few judicious words in such a case may do so -much. I would not ask Walter to go,”—Walter was the eldest son, who was -with his regiment,—“because it might lead to quarrelling. I would not -have anything of that kind, if only for the dear girl’s sake. But what -you would say would be known to nobody; and it might have the desired -effect. Of course you will be very quiet,—and very serious also. Nobody -could do it better than you will. There can be no doubt that he has -trifled with the dear girl’s affections. Why else has he been with her -whenever he has been here? It was so visible on Wednesday that everybody -was congratulating me. Old Lady Deepbell asked whether the day was -fixed. I treated him quite as though it were settled. Young men do so -often get these sudden starts of doubt. Then, sometimes, just a word -afterwards will put it all right.” In<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> this way the Baronet was made to -understand that he must go and see the Major.</p> - -<p>He postponed the unwelcome task till his wife at last drove him out of -the house. “My dear,” she said, “will you let your child die -broken-hearted for want of a word?” When it was put to him in that way -he found himself obliged to go, though, to tell the truth, he could not -find any sign of heart-breaking sorrow about his child. He was not -allowed to speak to Georgiana herself, his wife telling him that the -poor child would be unable to bear it.</p> - -<p>Sir Walter, when he was shown into the Major’s room, felt himself to be -very ill able to conduct the business in hand, and to the Major himself -the moment was one of considerable trouble. He had thought it possible -that he might receive an answer to his letter, a reply that might be -indignant, or piteous, admonitory, or simply abusive, as the case might -be,—one which might too probably require a further correspondence; but -it had never occurred to him that Sir Walter would come in person. But -here he was,—in the room,—by no means with that pretended air of -geniality with which he had last received the Major down at Brook Park. -The greeting, however, between the gentlemen was courteous if not -cordial, and then Sir Walter began his task. “We were quite surprised -you should have left us so early that morning.”</p> - -<p>“I had told Lady Wanless.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I know. Nevertheless we were surprised. Now, Major Rossiter, what -do you mean to do about,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span>about,—about this young lady?” The Major sat -silent. He could not pretend to be ignorant what young lady was intended -after the letter which he had himself written to Lady Wanless. “This, -you know, is a very painful kind of thing, Major Rossiter.”</p> - -<p>“Very painful indeed, Sir Walter.”</p> - -<p>“When I remembered that I had been at Christchurch and your excellent -father at Wadham both at the same time, I thought that I might trust you -in my house without the slightest fear.”</p> - -<p>“I make bold to say, Sir Walter, that you were quite justified in that -expectation, whether it was founded on your having been at Christchurch -or on my position and character in the world.” He knew that the scene -would be easier to him if he could work himself up to a little -indignation on his own part.</p> - -<p>“And yet I am told,—I am told——”</p> - -<p>“What are you told, Sir Walter?”</p> - -<p>“There can, I think, be no doubt that you have—in point of fact, paid -attention to my daughter.” Sir Walter was a gentleman, and felt that the -task imposed upon him grated against his better feelings.</p> - -<p>“If you mean that I have taken steps to win her affections, you have -been wrongly informed.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I do mean. Were you not received just now at Brook Park -as,—as paying attention to her?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not.”</p> - -<p>“You hope not, Major Rossiter?”</p> - -<p>“I hope no such mistake was made. It certainly was not made by me. I -felt myself much flattered by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span> being received at your house. I wrote the -other day a line or two to Lady Wanless and thought I had explained all -this.”</p> - -<p>Sir Walter opened his eyes when he heard, for the first time, of the -letter, but was sharp enough not to exhibit his ignorance at the moment. -“I don’t know about explaining,” he said. “There are some things which -can’t be so very well explained. My wife assures me that that poor girl -has been deceived,—cruelly deceived. Now I put it to you, Major -Rossiter, what ought you as a gentleman to do?”</p> - -<p>“Really, Sir Walter, you are not entitled to ask me any such question.”</p> - -<p>“Not on behalf of my own child?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot go into the matter from that view of the case. I can only -declare that I have said nothing and done nothing for which I can blame -myself. I cannot understand how there should have been such a mistake; -but it did not, at any rate, arise with me.”</p> - -<p>Then the Baronet sat dumb. He had been specially instructed not to give -up the interview till he had obtained some sign of weakness from the -enemy. If he could only induce the enemy to promise another visit to -Brook Park that would be much. If he could obtain some expression of -liking or admiration for the young lady that would be something. If he -could induce the Major to allude to delay as being necessary, farther -operations would be founded on that base. But nothing had been obtained. -“It’s the most,—the most,—the most astonishing thing I ever heard,” he -said at last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span></p> - -<p>“I do not know that I can say anything further.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what,” said the Baronet. “Come down and see Lady Wanless. -The women understand these things much better than we do. Come down and -talk it over with Lady Wanless. She won’t propose anything that isn’t -proper.” In answer to this the Major shook his head. “You won’t?”</p> - -<p>“It would do no good, Sir Walter. It would be painful to me, and must, I -should say, be distressing to the young lady.”</p> - -<p>“Then you won’t do anything!”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing to be done.”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, I never heard such a thing in all my life, Major -Rossiter. You come down to my house; and then,—then,—then you -won’t,—you won’t come again! To be sure he was at Wadham; but I did -think your father’s son would have behaved better.” Then he picked up -his hat from the floor and shuffled out of the room without another -word.</p> - -<p>Tidings that Sir Walter had been up to London and had called upon Major -Rossiter made their way into Beetham and reached the ears of the -Dugdales,—but not correct tidings as to the nature of the conversation. -“I wonder when it will be,” said Mrs. Dugdale to Alice. “As he has been -up to town I suppose it’ll be settled soon.”</p> - -<p>“The sooner the better for all parties,” said Alice cheerily. “When a -man and a woman have agreed together, I can’t see why they shouldn’t at -once walk off to the church arm in arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span>”</p> - -<p>“The lawyers have so much to do.”</p> - -<p>“Bother the lawyers! The parson ought to do all that is necessary, and -the sooner the better. Then there would not be such paraphernalia of -presents and gowns and eatings and drinkings, all of which is got up for -the good of the tradesmen. If I were to be married, I should like to -slip out round the corner, just as though I were going to get an extra -loaf of bread from Mrs. Bakewell.”</p> - -<p>“That wouldn’t do for my lady at Brook Park.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yet for the Major.”</p> - -<p>Then Alice shook her head and sighed, and took herself out to walk alone -for a few minutes among the lanes. How could it be that he should be so -different from that which she had taken him to be! It was now September, -and she could remember an early evening in May, when the leaves were -beginning to be full, and they were walking together with the spring air -fresh around them, just where she was now creeping alone with the more -perfect and less fresh beauty of the autumn around her. How different a -person he seemed to her to be now from that which he had seemed to be -then;—not different because he did not love her, but different because -he was not fit to be loved! “Alice,” he had then said, “you and I are -alike in this, that simple, serviceable things are dear to both of us.” -The words had meant so much to her that she had never forgotten them. -Was she simple and serviceable, so that she might be dear to him? She -had been sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> then that he was simple, and that he was serviceable, so -that she could love him. It was thus that she had spoken of him to -herself, thinking herself to be sure of his character. And now, before -the summer was over, he was engaged to marry such a one as Georgiana -Wanless and to become the hero of a fashionable wedding!</p> - -<p>But she took pride to herself as she walked alone that she had already -overcome the bitterness of the malady which, for a day or two, had been -so heavy that she had feared for herself that it would oppress her. For -a day or two after that farewell at the gate she had with a rigid -purpose tied herself to every duty,—even to the duty of looking -pleasant in her father’s eyes, of joining in the children’s games, of -sharing the gossip of her stepmother. But this she had done with an -agony that nearly crushed her. Now she had won her way through it, and -could see her path before her. She had not cured altogether that wound -in her heart; but she had assured herself that she could live on without -further interference from the wound.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_IX-5" id="CHAPTER_IX-5"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>LADY DEEPBELL.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Then</span> by degrees it began to be rumoured about the country, and at last -through the lanes of Beetham itself, that the alliance between Major -Rossiter and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> Miss Georgiana Wanless was not quite a settled thing. Mr. -Burmeston had whispered in Slowbridge that there was a screw loose, -perhaps thinking that if another could escape, why not he also? Cobble, -who had no idea of escaping, declared his conviction that Major Rossiter -ought to be horsewhipped; but Lady Deepbell was the real town-crier who -carried the news far and wide. But all of them heard it before Alice, -and when others believed it Alice did not believe it,—or, indeed, care -to believe or not to believe.</p> - -<p>Lady Deepbell filled a middle situation, half way between the -established superiority of Brook Park and the recognised humility of -Beetham. Her title went for something; but her husband had been only a -Civil Service Knight, who had deserved well of his country by a -meritorious longevity. She lived in a pretty little cottage half way -between Brook Park and Beetham, which was just large enough to enable -her to talk of her grounds. She loved Brook Park dearly, and all the -county people; but in her love for social intercourse generally she was -unable to eschew the more frequent gatherings of the village. She was -intimate not only with Mrs. Rossiter, but with the Tweeds and Dugdales -and Simkinses, and, while she could enjoy greatly the grandeur of the -Wanless aristocracy, so could she accommodate herself comfortably to the -cosy gossip of the Beethamites. It was she who first spread the report -in Beetham that Major Rossiter was,—as she called it,—“off.”</p> - -<p>She first mentioned the matter to Mrs. Rossiter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> herself; but this she -did in a manner more subdued than usual. The “alliance” had been high, -and she was inclined to think that Mrs. Rossiter would be disappointed. -“We did think, Mrs. Rossiter, that these young people at Brook Park had -meant something the other day.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rossiter did not stand in awe of Lady Deepbell, and was not pleased -at the allusion. “It would be much better if young people could be -allowed to arrange their own affairs without so much tattling about it,” -she said angrily.</p> - -<p>“That’s all very well, but tongues will talk, you know, Mrs. Rossiter. I -am sorry for both their sakes, because I thought that it would do very -well.”</p> - -<p>“Very well indeed, if the young people, as you call them, liked each -other.”</p> - -<p>“But I suppose it’s over now, Mrs. Rossiter?”</p> - -<p>“I really know nothing about it, Lady Deepbell.” Then the old woman, -quite satisfied after this that the “alliance” had fallen to the ground, -went on to the Tweeds.</p> - -<p>“I never thought it would come to much,” said Mrs. Tweed.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why it shouldn’t,” said Matilda Tweed. “Georgiana Wanless -is good-looking in a certain way; but they none of them have a penny, -and Major Rossiter is quite a fashionable man.” The Tweeds were quite -outside the Wanless pale; and it was the feeling of this that made -Matilda love to talk about the second Miss Wanless by her Christian -name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span></p> - -<p>“I suppose he will go back to Alice now,” said Clara, the younger Tweed -girl.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that at all,” said Mrs. Tweed.</p> - -<p>“I never believed much in that story,” said Lady Deepbell.</p> - -<p>“Nor I either,” said Matilda. “He used to walk about with her, but what -does that come to? The children were always with them. I never would -believe that he was going to make so little of himself.”</p> - -<p>“But is it quite sure that all the affair at Brook Park will come to -nothing, after the party and everything?” asked Mrs. Tweed.</p> - -<p>“Quite positive,” said Lady Deepbell authoritatively. “I am able to say -certainly that that is all over.” Then she toddled off and went to the -Simkinses.</p> - -<p>The rumour did not reach the doctor’s house on that day. The conviction -that Major Rossiter had behaved badly to Alice,—that Alice had been -utterly thrown over by the Wanless “alliance,” had been so strong, that -even Lady Deepbell had not dared to go and probe wilfully that wound. -The feeling in this respect had been so general that no one in Beetham -had been hard-hearted enough to speak to Alice either of the triumph of -Miss Wanless, or of the misconduct of the Major; and now Lady Deepbell -was afraid to carry her story thither.</p> - -<p>It was the doctor himself who first brought the tidings to the house, -and did not do this till some days after Lady Deepbell had been in the -village. “You had better not say anything to Alice about it.” Such at -first had been the doctor’s injunction to his wife. “One<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404"></a>{404}</span> way or the -other, it will only be a trouble to her.” Mrs. Dugdale, full of her -secret, anxious to be obedient, thinking that the gentleman relieved -from his second love, would be ready at once to be on again with his -first, was so fluttered and fussy that Alice knew that there was -something to be told. “You have got some great secret, mamma,” she said.</p> - -<p>“What secret, Alice?”</p> - -<p>“I know you have. Don’t wait for me to ask you to tell it. If it is to -come, let it come.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not going to say anything.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, mamma. Then nothing shall be said.”</p> - -<p>“Alice, you are the most provoking young woman I ever had to deal with -in my life. If I had twenty secrets I would not tell you one of them.”</p> - -<p>On the next morning Alice heard it all from her father. “I knew there -was something by mamma’s manner,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I told her not to say anything.”</p> - -<p>“So I suppose. But what does it matter to me, papa, whether Major -Rossiter does or does not marry Miss Wanless? If he has given her his -word, I am sure I hope that he will keep it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose he ever did.”</p> - -<p>“Even then it doesn’t matter. Papa, do not trouble yourself about him.”</p> - -<p>“But you?”</p> - -<p>“I have gone through the fire, and have come out without being much -scorched. Dear papa, I do so wish that you should understand it all. It -is so nice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405"></a>{405}</span> to have some one to whom everything can be told. I did like -him.”</p> - -<p>“And he?”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to say about that;—not a word. Girls, I suppose, are -often foolish, and take things for more than they are intended to mean. -I have no accusation to make against him. But I did,—I did allow myself -to be weak. Then came this about Miss Wanless, and I was unhappy. I woke -from a dream, and the waking was painful. But I have got over it. I do -not think that you will ever know from your girl’s manner that anything -has been the matter with her.”</p> - -<p>“My brave girl!”</p> - -<p>“But don’t let mamma talk to me as though he could come back because the -other girl has not suited him. He is welcome to the other girl,—welcome -to do without her,—welcome to do with himself as it may best please -him; but he shall not trouble me again.” There was a stern strength in -her voice as she said this, which forced her father to look at her -almost with amazement. “Do not think that I am fierce, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Fierce, my darling!”</p> - -<p>“But that I am in earnest. Of course, if he comes to Beetham we shall -see him. But let him be like anybody else. Don’t let it be supposed that -because he flitted here once, and was made welcome, like a bird that -comes in at the window, and then flitted away again, that he can be -received in at the window just as before, should he fly this way any -more. That’s all, papa.” Then, as before, she went off by herself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406"></a>{406}</span>—to -give herself renewed strength by her solitary thinkings. She had so -healed the flesh round that wound that there was no longer danger of -mortification. She must now take care that there should be no further -wound. The people around her would be sure to tell her of this breach -between her late lover and the Wanless young lady. The Tweeds and the -Simkinses, and old Lady Deepbell would be full of it. She must take care -so to answer them at the first word that they should not dare to talk to -her of Major Rossiter. She had cured herself so that she no longer -staggered under the effects of the blow. Having done that, she would not -allow herself to be subject to the little stings of the little creatures -around her. She had had enough of love,—of a man’s love, and would make -herself happy now with Bobby and the other bairns.</p> - -<p>“He’ll be sure to come back,” said Mrs Dugdale to her husband.</p> - -<p>“We shall do no good by talking about it,” said the doctor. “If you will -take my advice, you will not mention his name to her. I fear that he is -worthless and unworthy of mention.” That might be very well, thought -Mrs. Dugdale; but no one in the village doubted that he had at the very -least £1,500 a year, and that he was a handsome man, and such a one as -is not to be picked up under every hedge. The very men who go about the -world most like butterflies before marriage “steady down the best” -afterwards. These were her words as she discussed the matter with Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407"></a>{407}</span> -Tweed, and they both agreed that if the hero showed himself again at the -doctor’s house “bygones ought to be bygones.”</p> - -<p>Lady Wanless, even after her husband’s return from London, declared to -herself that even yet the game had not been altogether played out. Sir -Walter, who had been her only possible direct messenger to the man -himself, had been, she was aware, as bad a messenger as could have been -selected. He could be neither authoritative nor persuasive. Therefore -when he told her, on coming home, that it was easy to perceive that -Major Rossiter’s father could not have been educated at Christchurch, -she did not feel very much disappointed. As her next step she determined -to call on Mrs. Rossiter. If that should fail she must beard the lion in -his den, and go herself to Major Rossiter at the Horse Guards. She did -not doubt but that she would at least be able to say more than Sir -Walter. Mrs. Rossiter, she was aware, was herself favourable to the -match.</p> - -<p>“My dear Mrs. Rossiter,” she said in her most confidential manner, -“there is a little something wrong among these young people, which I -think you and I can put right if we put our heads together.”</p> - -<p>“If I know one of the young people,” said Mrs. Rossiter, “it will be -very hard to make him change his mind.”</p> - -<p>“He has been very attentive to the young lady.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I know nothing about it, Lady Wanless. I never saw them -together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408"></a>{408}</span>”</p> - -<p>“Dear Georgiana is so very quiet that she said nothing even to me, but I -really thought that he had proposed to her. She won’t say a word against -him, but I believe he did. Now, Mrs. Rossiter, what has been the meaning -of it?”</p> - -<p>“How is a mother to answer for her son, Lady Wanless?”</p> - -<p>“No;—of course not. I know that. Girls, of course, are different. But I -thought that perhaps you might know something about it, for I did -imagine you would like the connection.”</p> - -<p>“So I should. Why not? Nobody thinks more of birth than I do, and -nothing in my opinion could have been nicer for John. But he does not -see with my eyes. If I were to talk to him for a week it would have no -effect.”</p> - -<p>“Is it that girl of the doctor’s, Mrs. Rossiter?”</p> - -<p>“I think not. My idea is that when he has turned it all over in his mind -he has come to the conclusion that he will be better without a wife than -with one.”</p> - -<p>“We might cure him of that, Mrs. Rossiter. If I could only have him down -there at Brook Park for another week, I am sure he would come to.” Mrs. -Rossiter, however, could not say that she thought it probable that her -son would be induced soon to pay another visit to Brook Park.</p> - -<p>A week after this Lady Wanless absolutely did find her way into the -Major’s presence at the Horse Guards,—but without much success. The -last words at that interview only shall be given to the reader,—the -last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409"></a>{409}</span> words as they were spoken both by the lady and by the gentleman. -“Then I am to see my girl die of a broken heart?” said Lady Wanless, -with her handkerchief up to her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I hope not, Lady Wanless; but in whatever way she might die, the fault -would not be mine.” There was a frown on the gentleman’s brow as he said -this which cowed even the lady.</p> - -<p>As she went back to Slowbridge that afternoon, and then home to Brook -Park, she determined at last that the game must be looked upon as played -out. There was no longer any ground on which to stand and fight. Before -she went to bed that night she sent for Georgiana. “My darling child,” -she said, “that man is unworthy of you.”</p> - -<p>“I always thought he was,” said Georgiana. And so there was an end to -that little episode in the family of the Wanlesses.</p> - -<h3><a name="CHAPTER_X-5" id="CHAPTER_X-5"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BIRD THAT PECKED AT THE WINDOW.</small></h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> bird that had flown in at the window and had been made welcome, had -flown away ungratefully. Let him come again pecking as he might at the -window, no more crumbs of love should be thrown to him. Alice, with a -steady purpose, had resolved on that. With all her humble ways, her -continual darning of stockings, her cutting of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410"></a>{410}</span> bread and butter for the -children, her pushing of the perambulator in the lanes, there was a -pride about her, a knowledge of her own dignity as a woman, which could -have been stronger in the bosom of no woman of title, of wealth, or of -fashion. She claimed nothing. She had expected no admiration. She had -been contented to take the world as it came to her, without thinking -much of love or romance. When John Rossiter had first shown himself at -Beetham, after his return from India, and when he had welcomed her so -warmly,—too warmly,—as his old playfellow, no idea had occurred to her -that he would ever be more to her than her old playfellow. Her own heart -was too precious to herself to be given away idly to the first comer. -Then the bird had flown in at the window, and it had been that the -coming of the stranger had been very sweet to her. But, even for the -stranger, she would not change her ways,—unless, perchance, some day -she might appertain to the stranger. Then it would be her duty to fit -herself entirely to him. In the meantime, when he gave her little hints -that something of her domestic slavery might be discontinued, she would -not abate a jot from her duties. If he liked to come with her when she -pushed the children, let him come. If he cared to see her when she was -darning a stocking or cutting bread and butter, let him pay his visits. -If he thought those things derogatory, certainty let him stay away. So -the thing had grown till she had found herself surprised, and taken, as -it were, into a net,—caught in a pitfall of love. But she held her -peace,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411"></a>{411}</span> stuck manfully to the perambulator, and was a little colder in -her demeanour than heretofore. Whereupon Major Rossiter, as the reader -is aware, made two visits to Brook Park. The bird might peck at the -window, but he should never again be taken into the room.</p> - -<p>But the bird, from the moment in which he had packed up his portmanteau -at Brook Park, had determined that he would be taken in at the window -again,—that he would at any rate return to the window, and peck at the -glass with constancy, soliciting that it might be opened. As he now -thought of the two girls, the womanliness of the one, as compared with -the worldliness of the other, conquered him completely. There had never -been a moment in which his heart had in truth inclined itself towards -the young athlete of Brook Park,—never a moment, hardly a moment, in -which his heart had been untrue to Alice. But glitter had for awhile -prevailed with him, and he had, just for a moment, allowed himself to be -discontented with the homely colour of unalloyed gold. He was thoroughly -ashamed of himself, knowing well that he had given pain. He had learned, -clearly enough, from what her father, mother, and others had said to -him, that there were those who expected him to marry Alice Dugdale, and -others who hoped that he would marry Georgiana Wanless. Now, at last, he -could declare that no other love than that which was warm within his -heart at present could ever have been possible to him. But he was aware -that he had much to do to recover his footing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412"></a>{412}</span> Alice’s face and her -manner as she bade him good-bye at the gate were very clear before his -eyes.</p> - -<p>Two months passed by before he was again seen at Beetham. It had -happened that he was, in truth, required elsewhere, on duty, during the -period, and he took care to let it be known at Beetham that such was the -case. Information to this effect was in some shape sent to Alice. -Openly, she took no notice of it; but, inwardly, she said to herself -that they who troubled themselves by sending her such tidings, troubled -themselves in vain. “Men may come and men may go,” she sang to herself, -in a low voice. How little they knew her, to come to her with news as to -Major Rossiter’s coming and going!</p> - -<p>Then one day he came. One morning early in December the absolute fact -was told at the dinner table. “The Major is at the parsonage,” said the -maid-servant. Mrs. Dugdale looked at Alice, who continued, however, to -distribute hashed mutton with an equanimity which betrayed no flaw.</p> - -<p>After that not a word was said about him. The doctor had warned his wife -to be silent; and though she would fain have spoken, she restrained -herself. After dinner the usual work went on, and then the usual playing -in the garden. The weather was dry and mild for the time of year, so -that Alice was swinging two of the children when Major Rossiter came up -through the gate. Minnie, who had been a favourite, ran to him, and he -came slowly across the lawn to the tree on which the swing was hung. For -a moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413"></a>{413}</span> Alice stopped her work that she might shake hands with him, -and then at once went back to her place. “If I were to stop a moment -before Bobby has had his turn,” she said, “he would feel the injustice.”</p> - -<p>“No, I isn’t,” said Bobby. “Oo may go ’is time.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want to go, Bobby, and Major Rossiter will find mamma in -the drawing-room;” and Alice for a moment thought of getting her hat and -going off from the place. Then she reflected that to run away would be -cowardly. She did not mean to run away always because the man came. Had -she not settled it with herself that the man should be nothing to her? -Then she went on swinging the children,—very deliberately, in order -that she might be sure of herself, that the man’s coming had not even -flurried her.</p> - -<p>In ten minutes the Major was there again. It had been natural to suppose -that he should not be detained long in conversation by Mrs. Dugdale. -“May I swing one of them for a time?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, no; I think not. It is my allotted exercise, and I never give it -up.” But Minnie, who knew what a strong arm could do, was imperious, and -the Major got possession of the swing.</p> - -<p>Then of a sudden he stopped. “Alice,” he said, “I want you to take a -turn with me up the road.”</p> - -<p>“I am not going out at all to-day,” she said. Her voice was steady and -well preserved; but there was a slight rising of colour on her cheeks.</p> - -<p>“But I wish it expressly. You must come to-day.”</p> - -<p>She could consider only for a moment,—but for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414"></a>{414}</span> moment she did think -the matter over. If the man chose to speak to her seriously, she must -listen to him,—once, and once only. So much he had a right to demand. -When a bird of that kind pecks in that manner some attention must be -paid to him. So she got her hat, and leading the way down the road, -opened the gate and turned up the lane away from the street of the -village. For some yards he did not speak. She, indeed, was the first to -do so. “I cannot stay out very long, Major Rossiter; so, if there is -anything——?”</p> - -<p>“There is a something, Alice.” Of course she knew, but she was quite -resolved. Resolved! Had not every moment of her life since last she had -parted with him been given up to the strengthening this resolution? Not -a stitch had gone through the calico which had not been pulled the -tighter by the tightening of her purpose! And now he was there. Oh, how -more than earthly sweet it had been to have him there, when her -resolutions had been of another kind! But she had been punished for -that, and was strong against such future ills. “Alice, it had better -come out simply. I love you, and have ever loved you with all my heart.” -Then there was a frown and a little trampling of the ground beneath her -feet, but she said not a word. Oh, if it only could have come sooner,—a -few weeks sooner! “I know what you would say to me, but I would have you -listen to me, if possible, before you say it. I have given you cause to -be angry with me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no!” she cried, interrupting him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415"></a>{415}</span></p> - -<p>“But I have never been untrue to you for a moment. You seemed to slight -me.”</p> - -<p>“And if I did?”</p> - -<p>“That may pass. If you should slight me now, I must bear it. Even though -you should deliberately tell me that you cannot love me, I must bear -that. But with such a load of love as I have at my heart, it must be -told to you. Day and night it covers me from head to foot. I can think -of nothing else. I dream that I have your hand in mine, but when I wake -I think it can never be so.”</p> - -<p>There was an instinct with her at the moment to let her fingers glide -into his; but it was shown only by the gathering together of her two -hands, so that no rebellious fingers straying from her in that direction -might betray her. “If you have never loved me, never can love me, say -so, and I will go away.” She should have spoken now, upon the instant; -but she simply moved her foot upon the gravel and was silent. “That I -should be punished might be right. If it could be possible that the -punishment should extend to two, that could not be right.”</p> - -<p>She did not want to punish him,—only to be brave herself. If to be -obdurate would in truth make him unhappy, then would it be right that -she should still be firm? It would be bad enough, after so many -self-assurances, to succumb at the first word; but for his sake,—for -his sake,—would it not be possible to bear even that? “If you never -have loved me, and never can love me, say so, and I will go.” Even to -herself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416"></a>{416}</span> she had not pledged herself to lie. If he asked her to be his -wife in the plain way, she could say that she would not. Then the way -would be plain before her. But what reply was she to make in answer to -such a question as this? Could she say that she had not loved him,—or -did not love him? “Alice,” he said, putting his hand up to her arm.</p> - -<p>“No!”</p> - -<p>“Alice, can you not forgive me?”</p> - -<p>“I have forgiven.”</p> - -<p>“And will you not love me?”</p> - -<p>She turned her face upon him with a purpose to frown, but the fulness of -his eyes upon her was too much, and the frown gave way, and a tear came -into her eye, and her lips trembled; and then she acknowledged to -herself that her resolution had not been worth a straw to her.</p> - -<p>It should be added that considerably before Alice’s wedding, both Sophia -and Georgiana Wanless were married,—Sophia, in due order, as of course, -to young Cobble, and Georgiana to Mr. Burmeston, the brewer. This, as -the reader will remember, was altogether unexpected; but it was a great -and guiding principle with Lady Wanless that the girls should not be -taken out of their turns.</p> - -<p class="c"> -THE END.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<small>PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON.<br /></small> -</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTE:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> I presume my readers to be generally aware that the -headquarters of the National Telegraph Department are held at the top of -one of the great buildings belonging to the General Post Office, in St. -Martin’s-le-Grand.</p></div> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/back.jpg" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Why Frau Frohmann Raised her Prices and -other stories, by Anthony Trollope - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHY FRAU FROHMANN RAISED HER PRICES *** - -***** This file should be named 55212-h.htm or 55212-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/1/55212/ - -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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